by J. T. Edson
‘Come in and I’ll show you the latest cause for our enmity.’ The men went into the house, following Don Miguel to the large room used as library and study. For a moment the Kid thought he was back at the OD Connected, except that Ole Devil Hardin’s interest was handguns and the Mexican collected rifles. With the eager air of a collector showing off his prizes. Hernandez waved the others to chairs and called to a servant to bring refreshments for his guests.
The walls of the study were covered with long arms of almost every kind and variety. There were muskets of the snapchance, wheellock, flintlock and percussion fired mechanisms. Single, double, quadruple barrelled long arms and early experimental repeating muzzle loaders. The Kid looked at the weapons for he was a rifle shot beyond peer and a keen student of long arms. He recognized an old Ferguson rifle, the earliest attempt at making a breech loading weapon, at least, the earliest successful attempt. There were cartridge rifles of many kinds; a line of Winchesters, starting with the forefather of the family, the Volcanic rifle, the Henry and a couple of types of the old yellow boy, the Model of ‘66. A rifle of the newer Model 73 pattern was underneath, but below that was a gun which made the Kid catch his breath. It was this gun Don Miguel picked up, brought to them and held out with the joy of a collector.
The rifle was a Model 73, a weapon the Kid had seen but not managed to obtain. A Model 73 as he only dreamed about. The woodwork was black walnut, finely carved and checked. The metal was deep blued, finely engraved, and on the top of the barrel was printed the words, ‘One of a Thousand.’
‘This is the latest bone of contention,’ Hernandez said, showing the rifle with some pride. ‘The Winchester Company are selecting their finest barrels and making up these special rifles, I managed to get the only one the Company held and old Sam was furious. He’s got to wait—’
The words died as he realized Judge Hurley would never have one of the magnificent ‘One of a Thousand’ rifles now.
The Kid was looking at it with the expression of a man seeing visions. He’d admired the Model 73, but this was beyond anything he’d ever seen and he knew that one way or another, he must get one. It was at that moment that the Kid saw something which took his attention off the Winchester. He came to his feet and walked across the room to a weapon which hung in the place of honour over the fireplace.
It was all of seven-foot long and appeared to be at least an inch across the muzzle. It was an old fashioned musket, a flintlock, as the hammer and frizzen pan showed.
Looking up at the gun, the Kid remarked, ‘I never saw one this size. I’d bet it’d kick like a Missouri mule. A man’d need muscles on his muscles to lift and fire it.’
Alvarez knew the Kid was interested in long arms and came forward with the pride of a collector showing off his favourite piece. ‘He wouldn’t hold it and fire from the shoulder. It’s a wall gun and meant to be fired from a rest. Originally it would have been rested on the wall of a fort to fire at an attacker. You are right when you say you’ve never seen one this size before. There are very few of them and this is the longest. A London, England, gunsmith called John Thompson made it in the late 1600’s and it is still in working condition. I’ve often meant to try it out but my bones are too brittle for the kick.’ He paused and sighed. ‘This was another cause of our feud. Sam bought a wall gun, but it was a foot shorter; he never forgave me for that.’
‘That’s a real fancy piece all right,’ the Kid drawled.
Hernandez turned back to the other men. ‘Excuse me, please, I get carried away when I talk of my collections. You say Sam was killed by a knife?’
The Kid reached up and ran a finger around the inside wall of the gun’s barrel then looked at it. He turned and joined the others who were drinking coffee brought in by a barefoot peon.
‘Like you to come on over to the Judge’s house for the inquest, Mig,’ the sheriff said.
‘Of course,’ the Mexican answered. ‘We’ll ride as soon as you’ve finished your coffee.’
Judge Hurley’s ranch was much the same in appearance as the Hernandez place. The ranch crew were sitting around, outside the bunkhouse, silent, with none of the usual rowdy horseplay. Doe Jerkin came to the door of the ranch and watched the sheriff and the others leave their horses in the stable at the right of the house.
‘I brought the Judge in. Undertaker’s come and laid him out ready for the burying. I reckon he’d want to be buried on the place, Hughie. We’ll talk about it later on. I left the body in the library, locked the door.’
