by J. T. Edson
Leaning across, the Kid gripped the blood bay’s reins. A knee signal caused his white to slow down and between them they brought the other horse to a halt. The Kid retained his hold as he dropped from the saddle. On landing, he set to work to calm the blood bay so that he could examine it closer.
‘Easy, big feller,’ he said gently. ‘Easy there.’
The Kid’s familiar scent, mingled with his voice and firm, capable handling swiftly brought the horse under control. Although badly blown and heavily lathered by the wolves’ long chase, the blood bay yielded no immediate sign of damage. After making sure that another flight would not be the result of letting go of the reins, the Kid examined its right side. Alert for any sign of restlessness, he passed around the horse’s rump. Then he saw the reddish tint of the lather on the left hip and went closer to investigate.
Gently the Kid placed a finger on the discolored patch, meaning to clean away the lather. He felt the horse quiver and spoke softly to calm it before continuing. Underneath the coating of lather he found a shallow graze in the skin. Bending closer and wiping off more of the froth sweated out during the chase, he saw that the hair had been burned away at the start of the groove. One did not need the powers of a Comanche witch woman to guess at the cause. Somebody had cut loose with a revolver at close range, the muzzle-blast singed the blood bay and the bullet sliced a nick in its flank. Pain started it running and somewhere in its flight it attracted the attention of the wolves. Luckily the wound had been only superficial or the pack would have pulled the blood bay down long before it came into the Kid’s sight.
Glancing towards the horse’s head, the Kid’s eyes came to a halt at the saddle. He saw a dark stain on the leather and, hoping against hope, he moved closer to check the evidence of his eyes. Shock and anxiety twisted at his usually unemotional face as he looked at the stain. All too well he knew what the dark mark was—human blood. Far worse, he identified the grayish lumps which clung to the leather among the bloodstain. Blood and human brains had been smeared down the saddle. The Kid looked back in the direction from which the blood bay came and tried not to think that the hideous stain might originate from Mark Counter’s shattered-open skull.
Eleven – Sandel’s Gratitude
Careful searching had located the tracks of the Wycliffe gang and Murat’s small posse had followed until they had reached the border of Travis County. By that time they had reached the shores of Lake Travis and found that the gang had crossed the Pedernales River to turn upstream along the northern bank. When Mark had stated his intention of continuing the hunt, Murat had offered to accompany him, although the sheriff’s jurisdiction ended at the county line. While Mark and Murat discussed the matter, a rider from Austin galloped up with news. It seemed that the Dick Dublin gang had been seen at Williamson and rode out of that town in the direction of Austin. The town marshal of Williamson believed Dublin planned a robbery in the State capital. Even if he did not, Dublin’s name appeared on sufficient wanted posters to make his capture a matter of some importance. As county sheriff, senior law enforcement officer of the area, Murat would be needed. Knowing the reputation of the Dublin gang, Murat did not want to face them with casual help and required the services of all his deputies. That left just Mark and Tejas Tom to follow Wycliffe’s party.
The young Indian came from a tribe long noted for its friendship to the white man. As Murat said, his clothing meant little for underneath lay the primitive instincts and knowledge of the red warrior. Throughout the trailing of the gang Mark had studied Tejas and knew him to be capable and skilled at his work.
Once again refusing to take men Murat might need to handle the Dublin gang, Mark turned his blood-bay stallion across the river. Tejas, cradling a tack-decorated Spencer carbine across his arm, followed and then led the way on the tracks of Wycliffe’s bunch.
After a time Mark concluded that the bouncer at the Lone Rider had told the truth. Wycliffe’s gang had swung away from the river only to avoid contact with the occasional settler’s home. Once past the dwelling, the gang had returned to the river trail.
During the afternoon Tejas pointed out where a further six riders had joined the Wycliffe party.
‘That makes maybe twelve of ’em,’ Mark said, glancing at the Indian.
‘More than we figure on,’ Tejas answered.
