by J. T. Edson
At the Jones place a wagon stood before the door as Peaceful Gunn and his party rode up. The old man and the cowhand called Yance watched the trio of Wedge hands approach as they lifted chairs into the back of the canvas-topped wagon. ‘Howdy folks,’ greeted the man called Shaun, his tones showing his Irish birth. ‘Cap’n Fog sent us along to help you.’
‘Knowed I shouldn’t come here with this pair!’ Peaceful moaned, eyeing the Colt the cowhand held. ‘Nobody’d trust me with villainous looking hombres like them at my back.’
‘Sure and here’s me a descendant of kings of auld Ireland being spoke ag’in by this evil-doer,’ replied Shaun, in his breezy brogue. ‘Twas foolish to put all that gear into the wagon when we’ll only have to be moving it out again.’
Then the Jones family and their hand started to smile. These were the men promised to lend a hand with the defence of the house. Pop looked right sprightly for a man who had been on the verge of losing his home. He took out a worn old ten gauge and set percussion caps on the nipples ready for use.
‘Let’s us get this lot back into the house,’ he suggested.
With eager hands to help the work was soon done. At Peaceful’s suggestion they left the wagon standing outside, then Shaun turned on his Irish charm and got a very worried looking Ma Jones to smile.
‘You don’t sound like any Texan I ever heard,’ she said at last.
‘I’m the only Texas-Irishman in the world,’ Shaun replied. ‘Can’t you tell from me voice, a Texas drawl on top of a good Irish accent. Say, ma’am, you wouldn’t know how to make an Irish stew, would you?’
On being assured that Ma not only could, but would, make an Irish stew, Shaun gave his full attention to making plans for the defence of the house.
Five hard looking men rode towards the Jones place shortly after noon. In the lead came Preacher Tring, sitting his horse uneasily for the Kid’s birdshot onslaught had caught him in a most embarrassing position. This did not tend to make Tring feel any better disposed to life in general and the small ranch owners in particular.
He growled a low curse as he saw the wagon standing before the Jones’ house and without a team. Clearly Pop Jones thought the Double K were playing kid games when they said get out. Right soon Pop would get a lesson.
Then men put spurs to their horses and rode fast, coming down on the ranch and halting the mounts in a churned up dust loud before the house. Tring dropped his hand towards his hip, meaning to draw and pour a volley into the house.
‘Don’t pull it, mister!’ said a plaintive voice from the barn. ‘You’ll like to scare me off.’
All eyes turned to look in the direction of the speaker and all movement towards hardware ended. This might have been due to a desire to keep the nervous sounding man unafraid — or because all they could see plainly of him was the barrel of a Spencer rifle, its .52 calibre mouth yawning like a cave entrance at them.
‘Is it the visitors we have, Peaceful?’ a second voice inquired.
The wagon’s canopy had drawn back and a Winchester slanted at the Double K men, lined from the source of the Irish voice. Then a third man sauntered into view from the end of the house, also carrying a rifle, while a shotgun and a fourth rifle showed on either side of the open house door.
‘Who are you?’ Tring asked.
We work here,’ Shaun replied. Who are you?’
‘Tell that pair of ole—!’
A bullet fanned Tring’s hat from his head. The lever of Shaun’s rifle clicked and the Double K men tried to keep their horses under control without also giving the idea they could reach their weapons.
‘Just be keeping the civil tongue in your head, hombre!’ Shaun warned. ‘And if you’ve no further business here, let’s be missing you.’
Tring had brought only four men with him as he did not expect any trouble in handling the Jones family and because, the ranch crew had taken a mauling on their abortive attack at the Lasalle place. He knew he and the others had no chance of doing anything better than get shot to doll rags at the moment. However a second party of men were at the Gibbs place, attending to Mallick’s orders. Tring decided to gather them in and return to the Jones house. When he came he would not leave a living soul at the house.
It was a good idea. Except that the other party were having troubles of their own.
They came on the Gibbs place, six of them, almost all the unwounded fighting strength of the Double K out on the business of clearing the two weakened small outfits out of the Panhandle country.
