by J. T. Edson
Knowing the danger, the Kid prepared to handle it. Twisting in the racing sorrel’s saddle, he threw up his Winchester. Even as the look-out wavered between his two targets, the deadly “One of a Thousand” rifle, specially selected by the Winchester Repeating Arms Company for its barrel’s accuracy potential, cracked out. Firing from the back of a running horse was not conducive to accuracy, but it seemed that Ka-Dih still took an interest in the Kid’s welfare. The bullet struck the Winchester in the look-out’s hands, separating and rupturing the magazine, exploding its bullets and tumbling the metal-peppered man backwards.
With the menace handled, the Kid turned back and concentrated on keeping his horse running. Side by side, the two Texans raced along the valley until a bend in its length hid them from any sight of Pasear Hennessey’s place.
Chapter Eight – Now It Starts Costing You Money
ONE OF THE few good things that could be said about Pasear Hennessey’s general class of customers was that they minded their own business. Without a great deal of provocation not one of them would have thought of cutting in upon a private affair between their host and the departed Texans. So none of the men as much as offered to go to the windows in an attempt to see which way the Kid and Waco rode.
While big and bulky, Hennessey could move with fair speed, but by the time he had come from behind the bar, crossed the room and looked out of the windows, he could see nothing of the two young Texans. Giving a shrug, he went to the doors and unfastened them.
“I apologize for the disturbance, gentlemen,” he announced, letting the doors swing together. “Drinks are on the house.”
However, as he returned to the bar ready to distribute his largesse, a thought struck him. It seemed most unlike the Cabrito he remembered to give up a task so easily. Of course, the Kid was now an honest citizen and they did claim that made a man change his ways—but could any change be so complete? Most likely the Kid merely meant to go and collect reinforcements. Thinking of the nature of the Kid’s friends, Hennessey, reached the conclusion that flight might be advisable. One of the reasons Hennessey maintained two establishments a good distance apart was to give him an alternative location in time of bad trouble. The business of the bounty placed on Dusty Fog’s head struck Hennessey as about as bad trouble as he could become involved in.
“Cosmos, go up to the roof,” he called as he went behind the bar. “Keep watch well, Cabrito may be back.”
A few moments later the wounded look-out had been replaced and received medication in the kitchen and Hennessey busily served his customers. All the time he worked, the saloon-keeper gave thought to his escape. He had good horses in his corral and knew the country over which he must travel. Slipping across the border would not save him from the Texans, only speed of movement could.
After finishing his drink and listening to the hum of conversation at the bar, one of the customers set down his glass.
“Got me some miles to cover,” he remarked and walked towards the doors.
Nobody paid any great attention to the man’s departure at first. Reaching the doors, he shoved them open, stepped out—and returned a damned sight faster. Even as the man stepped through the doors, an unseen rifle cracked from the right side of the valley and its bullet sent splinters flying from the porch under his feet. Throwing himself back into the room, the man flattened against the wall and drew his gun.
Instantly every man in the room showed his concern. Not one of the customers could truthfully claim to be free from fear of the law’s pursuit and all wanted to know the extent of the danger outside.
“Who was it?” asked a man darting to the side of the first to try leaving and peering through the window at the slope.
“I tell you something,” came the reply. “I just didn’t stay out there long enough to find out.”
The question received an answer as a voice outside yelled, “Pasear. Hi, Pasear!”
Crossing the room, Hennessey halted alongside the window and scanned the slope without result. Not that he needed to locate the shooter to learn his identity. “Yes, Cabrito?” he replied.
“You going to tell me what I want to know?”
“Never!”
“Put it this way then. You’re staying inside there until you do—all of you.”
“Pedro!” Hennessey hissed across the room. “Tell Cosmos to get Cabrito while I keep him talking.”
“Si, Señor,” Pedro answered, without any hint that he thought Cosmos might succeed in following the order.
“Cabrito!” called Hennessey. “Suppose I, or one of my guests, want to leave here?”