‘You want to go back?’
‘Are you going on?’
‘Sure,’ admitted Mark.
‘I took on to find ’em for you,’ Tejas pointed out. ‘Not done it yet.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Mark drawled.
They started their horses moving once more, finding no difficulty in following the other party even though Wycliffe had stuck to the trail most of the time. Two miles farther upstream the trail petered out, having grown narrower and less used after each settler’s buildings. Still the gang had stuck close to the river, until they had made camp for the night.
‘They split up here this morning,’ Tejas explained after circling the camp and reading tracks in the light of the setting sun. ‘Look like they spread out, four bunches of them.’
That figured, thinking of the Army map Mark had studied before leaving Austin. Discounting the usual twists and bends, the Pedernales River formed a rough crescent from its source in what would one day form the eastern edge of Kimble County and where it entered Lake Travis. If Pegler knew the country, he might avoid the extra miles caused by following the windings of the river and take a direction line from the headwaters to Austin. So Wycliffe split up his party, spreading them out across the range in the hope that one group might see the trader.
Which left Mark with a problem.
‘Who do we follow?’ he asked.
‘These three took girl with ’em,’ Tejas answered, indicating the set of tracks which pointed along the bank of the river.
‘Was Billy with them?’ Mark asked.
‘His hoss tracks go with ’em,’ Tejas agreed.
‘Then they’re for us,’ the blond giant growled. ‘I’ll be satisfied if I can nail his hide to the wall.’
‘They not make such fast time with girl along,’ commented Tejas. ‘Not try hide their tracks either. Maybe so we catch ’em tomorrow.’
‘Let’s push on as far as we can today,’ Mark suggested.
That proved to be another mile, by which time the sun had set and night came blackly to the land. Much as Mark liked his creature comforts—his habit of including a comfortable pillow in his bedroll when on the trail had been the cause of amused comment—he accepted that the conditions called for making a very primitive camp that night. They settled the horses on good grazing but limited themselves to drinking river water and eating the cold food brought from Austin, not even troubling to make a fire. Then Mark settled down to sleep, using his saddle for a pillow, the earth forming a hard, unsatisfactory mattress and the sky a roof.
Just how long Mark had been asleep he did not know. At the first gentle shake Tejas gave his arm, he came immediately and silently awake.
‘I heard something,’ the Indian said. ‘Listen!’
Sitting up, Mark strained his ears. At first he heard nothing but the normal night sounds. Then it came, the scream of a terrified woman mingled with whoops, laughter and voices.
‘Not white men!’ Tejas breathed, reaching the same conclusion as Mark.
‘Let’s go take a look,’ the blond giant replied.
Even as he spoke a further scream rose, to be chopped off as if a hand clamped over the woman’s mouth. Taking up their rifles, Mark and Tejas moved swiftly through the trees in the direction of the sounds. The country bordering that part of the Pedernales River lay in thickly wooded rolling folds. It was an area not well suited to the raising of cattle, one of the reasons for the sparse population, also the U.S. Cavalry did not maintain regular patrols through the district. So Mark and Tejas did not discount the possibility of finding hostile Indians responsible for the screams. Not until they topped the second ridge from their camp
did either man see any sign of other human beings.
Shapes moved about a large fire in a clearing down close to the river. Even from where they stood Mark and Tejas could make out sufficient details to tell them that they must intervene—and also enough to warn them that doing so would involve some risk.
Swiftly Mark counted the Indian ponies he could see standing at the far side of the clearing on the edge of the firelight. He made the score ten, not taking in the four horses of better breeding than the small, wiry broomtails. Ten corresponded with the braves around the fire. Six of that number helped themselves to liberal doses from a brace of stone whisky jugs. The remaining quartet appeared to be engrossed in preparations for entertaining their companions, with the unwilling aid of at least one of their prisoners.
