by J. T. Edson
behind her, she stepped warily away from the building. Give them their due, Youseman and Connolly had come up with a real smart way of retaining possession of bodies. Nobody who had seen the coffin’s lid secured would have suspected that its bottom opened and deposited the corpse into the basement. Those Chinese laborers brought in by Li Chin of the Oriental Laundry—and once a prominent Tong leader, who had been put on the run after a race war—would have built the basement. Probably Simeon Lampart was the designer of the trap doors. A scheme such as the two men were carrying out could only have succeeded with the mayor’s assistance and authority.
Rosie could not decide just to what purpose she could put her knowledge. Yet she felt certain that she could reap some advantage from it. Even if the two men were of no use, the outlaw leaders might find the information interesting.
Wanting time to think out a line of action, she strolled along the rear of the buildings flanking the main street. She continued to move cautiously, keeping to the shadows. Hinges squeaked and a cloaked and hooded figure emerged furtively from the back door of the combined barber’s shop and bathhouse. Beyond guessing that the shape was feminine and small, Rosie could gain no clue to its identity.
Giving a shrug, Rosie walked slowly on. Since the death of its owner, the barber’s shop had been kept in operation by his assistant. The brothel-keeper had never considered that the young man would make a worthwhile ally. So she felt little interest in his private affairs. She would have strolled straight by the open door, but a male voice from the darkened interior reached her ears.
‘You acted in a stupid manner, my gauche young friend. Only a fool would have believed the story she told to you and trusted her. I’ll admit that she is very easy to believe and trust. I did so once myself. Well, you are dead. But the price you have paid for your folly was, I think, less than mine.’
Hearing footsteps approaching the door, Rosie looked around. The female visitor had already gone from sight and there did not appear to be any other witnesses in the vicinity. If murder had been done, which seemed likely going by what she had heard, she might be able to turn a profit out of it. The voice had been that of an educated man, an Easterner, yet not one she recognized. If it should be one of the citizens, the possibilities of blackmail were worth Rosie taking a few chances.
Raising and cocking her Smith & Wesson, she pointed it at the doorway. At the same time she leveled the bull’s-eye lantern ready for use. A tall shape materialized before her, coming to a halt on catching sight of the woman.
‘Don’t move, feller!’ Rosie commanded, flicking open the front of the lantern. ‘I’ll shoot if you do.’
As far as the brothel-keeper could discern, the shape in the doorway was male. He had on a top hat, from beneath which long, reddish hair flowed to disappear beneath the black cloak which his left arm held up in front of his face.
‘Good evening,’ the man greeted politely, without offering to lower the cloak. ‘And a pleasant one—’
‘Put your arm down so I can see your face,’ Rosie interrupted.
‘I would rather you didn’t see it,’ answered the man.
‘That’s likely, but I aim to,’ Rosie replied, a little scared by his attitude and the glint in the hollow eyes which showed between the top of the cloak and the brim of the high hat. ‘Damn you, I’ll sh...’
‘You won’t shoot me, madam,’ the man declared and carried out her order.
Instantly Rosie stiffened and her face showed horror at what had been exposed to the lantern’s light. The man’s right hand emerged from the folds of the cloak. It held a Remington Double Derringer. Even as Rosie’s mouth opened to let out a shriek of terror, flame blossomed from the little gun’s uppermost barrel. Hit below the left breast by the .41 caliber bullet, the woman reeled and the lantern’s glow flickered away from the man’s face. Rosie fired once, the revolver sounding loudly and driving its load into the side of the building harmlessly. Again the man’s pistol spat and the second ball plowed its way into the staggering woman’s body. She dropped the lantern and the Smith & Wesson, crumpling down herself. From the street, shouts sounded and feet thudded as people came to investigate the shooting.
‘I said I’d rather not show you my face,’ the man commented and turned to stride away into the darkness.
Five minutes later. Dusty Fog knelt at the stricken woman’s side. Connolly had done what little he could to save her, but he had warned the small Texan that she would not last much longer.
