by J. T. Edson
Paying not the slightest attention to what her maid was doing, although she would have approved of the alteration to her instructions, Freddie was prepared to make the most of the firearm she was holding regardless of its shortcomings for the task she had set herself.
By the standards of the day, despite its caliber being .465 H & H, the Holland & Holland held by the Englishwoman was considered too light to qualify for the title, ‘elephant gun’ employed by the small Texan when he had asked for it to be given to him. Nevertheless, it had been intended for a similar purpose to firearms in that category. It was meant not only to kill, but also to knock down almost instantaneously a fairly large and dangerous animal at close quarters. Therefore, while one of the finest examples of that particular type of rifle made anywhere in the world, it was equipped with only the most basic open ‘sporting’ sights and these were not conducive to accuracy over long distances. Nor, to be fair to the manufacturers, were they designed to be.
Closing her left eye, conscious of the very pressing need to get off a shot as quickly as possible, Freddie concentrated upon aligning the notch of the simple rear sight with the small knob set on the centre of the rib near the muzzle!
In spite of the competence she was displaying in handling the rifle, the Englishwoman was all too aware that dealing with the situation was far from being a sinecure!
Six – That’s A Mistake
Even as the fresh flood of alarm was assailing Waco, he realized that Dusty Fog was merely diving for cover and not going down as a result of having been hit by the bullet from the roof of the building across the street!
Support for the supposition was provided by Freddie Woods as she emerged on to the verandah of the Fair Lady Saloon. To the blond youngster’s way of thinking, her behavior was significant. He found nothing in the least surprising about her carrying one of the double barreled firearms, which he guessed correctly would be the Holland & Holland .465 rifle, from the cabinet near the French windows of the sitting-room. However, competent and quick thinking as he knew her to be under normal circumstances, he felt sure she could not have retained her usual composure if the small Texan—with whom he knew her to be on terms of considerable intimacy—was dead, or even injured.
Further evidence was supplied by the sight of Babsy Smith when, carrying one of the Purdey shotguns and a Colt Peacemaker, she followed her employer into view. Knowing her as well as he had very good cause to, Waco was equally convinced she would have displayed distress if the glance she took had established that Dusty was injured or worse.
Satisfied and greatly relieved by the discovery that the man he admired more than anybody else in the world was all right, the youngster continued to run towards the corner of the saloon from behind which the Ysabel kid had been shot. Under the prevailing conditions, he considered he would be better employed in that direction and could leave dealing with the attacker on the roof to Freddie or Dusty. They were more suitably positioned on the verandah to do so than he was at street level.
On arriving at the entrance of the alley, ready to open fire with the Colt Artillery Model Peacemakers he was carrying, Waco found the man who had shot the Kid was no longer in it. Despite various sounds from behind him, which implied he had drawn the correct solution over the most suitable way to have the second attacker dealt with, he could hear swiftly running footsteps going away to the right along the street to the rear of the buildings.
Not just one set, the youngster estimated, but two!
Discovering he would be up against more than a single man did not deter Waco!
While not wildly reckless, the youngster was aware of his own capabilities if it should come to gun play. In any event, he was determined to get at least a close enough view of the fleeing pair to have a chance of identifying them later should they succeed in evading his pursuit.
Arriving on the street at the back of the saloon, Waco saw two figures entering an alley a short distance away at the other side. They wore Stetsons and attire similar to his own. However, clearly their footwear was lacking the functional high heels which caused a cowhand to have a distinctive gait unmistakable to anybody as familiar as he was with other members of that hard working, hard riding and hard playing fraternity. Even discounting the suggestions that the pair were obviously in full flight, they were the pair he was seeking. That was apparent from the Winchester Model of 1873 rifle—identifiable even at a distance by having a steel frame, instead of the brass which had given its predecessor, the Model of 1866, the sobriquet, ‘Old Yellowboy’—carried by the taller. Furthermore, the other was grasping a Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker revolver in his right hand which, under the prevailing circumstances was hardly an indication that he was merely hurrying somewhere for an innocent purpose.
Following the men as swiftly as his legs would carry him, Waco wished he was astride his big paint stallion instead of being afoot!
The sentiment did not arise from the natural preference of every cowhand to ride rather than walk!
Being seated on the horse, the youngster realized, would have allowed him to overtake the two men with greater ease. Or, aided by his remembrance of the town’s geography—acquired while he was serving as a deputy marshal under Dusty Fog—he might be granted an opportunity to go around undetected and, instead of being compelled to make his approach from behind as was sure to be expected, take them unawares somewhere ahead. To have been able to achieve this would have offered him a far better chance of capturing one, or maybe both, alive.
There had been a time, not too long gone by, when such a consideration would not have entered Waco’s head!
However, that period had ended when the youngster was accepted as a member of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit!
Now, despite his deep concern for the well being of the Ysabel Kid, Waco could appreciate how useful it could prove to have at least one living captive able to tell why and at whose orders the ambush had been laid!