“Just open the door and try,” answered the Kid cheerfully.
“Damn it to hell!” spat out the man who had already tried to leave. “I’ve got a lot of miles to cover and that feller out there’s got no quarrel with me.” With that, he thrust open the doors and started to leave, shouting, “Hey, friend—”
Four shots, so fast that the shots almost blurred into a drum-roll of sound, the Kid’s rifle fired. Once again bullets threw up splinters from the porch, creeping closer to the man’s feet and causing him to make another hurried retreat.
“You warn’t long gone,” grunted a customer. “Looks like that feller aims to do what he said he would.”
From his position on the roof Cosmos searched for some sign of the Kid. At first he saw nothing, then the reports of the rifle helped him pin-point where the dark youngster lay hidden. Cosmos had a problem for the rifle of the previous look-out was wrecked and his shotgun would not cover the hundred yards to the Kid’s position. Just as he debated on what might be the best course of action, a bullet hit the inside of his protective barrier and screamed into the air with the vicious note of a ricochet. Its sound almost drowned out the deep bark of the shot, but Cosmos heard enough to tell him that the rifle’s user was on the opposite slope to the Kid.
“Hey you!” yelled a voice from behind. “Get off that roof and stay off it.”
“Was thinking that myself!” continued the Kid’s voice and his rifle rolled out a further series of shots which tore chunks from Cosmos’s position.
Grinning, Waco expended four shots from his heavy Centennial to further add to Cosmos’s discomfort. The replacement look-out flattened himself on the floor and gave rapid thought to his position. Whatever his other faults, Cosmos was no fool and knew the two Texans did not miss him through bad marksmanship. He could not rise and deal with either of his attackers, for doing so exposed him to the other’s rifle. With that unpalatable thought in mind, he concluded that the roof was not the place for him. Hurriedly raising the trap door, he slipped through its gap and down the ladder into the kitchen.
“Try that door to the left,” suggested one of the customers to the man who wished to leave. The speaker also wanted to depart, but felt disinclined to make any rash experiments.
“Like hell,” growled the other. “There’s two of ’em and one’s that side.”
“What’re you going to do about it, Hennessey?” growled another customer.
Ignoring the question, Hennessey looked once more from the window. He still did not know that Cosmos had vacated the look-out platform, although the shouted conversation told him that his man had been located. If he could keep the Kid talking for long enough, Cosmos ought to be able to locate and shoot at him.
“Cabrito!” the saloon-keeper yelled. “How long do you intend to continue this fooling?”
“You ready to talk yet?” answered the Kid.
Despite the “Why don’t you do something?” looks thrown in his direction by the customers, Hennessey replied, “I’ve nothing to tell you.”
“Then I’m stopping fooling. Now it starts costing you money. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”
With that the Kid lined his rifle and began to methodically rake the front and right side of the building. After dislodging Cosmos, the Kid had taken time to feed a full magazine tube of bullets into the Winchester and sent ten of its fifteen rounds screaming
down the slope. Both big front windows went in flying clouds of splintered glass; the side window disintegrated, its framework splitting. Inside the bar-room tables and chairs went flying as customers and employees took hurried leaps and dives for cover.
On the opposite slope Waco settled down comfortably in his selected hiding place. Close to his hand sat an open box with the gleaming brass heads of .45.75 bullets showing. He heard the Kid’s words and the commencement of the bombardment. Studying the left side and rear of the building, he sighted his Centennial and cut loose with a couple of shots which punched holes in the side door. Then a fresh and more rewarding target caught his eye. From where he lay, Waco could see into the kitchen and recognized its potentiality. A pile of newly-washed plates standing on a table close to the window looked too good to be missed. Taking a careful aim, the youngster squeezed his rifle’s trigger lovingly. Propelled by seventy-five grains of powder, three hundred and fifty grains of flat-nosed lead burst the window and the pile of plates erupted into flying fragments.