On his arrival, accompanied by members of the Civic Regulators, Dusty had taken charge of the affair. Leaving Connolly to attend to the woman, the small Texan, Waco, Goldberg and Crouch had entered the barber’s shop. They found its new owner sprawled face down on the floor in the living quarters. He was dead, knifed through the heart. There had been no signs of a struggle, nor anything to suggest why he had been killed.
From his examination of the outside, Dusty had concluded that Rosie surprised the killer rather than being the guilty party herself. She had no knife on her, nor had one been found in the vicinity. The lantern and the Smith & Wesson revolver with one chamber discharged had given strength to his theory. So he wanted, if possible, to learn what the woman had seen.
‘Did you know the man who shot you, ma’am?’ Dusty asked gently.
‘M ... Man ...!’ Rosie answered, turning agony-distorted features to the small Texan. ‘H ... His... f... face ...’
‘What about it?’ Dusty prompted in the same quiet tone.
‘H ... He ... didn’t... have ... a ... face ...!’ the woman almost shrieked. Blood burst from her mouth, her body was convulsed briefly and then went limp.
Chapter Thirteen – My Medicine Will Strike You Down
Spread-eagled back downwards, with wrists and ankles secured to stakes driven firmly into the ground, the Ysabel Kid peered through the gloom towards the conical roof of the tipi above him. He was forced to admit that he could only blame himself for his present predicament. Which did not make him feel any better about being in it.
Having ended the second duel, he had known that he could not stay longer in the Kweharehnuhs’ village. Not only did convention demand that he should leave, but he had felt sure that Pohawe would make other attempts to remove him if he stayed. For some reason or other, the woman wanted him dead. So, having no wish to be forced into more duels or to be poisoned by Pohawe if she could not find further challengers, he had announced his departure.
Understanding at least part of the Kid’s motives, and approving of them, Ten Bears had given his consent for the Texan to leave. However, the dance had not been cancelled. It was to continue, even though its guest-of-honor would no longer be present. From comments the Kid had heard passed during the afternoon, the allocation of ammunition was to take place the following day. That too had been an inducement to continue with the celebrations.
While collecting his property from Wolf Runner’s tipi, the Kid had heard enough to warn him that the allocation might not be peaceful. The braves started chanting the words of the Kweharehnuh war song, then a warrior had interrupted the singing to recount the story of his greatest, bravest deed. Taken with all he had seen earlier, the Kid had known that he must not delay in taking a warning to Dusty. Unless the allocation went off without a hitch, the braves would commence an attack.
The Kid had been struck down and captured on the outskirts of the village. Hurtling from a tipi’s entrance, an all-but naked brave had tackled him around the knees. Before he could resist, three more had pounced upon him. The back of a tomahawk’s head had collided with his skull and he had known no more until recovering in what his nose had warned was the tipi of the medicine woman.
Going by the reduced volume of noise from the dance, the tipi was situated some distance from the village. That figured. A medicine man or woman often set up an establishment well clear of other human habitations, to permit a greater secrecy and increased freedom to carry out his, or her, duties.
The Kid was alone
in the tipi, but he knew that it did not greatly enhance his chances of escape. Having already tested the strength and security of his bonds, he knew that he could achieve little or nothing against them. A slow and painful death lay ahead for him—and for many of the people at Hell—if he could not regain his freedom.
A memory stirred at the back of the Kid’s mind, prodded into life by his realization of where he was being held prisoner. On the night before he had ridden away on his first war trail—to join the Confederate States’ Army—he had been visited by the Pehnanes’ respected senior medicine woman. She had been the midwife who had attended his birth and had subsequently taken a great interest in his welfare and career.
‘If you are ever in medicine trouble, Cuchilo,’ she had said, ‘call on me no matter where you are and I will help you.’
Well, the Kid figured that he could say he was in medicine trouble. Just about as deep and dangerous as a Pehnane tehnap could get. Relaxing as much as his bonds would permit, he turned his eyes towards the apex of the tipi.