Accepting that he had no horse, the youngster kept moving. Once again, on arriving at the mouth of an alley along which his quarry had disappeared, he found they were no longer in view. Passing along, he located them hurrying into the gap between two more buildings. Realizing exactly where they were, he felt a sense of hope which was close to elation.
The chase had left the area of the town mainly given over to evening entertainment and was passing through business premises which had the appearance of already being closed for the night. Gazing around, Waco concluded that—unless his recollection was at fault, or alterations had been made since his last visit—provided they lacked his knowledge of the locality, the pair might make his task of catching up with them less difficult. Of course, if they should find themselves in the position he envisaged, dealing with them would be anything but a sinecure.
On reaching the appropriate corner and pausing to peer around, the youngster decided that the possibility had materialized!
Nobody was in sight in the gap between the buildings!
However, the sounds of footsteps had come to a halt and were being replaced by startled and angry exclamations!
‘That’s a mistake, you sons-of-bitches!’ Waco breathed, resuming his advance. ‘You’ve got yourselves boxed in and’ve got to come out my way!’
The youngster knew what had caused the consternation!
The buildings between which the fleeing men had elected to pass and the pair to their immediate rear were the property of a large freight outfit. When Waco had last been in Mulrooney, although it was possible to go straight through and emerge in the lower rent district, if one turned, either right or left it would lead into what amounted to a cul-de-sac. Judging by what he had heard, he assumed this was still the case.
Probably wishing to avoid being exposed to gun fire by being silhouetted between the buildings, the two men had turned right into what they had believed to be another alley. Having done so, they had found the way was blocked by a high wooden fence without a gate.
Starting along the alley
, the youngster watched the entrance from which the irate comments had come. He was ready to take whatever action might prove necessary when, as he believed was certain to happen, the two men returned his way. Then, probably attracted by the noise, somebody threw open the door which he had just passed in the left side building. Flooding out, the light of a lamp projected his shadow across the gap he was approaching.
Allowing only the bare minimum period required to satisfy herself with her point of aim, Freddie Woods squeezed the forward set trigger. When purchasing the Holland & Holland .465 rifle, taking into account that her hand lacked the strength of the average masculine user, she had had the mechanism adjusted to a lower poundage of pressure than would usually have been the case. On tightening her forefinger, to the accompaniment of a much deeper roar than had been given by the Winchester across the street, the bullet in the right side chamber was sent upon its way through the rifling grooves of the barrel.
Upon every other occasion when the black haired and beautiful Englishwoman had fired the Holland & Holland, she had taken the precaution of wearing a jacket designed to offer protection against the powerful kick of the recoil. The wisdom of having had the garment made was brought home to her in no uncertain fashion. Nevertheless, despite giving a gasp of pain as the butt plate was thrust hard against her thinly covered shoulder, she concentrated upon bringing under control the rising twin barrels so as to be able to fire again if necessary.
Having selected the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, instead of the Purdey shotgun also offered to him by Babsy Smith, Dusty Fog grasped the butt in both hands and thumbed back the hammer. With the bellow of the Holland & Holland ringing in his ears, he lunged forward from the shadows to rest his wrists on top of the verandah’s protective rail. Crouching with the revolver supported as an aid to sighting over the distance involved, he scanned the roof from which he had been fired upon.
Bringing down the barrels of the rifle, Freddie was not aware of what the small Texan was doing. All her attention was devoted to her own activities. Momentarily, the combination of the muzzle blast’s red glow and swirling white gasses from the detonated black powder was preventing her from seeing whether or not her shot had had any effect. She was all too aware that she would very soon learn the answer.
Regardless of having been used to carry out a type of shooting for which it was not designed, the Holland & Holland was proving adequate to deal with the situation. Instead of having tried to hit the small portion of the man which was exposed to her view across the street, the Englishwoman had aimed at the side of the signboard behind which she estimated the rest of his body must be. Although the limitations of the sights caused her to miss the point which would have produced the effect she was hoping to achieve, the result was not to be despised.
Striking the signboard at an angle, but just a trifle too high, the heavy bullet went through as if it did not exist and passed just behind 'Hugo Budapest’s’ head. However, such was the force of the impact, a cloud of splinters were flung from the wood. Several of them struck him in the side of the face. He frequently boasted of the stoicism shown by members of his race when sustaining injury, but his own reaction fell far short of justifying the claim. Letting out a shriek, he flung aside the Winchester rifle. Then, clutching at the affected area with both hands and shouting in his native tongue that he was blinded, he lurched from behind his place of concealment and towards the front edge of the roof.