Having realized the danger to his valuable crockery, the more valuable due to their recent washing, the cook was in the process of advancing to collect them. Even as his hands reached out to remove temptation, Waco’s bullet struck home. The cook, a short, excitable Italian, let out a screech of mingled shock, rage and pain as flying chips of pottery sprayed over him. Reeling backwards, he hit the hot stove with his rump, rebounded howling even louder and charged across the room. In passing, he caught up with his favorite cleaver, then tore open the rear door and rushed out of the building.
“Sounds all riled up,” mused Waco, listening with admiration to the multi-lingual invective rising from the cleaver-brandishing little man. “Sure hope I can remember some of ’em to tell Mark.”
Then, recalling his orders, the youngster changed his aim, sighted with care and touched off a shot which struck the blade of the cleaver and shattered it.
“Hi!” howled the cook. “W’at you doing? Don’t you-a got nothing better to do than that?”
“You go tell your boss that we’ll leave when he’s talked,” Waco answered and threw several shots around the cook, causing him to leap, dance and finally make a hurried retreat to the kitchen. After reloading, Waco emptied the magazine into the kitchen’s windows and more wild vituperation rose from inside.
Rapidly feeding more bullets through the Winchester’s loading slot, the Kid studied the situation and wondered how he might bring the matter more quickly to the boil. If possible he wanted to make Hennessey talk without killing or injuring anybody and needed a splitting wedge to open a gap in the other’s resistance.
The horses at the hitching-rail fiddle-footed and strained at their reins, spooked by the splitting crack of passing bullets and sound of breaking glass. From inside the building came a wail of anxiety and a couple of men threw open the doors with the intention of securing their means of transport and escape from the law’s pursuit. Working his rifle’s lever in a blur of movement, the Kid drove the men back inside with close-passing lead. The sight brought an idea to him.
“I’m counting to ten, then I’ll cut loose every hoss at the rail!” he yelled, rapidly replacing the expended bullets.
“Reckon he could do it, too,” commented one of the customers, having watched the display of marksmanship from the side of one of the shattered windows.
“Yeah,” agreed another and looked to where Hennessey leaned by the second window. “Hey, Pasear, that boy sounds and acts tolerable keen for you to tell him something.”
“So?”
“So me ’n’ the rest of these gents done took us a vote and decided unanimous that you goes out there and obliges us by telling him all you can.”
While few of the customers had worked together in organized bands, they showed commendable co-operative action in the menacing manner with which they surrounded the saloon-keeper. Even Hennessey’s normally loyal staff appeared to have turned against their leader. Led by the still-fuming cook, who now wielded a long and sharp butcher’s knife, the employees descended on Hennessey and added their demands to those of the customers.
Giving a shrug, Hennessey looked around the crowd. “If you insist—”
“You can bet your life we insist,” agreed the spokesman. “Now you go tell him what he wants to know.”
However, the saloon-keeper knew better than walk out of the door without first taking an elementary precaution.
“Cabrito!” he yelled.
“I hear you and’ve got to nine.”
“Then stop counting. I’m coming out.”
“Thought you’d come round to seeing it my way,” the Kid announced. “But happen there’s any tricky games, I’ll stop shooting to scare.”
“You’d best believe him, gents,” came Waco’s voice. “I’m still watching the back and this side and I feel the same way Lon does.”
Hennessey looked at the half-circle of grim faces around him, knew he had plenty of witnesses to attest to the fact that he was forced into giving information to the Kid and felt easier in his mind. Leaving the window, he went to the doors, thrust them open and walked out. Crossing the porch, he strode along the trail down which the Kid and Waco had ridden earlier.
Still riled at the delay caused by the Kid’s actions, the man who had tried to leave let out a low curse and drew his gun. Looking out of the window, he growled, “Just wait until that damned Texan shows hisself.”
“Put it away,” warned another man. “So far nobody’s been hurt. Which same wasn’t ’cause that feller there can’t shoot.”