One of the men jerked his thumb towards where a tall, slim, studious young man leaned his shoulder against a corral post, clearly having been working on repairing the fence.
‘Hey you!’ he barked.
Doc Leroy looked up almost mildly. ‘Me sir?’
‘Yeah, you! What in hell are you doing?’
‘Fixing the fence,’ Doc answered.
From the house window Joyce watched with a quaking heart. She wondered why Rusty and Billy were not on hand to help Doc.
‘Then start to pull it down!’ ordered the man, a man she recognized from the previous visit.
‘Now that’d be plump foolish,’ said Doc.
The man’s hand dropped towards his gun and froze immobile a good inch from its butt.
Doc’s right hand made a sight defying flicker, the ivory handled Colt came into it, lining on the man, the hammer drawn back.
‘Just sit easy, hombre,’ Doc said, but his entire voice had changed. ‘And pray I don’t let this hammer fall.’
A footstep behind her brought Joyce swinging around. She found Rusty had entered from the back and was making for the front door, his rifle in his hands.
‘Ole Doc sure is surprising, ain’t he?’ grinned Rusty and stepped out to lend his friend moral and actual support just as Billy emerged from the barn, complete with Henry rifle.
‘Mrs. Gibbs!’ Rusty said over his shoulder. ‘Come out here, ma’am and bring your scattergun.’ Joyce complied and Rusty indicated the men with the barrel of his rifle. ‘Any of them here yesterday?’
She stabbed up the shotgun, lining it on the man who did all the talking. ‘He was the one who shot Sam.’
‘Drop your guns, all of you!’
The words cracked from Rusty’s mouth and the men obeyed. Then they were told to move to one side. Rusty put down his rifle and removed his gunbelt. He walked forward, going to the man Joyce indicated. His hands shot out, grabbing this man and hauling him from the saddle.
Rusty slammed the man on to the ground. His right fist shot into the man’s stomach and ripped up a left as he doubled his man over. The man stood taller than Rusty but he never had a chance. He tried to fight back, but against Rusty’s savage two handed attack he never stood a chance.
After a brutal five minute beating the .man lay in a moaning heap on the floor and Rusty, nose bleeding and chest heaving, looked at Joyce.
‘Any more of ‘em here?’ he asked.
‘You leave them, boy,’ Doc answered coldly. ‘These gents have just volunteered to mend the corral.’
The men most certainly had no intention of volunteering, but they were given no real choice in the matter. Under the guns of the three Wedge hands the men went to work. They might have hoped that Tring and his bunch would come to their aid but Doc put a block to such hopes.
‘Happen anybody should come up and start throwing lead at us,’ he told the men, ‘we’ll throw some back and you bunch’ll get it first.’
So, while hating fence building, or any other kind of work, the men hoped that Tring and his bunch would not come and try to rescue them.
Luckily for them Tring did not come. He started thinking after he left the Jones place and decided that Gibbs most likely had backing. The odds in the game were coming to a point where Tring no longer fancied them. Along with the others of his party he headed back to Double K and waited to hear what the Gibbs raiding party found. They did not return until after dark and came in looking sorry for themselv
es after working harder than any of them had done for years.
At dawn the following morning every man pulled out, heading for Barlock where they aimed to have a showdown with their boss, get such money as they could and pull out.
The Double K lay silent and peaceful after the men left. All the dead had been disposed of and the wounded taken into town, so only Sir James Keller and his daughter remained on the premises.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
HIS ONLY NAME IS WACO
THREE THOUSAND head of longhorn Texas cattle wended their way across the range country. They kept in a long line, feedmg as they moved. To prevent them from breaking out of their line, rode the trail hands, the point men at the head of the column, then the flank and swing men and at the back came the drag riders. Behind them moved the remuda and bringing up the rear two wagons, one driven by the cook, the other controlled by his louse.
The scene was one Dusty Fog and Mark Counter had seen many times. Yet they never grew tired of looking at it. This was the scene which brought money to Texas, allowed it to become the great and wealthy State it now was.