Although unable to understand the Osage language employed by his companion, a sense of alarm assailed ‘Ivan Boski’. Under different circumstances, he would have derived much satisfaction from receiving proof that ‘Budapest’ was wrong. Now, the discovery that Dusty Fog was unharmed, as he had claimed, was cause for concern rather than jubilation. The sight of the small Texan advancing to line a revolver over the verandah rail had warned him that, no matter what result had been achieved by ‘Peter Romanov’ and ‘Rudolph Petrovich’, their own part of the assassination plot was a failure. What was more, he felt certain that retaliatory measures would very soon be commenced. Aware that their intended victims had numerous loyal friends in the town, including the local peace officers, according to Walter Johnson, he had no intention of trying to complete the task he and ‘Budapest’ had been given. His every instinct declared that the roof was likely to become a death trap if he remained upon it.
On the point of taking a hurried departure, the young Creek darted a glance at his companion. He realized that his own freedom would be placed in jeopardy should he leave the Osage behind to be captured. However, having no idea of how serious an injury had been inflicted by the Englishwoman, he was equally disinclined to let himself be slowed down by ‘Budapest’. With the latter consideration uppermost in his thoughts, he cocked and raised the Colt Cavalry Peacemaker. Lining its seven and a half inch barrel to the best of his ability, he squeezed the trigger. The shot roared out and he saw ‘Budapest’, already teetering at the very edge of the roof, struck and knocked from it by the .45 bullet.
Making no attempt to go and ensure he had silenced the Osage permanently, ‘Boski’ darted to the rear of the building. Tucking the revolver into the waistband of his Levi’s pants, he lowered himself to drop on to the flight of stairs by which they had gained access to the roof. While descending, he was alert for any indication that he had been seen. None came, nor was he given any suggestion of being pursued as he moved away from the building with all the speed he could muster.
Slowing down to avoid arousing suspicion, when he considered he was well clear of the potentially dangerous vicinity, the Creek made plans for his future. He would return to the Grimsdyke Temperance Hotel to collect everything from it which might allow himself to be traced. Then he would quit Mulrooney and leave his surviving associates to their own devices. Furthermore, once he succeeded in returning to the safety of the East, he had no intention of continuing to be actively involved in the scheme which had already placed him in such grave danger.
Watching what was happening on the roof across the street, Dusty Fog made no attempt to use the Colt he was holding when the figure shouting in an unknown tongue came into view. Even as he was concluding that Freddie Woods had had success with the Holland & Holland, offering a chance of a prisoner being taken to be questioned about the ambush, he heard the crash of a revolver shot. Although the red glow of the muzzle blast indicated the position from which it was fired, the signboard concealed whoever had done so.
There was no need for the small Texan to wonder who had been the latest target. Seeing the already staggering and clearly wounded man jerk on being hit by the bullet, then plunge over the edge to the street, supplied the answer. Coming to his feet, Dusty intended to change position in the hope of at least discovering who had fired the shot. Before he could move, his attention was diverted from the building.
‘Look!’ Babsy Smith shrieked, but there was elation and not concern in her somewhat strident Cockney tones as she pointed. ‘It’s Lon and he’s all right!’
‘He is, thank god!!’ Freddie ejaculated, turning her gaze in the direction indicated by the little blonde and inadvertently lowering the rifle.
Despite being aware that the danger from the opposite roof might not yet be over, although he suspected the shooting of the wounded man was a prelude to flight on the part of whoever had done it, Dusty too did as requested by Babsy. There were a number of people on the street below, but he had eyes for none of them. A similar surge of relief assailed him over what he saw.
Coming from the alley into which he had been carried by Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid was bareheaded. Supported by the blond giant’s right hand resting on his shoulder, he was walking a trifle unsteadily. However, he was showing no signs of being injured in any way. Carrying his black hat, the leather band from around its crown and the doctor’s bag, Doc Leroy was bringing up the rear.
‘I’m going down there, honey!’ Dusty announced, lowering the hammer of the Colt on to the safety notch between two chambers of the cylind
er and tucking it into his waistband. ‘Watch the roof, there’s still another jasper on it. Yell if you see him!’
‘If I see him, I’ll shoot,’ Freddie corrected, returning her attention to the other building. ‘He can do the yelling!’
Grinning at the spirited response, which he knew was in part caused by a relief similar to his own on discovering the Kid was apparently unscathed, the small Texan climbed over the guard rail of the verandah. Calling a warning, he lowered himself as far as possible and dropped the rest of the way. Alighting upon the street, he ignored the excited questions from various of the onlookers and hurried towards his companions. While doing so, he noticed that Town Marshal Kail Beauregard and three deputies were approaching on the run.
‘I’m not complaining because I was wrong for once, mind,’ Dusty declared, without waiting for the peace officers to arrive, as he halted in front of the other three Texans, and they all knew the depth of true feeling beneath the seemingly callous words. ‘But I’d have sworn I saw you get shot in the head, Lon.’
‘I thought the same, only no such luck,’ Doc claimed, before the Kid could speak. Again there was genuine relief obvious to men who knew him as well as did his companions. Holding forward the hat and its band, he showed that a piece was missing from the latter. ‘Thing was, he got luckier than anybody, even a part-Comanch’ Texan, has any right to be. The bullet hit the buckle and glanced off, ’stead of going into his fool head respectably.’