by J. T. Edson
Gliding forward with the speed of a weasel chasing a rabbit, Otón stabbed out both his hands. Closing his fingers on the lapels of her jacket, he wrenched them apart and down over her shoulders. Although the jacket had not been fastened, it still gripped her arms and prevented her from completing her draw. Once again the girl found herself partially trapped and countered the move in a fast, efficient manner.
Instead of trying to retreat, which Otón expected her to do, Calamity moved to meet him. With her upper arms pinioned, she could draw neither Colt nor whip. Unfortunately for the Mexican, her legs were still free. A point which she proceeded to take rapid and devastating advantage of. Going in as close as she could, Calamity drove up her right leg. Powered by a set of shapely, but well-developed muscles, her knee drove between Otón’s legs. It caught him right where it would do the most good, for Calamity, if not for him. If she had been able to get in closer and put more force behind the attack, she would have tumbled her victim in numb, helpless agony to the ground. Instead, her knee arrived hard enough to make him gasp a gush of garlic-scented breath into her face as he released the jacket and fell back a pace.
Having taken two of her attackers out of the game, if only briefly, Calamity’s luck ran out. Slower on his feet than Otón, Job proved sufficiently fast for the girl’s undoing. Elbowing the Mexican aside and ignoring the loafer who stood glaring wildly at the blood that splashed from his nostrils on to his upturned palms, Job launched a punch in the girl’s direction. She saw the blow coming just a moment too late. Even as she tried to duck under it, the burly man’s knotted fist crashed against the side of her jaw. Instantly Calamity’s world seemed to explode into brilliant flashes of light. She seemed to be falling through space, then her shoulder collided with something hard and unyielding. After that, everything went black for her.
Watching Calamity pitch sideways, ram her shoulder into the wall of the building and collapse, Job followed her. Bending down, he took hold of her jacket and started to raise her.
“Let’s get her into the alley afore——” the big man began.
Leaning against the hitching rail and rubbing at the place where Calamity’s knee had struck him, Otón shook his head.
“She’ll have the papers we want on her. Get them now, just in case somebody’s seen us. We may have to run for it before we’ve done the rest of our work.”
“Be best,” grunted Job and reached under Calamity’s jacket. Producing the envelope, he lifted the flap and looked at the contents. “These’re ’em. Now let’s——”
“Leave her to me!” the lanky man screeched, drawing his revolver with a blood-smeared hand. “I’ll kill her now and save you doing it!”
Chapter 4 WAS THE LETTER IMPORTANT?
THE TEXAS COWHAND STRIDING ALONG LEICESTER Street looked exceptionally young and naïve. Especially in view of the weapons about his person. A Winchester Model of 1866 rifle dangled almost negligently from his right hand. Walnut handle pointing forward, an old Colt Dragoon hung in a low “cavalry twist-hand” open-topped holster at the right side of his belt, and an ivory-hilted James Black bowie knife graced the sheath at the left.
Six foot in height, slender yet conveying an impression of strength and untiring energy, he had raven-black hair. In fact, black might have been his leitmotif. All his clothing, low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson, tight-rolled bandana, shirt, calfskin vest, trousers, boots, gunbelt even, was of that somber hue. His deeply tanned face had almost babyishly innocent features that were belied by the reckless glint in his red-hazel eyes. Those eyes would have warned a stranger that this was no bald-faced boy trying to impress people. None of the town’s original inhabitants, or many folk who knew the lands west of the Mississippi River would have even started to think it. He walked with a long, free stride, seeming to glide rather than step. His whole being told that there was here a young man, born and brought to maturity in the range country. In his time, he had seen much of life and something of sudden, violent death.
That tall, baby-faced Texan had seen his first light of day in the village of the Pehnane—by translation, Wasp, Quick-Stinger—Comanche Indians. Born to a wild Irish-Kentuckian and the only daughter of Chief Long Walker’s French-Creole pairaivo, favorite wife, he had been given the name of Loncey Dalton Ysabel by the band’s medicine man. His mother had died in childbirth and, in the traditional Comanche way—his father being away much of time on the family’s business of mustanging or smuggling—he was raised by his maternal grandfather. A noted war leader in the Dog Soldier lodge, Long Walker had taught the boy all those things a Pehnane warrior must know.* Skill of riding came early and he reached considerable proficiency, for the Comanche were horse-Indians second to none. Equally important and well-learned had been the ability to handle weapons; which every Nemenuh† brave-heart needed to know if he was to be worthy of the name.
By the time he had reached his fifteenth birthday, the Ysabel Kid—as he was known among such Texans as he came into contact with—could handle a rifle and show the deadly sighting skill of a Kentucky hill man. His skill in the use of another weapon had already brought him the man-name Cuchilo among the Pehnane; the word was Spanish for Knife. While not fast, in the accepted Western sense of the word, he considered himself adequate in the use of his old Dragoon Colt. He could follow tracks and read the message they told as if it had been printed as a story in a book. With greater ease, in fact, for his white man’s schooling had been fragmentary. Few men of either the white or red race could equal him at silent movement, hiding undetected or locating concealed enemies. All three subjects had formed a part of his Pehnane higher education.