They heard the sound of a horse and turned to see who was coming. One of Alberts’ deputies came racing up to a sliding halt. He’d ridden hard and his face showed there was something badly wrong.
‘Eh,’ he gasped, swinging down from his horse, ‘Ole Joe Tucker’s been killed. We found him dead in the post office, shot through the head.’
The Ysabel Kid turned to the doctor. ‘Did you go through the Judge’s pockets when you brought him in, Doc?’
‘Nope, left it for the sheriff, why?’
Ignoring the sheriff who was talking with the deputy, the Kid went to the door of the house. ‘Let’s take a look at them right now.’
The doctor led the way into the hall, his hat and bag were on a small table along with a sheet of paper and a pencil. The Kid glanced at the paper in passing, it was half covered with writing and there was a black smudge on the top of it.
Taking a key from his pocket the doctor opened the door that led into the library. The Kid went in first, his gun in his hand. The room was dark and still, at one end of it a large table showed through the darkness; on it was a bulky, sheet covered shape.
The doctor brought a lamp from one of the other rooms. His eyes went to a chair and the coat which lay by its side. ‘That’s strange, I hung the Judge’s coat over the chair,’ he said.
The Kid went forward, lifting the coat and seeing what he expected. The pockets had been turned out. Turning to the doctor, the Kid said, ‘You’d, best get Eb in here, Doc.’
Alberts arrived fast; he came into the room followed by Hughie Hurley and Carney Lee. They looked around; the young man went to the office desk, bending down to look at the door.
‘Somebody tried to break in here,’ he said.
The others went to the desk; there were three deep grooves cut into the wood around the lock as if someone had been trying to find some way to open it. The sheriff gave an angry growl, turned and went to the windows, trying each one of them in turn. He looked puzzled as he turned back to the others.
‘Who came in here, Doc?’ he asked.
‘Only me and the undertaker, after the boys helped to get the Judge in. Then when we was finished I came out and locked the door.’
‘Then how the hell did anybody get in?’ growled Alberts indicating the windows. ‘These’re both fastened on this side.’
The Kid crossed the room fast, looking at the windows, they were both securely fastened and so was the door. He looked around the big study, the walls were lined with rifles. It was a plainly furnished room, a big table, an assortment of chairs, a well filled bookcase and the desk. There was nowhere a man could be hiding; yet someone had come in and left again.
Carney Lee strode to the table where the body lay, bending to look under it. He straightened up again. ‘Didn’t come through the trapdoor, the bolts are still shot.’
Crossing the room the Kid bent over, looking at the trapdoor. The bolts were shot across and were rusted as if the trapdoor was not used. It was quite likely for the door led to a small cellar where the family could hide in case of attack. Now it was connected with the other cellars of the building.
‘Who all’s got keys to the room here?’ asked the Kid.
‘I have,’ Hughie replied. ‘I think Jeff Dawson had one and my Uncle.’
‘Wouldn’t have done anybody any good to have a key,’ growled the doctor. ‘I been outside that door, writing my report, ever since the undertaker finished laying the Judge out. There ain’t been nobody
in or out of it.’
‘Where’s this Dawson gent now?’ asked the Kid.
‘Went hunting last night,’ Hughie replied. ‘He came and asked me where the Judge was, then said he was going on a hunting trip when I told him Uncle Sam’d gone to town. He often went when there wasn’t much work on so I didn’t object. Besides, it’d give me a chance to work on the books. Jeff uses a system I’ve never seen before but I think I’m getting the hang of it now.’
‘Did the undertaker empty the Judge’s pockets?’ asked the Kid.
‘Nope. We allus leave that sort of thing to the sheriff,’ answered the doctor. ‘I can’t see how the hell anybody could get in and out of here with all the doors locked.’
‘We could make a search of the cellars,’ Alberts suggested. ‘Although I don’t see how the hell a man could get down there. That trapdoor’s bolted from the top. I don’t even think the bolts’d work.’