Close to the horses, bound to a tree and with a stick forced into her mouth as a gag, was a blonde-haired girl clad in a man’s shirt which had lost one sleeve and levis pants. Just as securely fastened, although not gagged, the lanky form of a man in range clothes lay by the fire. Mark needed only one glance to identify the prisoner as Loney Sandel, one of Wycliffe’s companions from the saloon.
After studying the camp, Mark turned his attention back to the quartet of industrious braves. All the party wore a mixture of traditional and white man’s clothing, while three sported gunbelts and revolvers. Three of the quartet appeared to be laying a second fire, for they piled dried leaves and small branches on the ground beneath a tall old white oak tree. Taking up a rope, the fourth buck flipped its noose end over a branch directly above where his companions built the new fire. Mark could guess what the quartet had in mind.
Whooping their delight, the three braves left their work and crossed to where Sandel lay. Like Mark, the lanky man knew what the Indians planned and began to throw his body from side to side in a vain attempt to free his arms. He achieved nothing other than to bring whoops and laughter from the watching braves. Grabbing him by his bound ankles, the trio of braves hauled him bodily to the oak tree. The fourth buck, with Sandel’s gunbelt and Cooper Navy revolvers slung about his waist, deftly flipped the noose over the prisoner’s feet and drew it tight about his ankles. Watched by the remainder of the party, the three braves sprang to the other end of the rope and began hauling at it. Laughter and shouted advice rose from the watching warriors as Sandel’s body started to rise feet first into the air.
‘Young Kaddo bucks!’ Tejas whispered as he and Mark advanced down the slope.
‘Looks that way,’ Mark agreed. ‘We'll have to jump them fast or they’ll kill the girl.’
‘Noise they're making, they’ll not hear us come,’ Tejas guessed.
Certainly none of the braves showed any hint of knowing, or caring, that they had been discovered. They laughed, whooped, yelled comments to each other. Hauling on the rope, the trio drew it up and over the branch until they suspended Sandel head downwards over the mound of inflammable material. Then the fourth buck darted to the fire and dragged out a blazing branch. Waving it over his head, he started back across the clearing.
While Mark would have preferred to be much closer before cutting in, he did not dare wait any longer. Sandel might be one of the crowd who helped kill Sailor Sam but the blond giant could not stand by and watch him tortured. In addition to his revulsion at the thought of a man being hung head down over a fire, Mark wanted to question Sandel and learn if Billy Wycliffe owned one of the riderless horses standing with the Indian ponies. If Billy had died at the hands of the braves, Mark would be willing to call off his hunt. Yet Mark doubted if Billy had fallen victim to the Kaddo braves. None of them wore a gunbelt with a swivel holster.
Skidding to a halt, Mark swung the Winchester rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the brave with the blazing branch. When sure of his aim, the blond giant squeezed the trigger. Flame lanced through the darkness and the bullet ripped into the brave’s head. Spinning around, he flung the torch aside and tumbled to the ground.
So engrossed in the forthcoming torture were the rest that the shot came as a complete surprise. Nor did their whisky-slowed minds take in what the sound meant with any kind of speed. On the heels of Mark’s shot, Tejas’ Spencer bellowed to crumple over one of the men holding the rope. Sandel’s weight dragged the other two braves forward and he had sense enough to curl his body forward as it sank down. In that way he saved himself from injury, landing on the unlit pile of branches and then flopping to the ground.
After ending the immediate threat to Sandel’s life, Mark concentrated his efforts on preventing the remaining bucks from recovering from their surprise and organizing a defense. While the Winchester’s mechanism enabled a skilled man to get off two shots a second, no amount of practice could teach him to change his point of aim at that speed. So Mark concentrated on sending lead fast and in the general direction of the braves; all the time making the woods ring with bawled-out cowhand yells.