‘Raccoon Talker!’ he gritted, from deep down in his chest. ‘Cuchilo needs your help!’
Again and again he repeated the words, while sweat bathed his face and soaked his clothes. If there had been a witness present and able to see, he would have been amazed at the strain of concentration showing on the babyishly innocent dark brown face.
Close to four hundred miles away, at the reservation agent’s home on the lower slopes of Mount Scott in the Indian Nations, two thrilled, middle-aged white women were having their fortunes told by a genuine Comanche medicine woman.
Carefully selected for his post, liked, respected and trusted by the Comanche bands under his care, Agent Stanley Beckers was not the kind of man to allow exploitation of his charges. That he had given permission for Raccoon Talker to see the women was a tribute on his part to the man who had made the request. Few white men could have persuaded Long Walker, now pariaivo of the Pehnane band, to ask such a favor of the medicine woman. Stocky, bearded, almost Comanche in build, the rancher, who wore a vest made from the hide of a cattle-killing jaguar that had raided his herds, was such a man. His name was Charles Goodnight.
In addition to showing a pair of influential Eastern cattle buyers some excellent sport and hunting, Goodnight had found himself faced with the task of entertaining their wives. Being close to the Comanche reservation, he had visited his old friend Long Walker and had been given the answer to his dilemma. The wives had been delighted for the opportunity to meet an Indian medicine woman and it had been a rather amused Raccoon Talker who suggested that she should tell their fortunes.
Suddenly Raccoon Talker stopped speaking. She broke off her conventional phrases—which had been basically the same as those employed by fortune tellers of every nation, creed or cult—abruptly and without apparent reason. Stiffening on her seat, she stared with fixed intensity across the room. Her face set into lines of intense concentration and she showed signs of being under a tremendous mental strain.
‘Wha ... What’s wrong with her, Charles?’ gasped one of the white women, rising hurriedly and displaying alarm.
‘I don’t know,’ Goodnight admitted, looking at the buxom, white-haired, yet impressive figure in the spotlessly clean doeskin clothes and the finery of her profession. In fluent Comanche, employing the accent of the Tanima, Liver Eater, band, he went on, ‘Is all well with Raccoon Talker, brother?’
‘Keep quiet, Chaqueta Tigre,’ Long Walker requested politely. ‘Tell your women not to be alarmed. There is medicine power here and it is no longer a foolish game for the squaws.’
Goodnight nodded and passed on the information. To give them their due, the plump Eastern matrons fell silent. Each of them realized that she was participating in something of more importance than a mere fortune telling exercise such as they could have received from a gypsy peddler back home in New Jersey. For his part, the rancher knew they were witnessing something unique.
During the War Between the States, while riding with Captain Jack Cureton’s company of Texas Rangers, Goodnight had learned much about the Comanches and something of their religious beliefs. So he had a slight inkling of what might be happening. It had been during that same period he had won his Nemenuh man-name, Chaqueta Tigre, Jaguar Coat, by his courage and his always wearing that distinctive vest.
For almost three minutes Racoon Talker sat as if turned to stone. Only the increased rate at which her bosom rose and fell, in sympathy with her deep breathing, showed that she was still alive. No sound came from her and a deep silence dropped over the room. Then the glazed expression left her face and her eyes took on a new light of animation. Coming to her feet, she inclined her head in response to the white women’s exclamations of concern.
‘I must go,’ Raccoon Talker declared. ‘Cuchilo has need of my help, Long Walker, and I cannot give it in this place.’
‘Give the paleface chiefs’ squaws our apologies, Chaqueta Tigre, as you white men do such foolish things,’ the stocky, gray-haired pariaivo of the Pehnane requested, showing none of the anxiety that had been caused by the medicine woman’s words. ‘But we must leave this place.’
‘We need no apologies, brother,’ Goodnight replied. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? As you know, I owe your tawk 23 a debt and he is my friend.’