‘I’ve heard these places sometimes have secret passages,’ Hughie remarked, eyeing the walls with interest.
‘Not this’n,’ Carney Lee answered. ‘I was here when it was built, there ain’t no secret passages in it.’
‘Look,’ said the Kid. ‘We’re all tired now, we’ve had us a long day. Why’n’t we get us some sleep and get together in the morning?’
‘I can’t make it until noon at the earliest,’ Alberts replied. ‘I’ve got to ride back to town and look into the other killing.’
‘We’ll hold us a hearing at one o’clock tomorrow then,’ suggested the doctor. ‘See if we can’t work something out.’
‘What’s in the desk?’ asked the Kid as they turned to leave the room.
‘Uncle Sam’s cash box, there’s usually a fair bit of money in it. He usually keeps a bottle of best bonded whisky in it.’
‘That all?’
‘All the books and paperwork of the ranch are in there, too.’
The Kid looked thoughtfully around. ‘That’s a tolerable pile of books I’d reckon,’ he mused.
‘Not too many,’ Hughie answered.
‘Reckon I’ll turn in,’ said the Kid. ‘You reckon you’d best keep one of the hands out in the hall, and leave the lamp burning in here, Carney?’
‘Might be as well,’ Lee replied, knowing the Kid would never make such a request without good reason. ‘I’ll get Joe, Noisy and one of the other old hands to spell each other.’
The men were at the door when the Kid turned, looking back at the weapons which hung on the walls and particularly at a fine Remington Rolling Block rifle which hung over the centre of the fireplace. He stood looking at it for a moment, then turned and left the room.
The following morning the men gathered outside the room where they ate their meals. The Ysabel Kid was talking with Carney Lee and the ranch foreman nodded his agreement. Then they trooped into the room and sat at the table, the meal was almost silent. Just before they finished, Carney Lee turned to Hughie Hurley and said:
‘What do you want the hands to do today, boss?’
‘Put them to whatever you think needs doing, Carney.’ Hughie replied, making the answer he’d heard his Uncle give each day since his arrival.
‘Are you going to work on the books, Hughie?’ asked the Kid. ‘It might be best to have them all ready for when the Judge’s lawyer comes out.’
‘You’re right, Lon,’ Hughie agreed. ‘It’ll take me all day to do it. I wish Jeff Dawson was here. Do any of you boys know where he might be?’
‘Never telled us, Hughie,’ replied one of the men. ‘He don’t have much truck with us common folks.’
The Kid rose, stretched and announced he was going to ride the bedsprings out of his horse. The other men were to be working around the spread, or riding the nearer ranges so as to be on hand for the funeral which was due to start in a couple of hours.
Before the Kid got his horse he saw several men riding out to begin work. He caught his big white, saddled it and swung up. The horse snorted but the Kid rode out without fuss. Then the white settled down to serious work, carrying the Kid across the range.
Once clear of the ranch house the Kid halted and took his bearings. It was some time since he’d ridden this range and then only on odd visits, with a load of contraband. However, his senses worked well, once he saw a range he never really forgot it. He knew what he was looking for and also roughly where to find it. So when he started his horse he was making for a definite place.
He went through three large bosques, examining the trees and looking around for final proof of the theory he had formed.
In the fourth bosque he found something. Swinging down from his saddle he looked at the sign on the ground, then advanced along the tracks. He went slowly, every sense working for he knew he was dealing with a dangerous enemy, a man who would not hesitate to kill. In the centre of the bosque was a tree sloped valley with a fairly open bottom. The Kid left his horse at the top of the slope and went down on foot. A tree trunk lay across the bottom of the valley and further along were several more growing. Glancing at the trunk of the fallen tree the Kid studied certain marks around it, then walked to the nearest of the growing trees, also examining the trunk. Nodding in satisfaction the Kid went to the next tree, he moved along the line, glancing back to check on the distance. Stopping by one tree he bent forward and drew out his bowie knife, digging into the wood to extract something.