For a moment the two men sat and watched the trail hands riding the herd, horses jumping into a sprint to turn some steer which tried to avoid its destiny by breaking from the line. The steer would be turned back and another try the same move a few yards further on.
‘Look restless,’ Dusty drawled.
‘Maybe Clay ran into fuss,’ Mark replied. ‘There he is, the old cuss, right out front with Smiler and a kid I’ve never seen before.’
Dusty had also noticed this. He studied the three riders about half a mile ahead of the herd. They saw Mark and Dusty at the same time and Clay Allison’s hat came off to wave a greeting. Then both parties rode at a better pace towards each other.
Although they had not met for four years, Clay Allison looked little different, tall, slim, well dressed, even though trail dirty. He managed to keep his black moustache and short beard trimmed and neat, the matched guns at his sides were also clean and hung just right for a real fast draw. Smiler, tall, gaunt and looking more Indian than the Ysabel Kid, lounged in his saddle at his boss’s side.
The boy at Clay’s right took Dusty’s attention, held it like a magnet. Not more than sixteen years old, but he still wore a brace of Army Colts in low hanging fast draw holsters. He had blond hair, a handsome face but looked cold and sullen. His clothes were not new, but they were good and serviceable.
Dusty bit down an exclamation for the boy looked much as had his brother Danny. Except that this kid looked meaner, the sort who either built himself the name as a real fast man with a gun — or found an early grave.
‘Howdy Dusty, Mark,’ greeted Clay Allison. ‘Didn’t expect to see you on this trail. You got a herd ahead?’
‘Nope, but Stone Hart has,’ Dusty replied. ‘There’s some fuss up ahead, Clay. Bad trouble. Let’s pull off to one side and talk it out.’
Waving his hand to one side Clay Allison nodded his agreement. They rode well clear of the herd, then swung down from their saddles. The youngster did not follow immediately but sat his horse for a moment watching the approaching herd.
‘Who’s the boy, Clay?’ Dusty asked, nodding towards the youngster.
‘His only name is Waco,’ Allison replied. ‘Been with me for nigh on six months now. I met up with him down in Tascosa. He was in a bar and all set to take on half a dozen Yankee soldiers. So I cut in and helped him. Been with me ever since. That boy’s fast, Dusty, real fast. And he knows it.’
At that moment the boy whose only name was Waco rode to join the four men as they stood under the shade of a cottonwood tree’s branches. The horses were allowed to stand and graze to one side and Allison nodded to the herd as they passed.
‘They’ve been so spooked up for the past few days that you have to ride a mile from ‘em to cough or spit.’
Dusty grunted his sympathy. He knew how uncertain the behaviour of a bunch of longhorn cattle could be. They might go through a howling gale or a thunderstorm without turning a hair, or they might just as easily spook and take to running at their own shadows. It all depended on how they felt.
‘What’s ahead, Dusty?’ asked Allison.
‘Wire.’
‘WIRE!’
Three voices said the word in a single breath. Clay Allison, Smiler and Waco each spat the word out as if it burned their mouths.
‘Who strung it?’ asked Smiler.
‘Now that’s a problem,’ Dusty admitted. ‘It’s across the narrows on the old Lindon Land Grant.’
‘Lindon never block the trail,’ Smiler went on, speaking more than he had spoken in months.
‘Lindon sold out to an Englishman,’ Mark replied, watching the boy called Waco and paying particular attention to the way Waco studied himself and Dusty. ‘I reckon Dusty’s not satisfied that the new owner’s behind the wire-stringing though.’
Dusty glanced at his big amigo and grinned. It looked like he couldn’t fool Mark or keep his thoughts from the big cowhand after all these years. Before Dusty could make a reply to Mark’s words, Waco put his say-so in.
‘This Englishman got you scared, or something?’ he asked.
‘Or something, boy,’ Dusty answered, knowing youngsters of Waco’s type.