Colonel Goodnight—the military title was honorary, granted by virtue of his courage, reliability and powers of leadership—had never been a man to ignore a friend in trouble, nor to forget to repay a debt. All too well he knew just how much the success of his first big cattle drive across the Llano Estacado—which had helped pave the way for the economic recovery of Texas—had been due to the Kid’s knowledge and assistance. 24
‘Yes,’ Raccoon Talker put in. ‘Send word over the singing wires to the pariaivo of the Texans. Cuchilo says the time has come. The blue coats must ride to the Palo Duro.’
‘That I will do,’ Goodnight confirmed. ‘Is there anything more?’
‘I think not,’ the woman answered and turned from the table. ‘The rest is medicine, Chaqueta Tigre.’
‘That I understand,’ agreed the rancher and crossed to open the door with all the gallantry he would have displayed to the Governor’s wife or a saloon girl.
‘We will make medicine this night, Agent Beckers,’ Long Walker announced, as Raccoon Talker left the room. ‘Tell the soldier coats at the fort there is nothing to fear from our drumming.’
‘I will tell them,’ the agent promised. ‘I know your heart is strong for peace, my brother.’
‘What’s happening?’ asked the wife of the senior cattle buyer, after the Comanches had taken their departure and the rapid drumming of horses’ hooves had faded away.
‘It’s a personal matter, ma’am,’ Goodnight explained. ‘Long Walker told me to express his apologies for them having to leave so abruptly.’
‘But why did they have to leave?’ the second woman inquired.
‘Raccoon Talker heard that a young friend of ours needs help,’ the rancher replied. ‘She’s gone to give it.’
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ the first wife protested.
‘Neither did I, ma’am,’ Goodnight assured her. ‘The Comanche medicine people have powers which no white person can understand. If you will accept Mr. Becker’s hospitality for a short time longer. I have business to which I must attend. Stanley, I’ll deliver the message to the Fort.’
‘Sure, Charlie,’ Beckers agreed. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I do know we’d better do what Raccoon Talker said we should.’
Despite having been born and raised amongst the Pehnane, the Kid had little actual knowledge of medicine powers. They were the prerogative of the elite few, mostly older men or women. If a young person showed the correct gifts, he or she would be chosen for training and introduction to the medicine arts. Mostly the male candidate would be of a mild, dreamy nature and unlikely ever to gain acclaim in the martial subjects. From his youngest days, the Kid had been marked dow
n as a warrior. So he had learned of medicine as an outsider, knowing only what it was claimed those in the inner circle could do.
How it had happened, the Kid could not say; but he knew that Raccoon Talker had ‘heard’ his message. More than that, he was certain that she had promised him her assistance and protection. Settling himself as comfortably as possible under the circumstances, he waited for the next development.
A lantern glowed and footsteps approached the tipi. Its door flaps were opened to let in a flood of light. Followed by a trio of war-painted tehnaps, Pohawe strode into the Kid’s presence. Having looked at the newcomers, the Kid devoted his attention to his surroundings. In addition to the usual paraphernalia of a medicine tipi he saw all his portable property had been brought in. The rifle, still in its medicine boot, leaned against his saddle and his gunbelt, carrying its usual armament, lay across its seat. At the opposite side of the tipi, encased in a medicine boot, leaned a long Sharps Model of 1859 rifle.
The latter weapon must be in the tipi so that it could absorb medicine power. Yet a rifle rarely received such treatment. Obviously it must be required for some special purpose.
‘What evil is this, witch-woman?’ the Kid demanded, swinging coldly contemptuous eyes towards Pohawe.
Anger showed on the woman’s face, brought there by the name that the Kid had applied to her. While a medicine woman was a person to be respected, a witch—who used her powers for evil—was regarded with revulsion.
‘You die, Cuchilo, Pohawe promised. ‘Not this night, but after the sun has gone down tomorrow, you will go to join your white father. There will be no living palefaces in the Palo Duro. I will not have them here.’
‘Does a woman lead the Kweharehnuh?’ the Kid mocked, looking at the braves. ‘Are the Antelopes like the foolish men in the Land Of The Grandmother, 25 waiting to be led by a warrior maid with a war lance—?’ 26