At Mark’s side, Tejas showed a remarkably good grasp of the situation and of his companion’s intentions. Long before they could render all the braves harmless, the initial shock would have worn off. Maybe the Kaddo did not rank with the Comanche as fighting men, but they could handle their end in a fracas and were not to be despised. Given a brief time to regain control of their startled wits, any of the party left alive would at least kill the two prisoners before being settled. However the need to thumb-cock the hammer between shots prevented the Spencer from equaling the Winchester’s speed of discharge. So Tejas used the extra time to take aim. He might not be able to put down such a volume of fire as Mark, but made at least as much vocal disturbance.
Another buck went down, thrown across the fire by the shocking impact of a .52 caliber Spencer bullet. By that time the Kaddos milled about the clearing and Mark did no more than catch a brave high in the shoulder, giving him a bad graze but nothing worse.
Then the rest of the Indians broke. Like many of the Indian tribes, the Kaddo did not care to fight at night. They believed that the Great Spirit might fail to find a dead warrior in the darkness, preventing him from being guided to the Land of Good Hunting. So they raced for their horses, wanting only to escape from their unseen attackers. One of the braves had to pass the girl and snatched the tomahawk from his belt as he approached her. Seeing her danger, Mark swung the barrel of his Winchester and sighted. Rifle and carbine cracked at the same moment. Caught in the head by a .44 caliber bullet and raked through the body by a .52 ball, the Kaddo was a tolerable dead Indian even before his body crashed down at the girl’s side.
Showing the kind of skill one expected of horse-Indians, the remainder of the band mounted their ponies. Even the wounded brave hit his mount's back with commendable speed. Nor did they intend to leave such valuable loot as horses in the hands of their attackers. Their own ponies stood with no more than a hackamore tossed across the branch of a bush. Only the captured white men’s horses needed fastening and the braves succeeded in cutting free all but one. Lead whistled around their heads, coming close enough to prevent any great effort to sever the fine-looking dun’s reins. While that horse was the best of the looted quartet, none of the braves felt like giving his life to free it. Taking all but the dun, the braves fled into the darkness and could be heard crashing off through the trees at speed.
Cautiously Mark and Tejas advanced into the firelight and moved forward to ensure they did not need to worry about the braves lying about the clearing. They held their weapons ready and did not regret the precaution even after it proved to be needless.
‘Cut that jasper free, Tejas,’ Mark ordered. ‘Then go fetch up our horses. We’d best get the hell out of here.’
Although the Kaddo did not fight in the night, the departed bucks might be tempted to return in an effort to retrieve their abandoned property. The discarded whisky jugs alone would form a mighty strong inducement. If the braves returned, they would come in silence and follow their attackers’ tactics of cutting loose out of the darkness. There might be more Indians in the vicinity, in which c
ase Mark’s party might find themselves faced with greater odds than they could handle. All his and Tejas’ spare ammunition had been left with their saddles and Mark wanted a reserve on hand should an attack come.
Even without going into details, Tejas followed Mark’s line of thought. Taking a Green River knife from its sheath beneath his jacket, the Indian knelt at Sandel’s side. As he started to free the man, Tejas watched his face and the manner in which his eyes followed Mark.
Crossing the clearing, Mark rested his rifle against the tree trunk, took a jack-knife from his pocket. First he removed the cruel gag from the girl’s mouth. In normal times she would have been a pretty girl, with a freckled face, snub nose and smiling lips. The ordeal she had gone through left marks of terror and exhaustion on her features.
Working fast, Mark cut the girl free and she collapsed sobbing into his arms. Gently he held her, feeling the sobs which tore at her and the uncontrollable trembling of her body against his.
‘Easy now,’ he said quietly. ‘Just take it easy. It’s all over now.’
After cutting Sandel’s bonds, Tejas turned and faded off into the darkness. Sitting up, Sandel rubbed at the inside of his wrists and cursed the pain-restored circulation shot through him. Then his eyes returned once more to Mark and verified the identification already made. Most men would have been filled with gratitude for an escape from agonizing death, but Sandel thought only of his future. That future did not look any too bright in view of the identity of the man who had rescued him.