Yet somehow Dusty got the idea there was better than the makings of a fast-gun killer in the boy. The face, while sullen, looked intelligent and did not carry lines of dissipation. Not that it would stay that way long. Clay Allison might be a rancher, but Dusty knew the kind of men he hired. Good hands with cattle, but a wild onion crew from the Pecos, men who handled their guns better than average and liked to show their skill. A boy growing and spending his formative years in such company had one foot on the slope and the devil dragging at his other leg.
‘Boy!’ Waco hissed.
‘Choke off, Waco!’ Clay snapped.
Waco relapsed into silence, watching Dusty now with cold eyes. He had been an orphan almost since birth, his name came from people calling him the Waco-orphaned baby on the wagon train where his parents died. In time it became shortened to but one name, Waco. He had been reared by settlers, but never took their name even though they treated him with such kindness and love as could be shared for they had nine children of their own. He grew in a raw land and carried a gun from the day he was old enough to tote one. Now he rode for Clay Allison’s CA spread and he didn’t let any man talk down to him, especially not a short growed runt like that cowhand talking to Clay. It surprised Waco considerable that Clay would waste time in talking with such a small and insignificant man.
‘What’re you down here for, Dusty?’ Clay went on.
‘I’d like you to bring your herd to a halt for a day or so and come up trail with me. Bring a few of the boys. I’ve got Stone Hart along. Between us we ought to be able to wind this up without starting a war.’
‘Wind hell!’ Clay barked. ‘That wire’s got to go and I say it ought to go around the feller who strung it’s neck.’
‘He’s got around twenty guns backing him,’ Dusty answered. ‘And there’s a whole slew of folks up that way, small ranchers, who can’t stand a war fighting over their land.’
Whatever his faults, and they were many, Clay Allison respected the property and persons of people less fortunate in the matter of wealth than himself; as long as they did not encroach on his holdings or make trouble for him, which the small ranchers up here did not. He nodded his head, seeing what Dusty said to be the truth. He also knew Dusty would not be back here unless he had some definite plan. However he did not feel happy about being too far from his herd while they acted so spooked.
‘Tell me about it as we ride,’ he suggested.
‘You sure want some help,’ Waco suddenly put, in facing Dusty.
‘How do you mean?’ asked Dusty.
‘Come high tailing it down here to ask Clay to fight your fight for you.’
‘That’s enough, boy!’ Dusty’s voice took a warning note.
‘Don’t call me boy!’ Waco snapped. ‘I’m a man grown with these guns on.’
‘Then try acting like one.’
The words met with the wrong reaction on Waco’s part. His right hand dropped towards his gun. He did not make it. Dusty caught the warning flicker in the youngster’s eyes, his left hand crossed his body, fetching out the Colt from the right holster, lining it with the hammer drawn back under his thumb. For a long moment he stood like that, the others not moving either. Waco stood still, not entirely scared but numb and unbelieving. He thought he was fast with a gun, but this small man did not just stop at being fast. Somehow it did not matter to Waco if lead smashed into him. He had made his play and failed, he knew the penalty for failure.
With his thumb trembling on the gun hammer Dusty waited and watched. Then suddenly he lowered the Colt’s hammer, spun the weapon on his finger, holstered it and turned to walk to his paint horse.
Letting out his breath in a long sigh Clay Allison followed, then Smiler also turned and walked away. Only Mark and Waco stood where they had dismounted to hold their talk, under the shade of a cottonwood tree.
‘He didn’t have the guts to drop the hammer!’ Waco sneered. ‘The d—’
Mark’s big hand clamped on to the youngster’s shirt, lifting him from his feet and slamming him back into a tree as if he weighed no more than a baby. Then Mark thrust his face up close to Waco’s.
‘Listen good to me, you hawg-stupid kid. Only one thing saved you from being killed or wounded bad. Dusty’s brother was killed a few months back. You look a lot like him, except that he was a man, not just some trigger-fast-and-up-from-Texas kid.’
With a contemptuous gesture Mark thrust Waco from him. Then he turned to go and collect his horse. Waco’s face flushed with rage, his hand lifted over the butts of his guns.
‘Turn around!’ he snapped.
Mark turned, noting the stance. ‘What’s on your mind, boy?’