The big white horse snorted loudly from the top of the slope. Instantly the Kid’s ears detected a faint noise on the other side. A shot rang out and the Kid spun round, falling out of sight behind the tree, his old Dragoon gun in his hand. He lay without a move, out of sight of the man who had shot at him from the top of the other slope.
Time ticked by, the Kid lay still, watching his horse and listening. There was a scuffling sound on the other slope, the big white horse turned its head to whatever was moving. By watching his horse the Kid knew the man was slipping down the slope, coming towards him and he prepared to hand out a real surprise.
The footsteps drew near, the Kid tensed and lunged forward, his Dragoon gun slanting up.
‘Hold it!’ he snapped.
A cowhand the Kid remembered seeing in the dining-room at the ranch, stood at the foot of the slope, a revolver in his hand. He was fast, very fast. The Colt came up and roared, lashing flame at the Kid but the man was off balance and missed. The Kid felt the wind of the bullet by his cheek and shot back, throwing a .44 round, soft lead ball into the man. The Kid shot to kill: a man as fast as this was way too fast to take chances with. The man rocked on his heels, a hole in the centre of his forehead and the back of his head shattered wide open.
Leaping forward the Kid kicked the man’s gun to one side, then looked down at him. It was a pity there’d been no other way of handling the matter. The man, alive and talking, would have been more use to him.
Gun in hand the Kid went up the slope fast, like a Comanche Dog Soldier hunting a white scalp. Keeping to every bit of cover he could find, he reached the top. He could see the sign left by the man and followed it, but went with caution. The tracks led him through the woods to a small cave. For a moment the Kid stood outside, then darted forward with his gun out. He flattened by the side of the cave, listening for some sound to warn him that others were about.
For a moment he waited, then flung himself in through the opening, his gun lined. The cave was empty but had been used regularly. In one corner lay a pile of blackened embers; the Kid went to these, touching them and finding they were still warm. The man who’d tried to kill him must have been burning some papers here.
Without relaxing, or holstering his gun, the Kid went over the cave, studying the sign on the ground. Three men regularly used the cave and had been doing for some time. A hole had been scraped in the ground and a large, flat rock lay by it, dragged aside to allow the papers to be burned, the Kid thought. He turned and left the cave, finding tracks where two men had talked, then separated. One was the man the Kid had killed; the other set went off to where two hor
ses had been tied. Only one horse remained now but there were tracks to show which way the other went. The Kid, glancing at the sun, knew he would have to go back to the ranch for the inquest.
For all his hurry the Kid was cautious, there was still danger. The man he was after, the man who killed Judge Hurley, would not hesitate to kill again.
The burial was over and the inquest convened when the Kid came back. There was little enough to be said. The Judge had been murdered by a knife, killed by person or persons unknown. That was the verdict reached and the Kid did little or nothing to add to or help clear up the mystery. He just stated the plain facts, that he’d been on his way to see the Judge, found him dead and waited until Carney Lee came up. He did not mention the things he saw in the woods and Lee, taking his cue from the Kid, said nothing about it either.
The library and office was cleared, only the Kid, the sheriff, Lee, Hughie, and the doctor remained. They waited while the cowhands left the room then Carney Lee looked at the Kid.
‘You was some close mouthed just now, Lon.’
‘Pays to be,’ replied the Kid.
‘Not when there’s been two killings—’ growled the sheriff.
‘Three!’
The sheriff stopped speaking at the Kid’s quiet interruption. All eyes went to the dark young man. For a moment none of them said a word, then Alberts snapped, ‘Who was the other?’
‘One of the Judge’s hands. Tried to kill me in a bosque about four-mile from the spreads Tall jasper, dark, looked about thirty or so. Wore a staghorn handled Colt gun, looked like a tophand.’
‘McMurry!’ Lee spat the word out. ‘You allow he tried to kill you?’
‘Took a couple of shots at me,’ replied the Kid. ‘I had to kill him, he was too fast for me to handle any other way.’
‘Why’d he want to kill you?’ the sheriff put in grimly.
‘I’ve made a tolerable few enemies in my short and sinful life, that could have been why — or because I was looking at something I shouldn’t have been.’
‘Such as?’ Alberts asked.