“And,” another man went on, drawing and cocking his Colt, “seeing’s how that young feller ain’t promised not to shoot me, I don’t aim to see him riled. So you just does as requested and leather it.”
“Happen you gents feel so strong about it,” said the would-be avenger, “I reckon I can forget and forgive.” He paused, looked from the window and holstered his weapon. “Likely couldn’t’ve hit him anyways. Ole Pasear’s still walking and over a hundred yards off.”
Alert and watchful though he moved, Hennessey saw no sign of the Kid as he walked along the trail.
“Far enough, Pasear,” said a quiet voice from behind a rock which the saloon-keeper would have dismissed as too small to hide anything larger than a jack-rabbit. “And no tricks.”
Only by exerting all his strength of will did Hennessey hold down the surprise he felt. “You’ve got a mean way with you, Cabrito,” he said. “Those windows cost money.”
“All you had to do was talk,” the Kid pointed out.
“I’d’ve been dead real quick if I’d talked. The man who put the bounty on Captain Fog’s head’s real fast, although you’d never think it.”
“Who is he?” asked the Kid.
“Now there you have me, Cabrito. He didn’t give me no name and I never got around to asking him for one.”
“You wouldn’t lie to an old friend, now would you, Pasear?”
“You know I would,” admitted Hennessey calmly. “But not at a time like this. Why you’ve even turned my employees against me.”
“Then I want what you know, Pasear. Happen I don’t get it, you’ll maybe need to build a new place comes morning.”
“All I know is that he arranged to put out those reward posters and told me what to do. He left five hundred dollars with me and told me to hand it to any man who brought in those gold-mounted Colts Captain Fog won at the Cochise County Fair.”
“The dodger said five thousand,” growled the Kid.
“Somehow the man didn’t seem to trust me with that much money,” Hennessey replied. “Instead he said I was to tell whoever claimed the bounty to ride over to Dougal’s place up Paradise way where he’d collect the rest.”
“Reckon you’ve got the money on you.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t leave money lying about with those thieves I hire.”
“Toss it over this way.”
“And what do I tell the man, if he asks about it?”
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“Unless you’ve changed a lot, he’ll have a helluva chore finding you. Anyways, you’ve plenty of proof that you didn’t have any choice but tell.”
“There’s that to it,” admitted Hennessey. “Although he won’t be the sort to listen to excuses.”
“Then don’t stay on and give him the chance to ask for them,” the Kid growled. “One thing though, Pasear,” he went on when the other tossed over a roll of money, “happen I find you’ve lied to me, I’ll tell Pepper Alvarez who sold his brother to the Guardia Rurale.”
A look of shock came to Hennessey’s normally expressionless face. “Who told you that—”
“You just did,” grinned the Kid. “Although I guessed, you and Pepper’s brother were both sweet on the same gal. Pepper’s not smart, but I reckon he’d listen to me.”
“I told you the truth,” Hennessey stated definitely.
“Bueno. There’s only one other thing. Afore you pull out, start word moving that the bounty’ll never be paid and that any man who tries to take it’s going to die real painful.”
“I’ll see to it,” the saloon-keeper promised. “Vaya con Dios, Cabrito.”
Turning, Hennessey walked back towards his place. His stand against the Kid had been a gesture, a face-saver to prove to future employers that he could be relied upon. Nobody could blame him for yielding to the pressures placed upon him by the Kid’s actions.
“What now?” asked Waco as he joined the Kid as the place where they had left the horses.
“We go and see a gent called Dougal.”
The following night Hamish Dougal made his usual visit to the corral to make sure that everything was securely closed before going to bed. Running a ranch which served as a relay point for the Outlaw Trail, Dougal had little to fear from outlaws; and the local sheriff received certain additions to his salary which ensured that he offered no interference. So it came as something of a surprise to Dougal when a hand gripped his collar, slammed him into the corral’s gate-post and held him against it. Cold steel touched his throat and he stood very still, trying to identify his attacker.