The War between the States had come in time to prevent the Kid from having to choose whether to support the white or Comanche sides of his bloodline. Accompanying his father, he had joined Mosby’s Raiders and won the Grey Ghost’s commendation by his skill as a scout. Then the Confederate States’ Government had found a better use for the Ysabel family’s talents. Sam Ysabel and his son had been returned to Texas, where they had collected cargoes, run through the U.S. Navy’s blockade into neutral Matamoros and delivered them to the authorities north of the Rio Grande. During that period, the Kid had increased the fame he had been building along the bloody border before the War.
Bushwhack lead had cut down Sam Ysabel shortly after peace came. While on a vengeance hunt for his father’s killers, the Kid had met up with Dusty Fog and Mark Counter.* In addition to achieving his revenge, he had helped the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, to complete successfully a mission on which the possible peace of the United States depended.†
At a loose end, with smuggling no longer holding any interest for him, the Kid had accepted Dusty’s offer of employment with the OD Connected ranch. Not merely as a working cowhand but to be one of the floating outfit. Usually a floating outfit consisted of half a dozen top-hands who roamed their spread’s far ranges as a kind of mobile ranch crew. Things did not work out that way in the OD Connected’s case. The hand-picked elite of a crew noted as first-class cattle-workers and fighters, the floating outfit had frequently been sent to help friends of their boss, Ole Devil Hardin, who found themselves in trouble. Less of a cowhand than his companions, the Kid had found his niche by putting to good use his Pehnane education.
On the whole, though, the citizens of the Lone Star State might have counted themselves fortunate that such a potentially dangerous young man had accepted honest employment instead of, as might easily have happened, taking to riding the owlhoot trails.
Sent ahead of the OD Connected trail herd on urgent business for his boss, the Kid had reached Mulrooney that morning. He had taken advantage of a long-standing offer by leaving his white stallion and three-horse relay in Freddie Woods’ stable. Carrying a large sum of money strapped about his middle, he toted along his rifle as a precaution against theft. Looking diagonally across Leicester Street, he located the shingle which hung outside Counselor Talbot’s office. There was a fair number of people walking along th
e other side, so he did not cross over. The stock-pens commenced beyond the side-street that he approached. Wanting to find the extent of competition for his spread’s herd, he intended to stroll along the side of the pens until opposite the lawyer’s office.
Glancing idly along the side-street, the Kid saw something that drove all such thoughts from his head. Since becoming a member of the floating outfit, he had twice found himself wearing the badge of a deputy town marshal. The second time had been in Mulrooney and he still retained an honorary official status.* Even without those episodes, he would not have ignored the sight that met his eyes.
Just as the Kid came on the scene, Job had emptied Calamity’s pocket. The burly man’s comments did not cover the forty yards separating him from the Kid, but the loafer’s screeched-out suggestion made it. That and the sight of the drawn revolver caused the Kid to halt and face the men. He neither knew nor cared who their victim might be, but was certain that the lean man must be stopped before he committed a cold-blooded murder.
“Drop the gun!” barked the Kid, advancing along the sidewalk.
Having no desire to become involved in a shooting fracas at that moment, especially against a man armed with a rifle and beyond safe revolver-range, Job hurriedly stuffed Calamity’s letter into his jacket’s inside pocket.
“Get the hell out of it, Otón!” he snarled urgently. “Leave Smith to it!”
Advice which the Mexican was only too willing to obey. They had been sent to Mulrooney for a purpose and had only partially carried it out. However, he did not intend to get killed trying to do the rest. Especially when the rage-blinded loafer might complete their work for them.
Oblivious of the fact that his companions were beating a hasty retreat into the alley, Smith realized that another factor had entered the game. The Kid’s words caused the loafer to look in his direction. Transferring some of the hatred he felt for Calamity to the interloper, Smith brought his weapon to shoulder level and at arm’s length. Taking a quick aim, he cut loose with a shot in the Kid’s direction.
It proved to be a costly mistake, despite the loafer displaying a fair amount of skill in the fast alignment of a revolver’s sights. However, a distance of forty yards was far from the ideal range over which to use a handgun. Going up against a man of the Kid’s ability, when the latter was armed with his Winchester, was suicidal under those conditions.
Not that the loafer did badly. In fact, he might have made a hit if he had been dealing with a slower man than the Kid. Seeing that Smith did not intend to obey his order, the Kid took evasive action. Long before he had taken a badge as a peace officer, he had learned that billing into such a situation required an instant readiness to handle reprisals. So, even as he shouted the order—a thing he would not have done before he met Dusty Fog—and saw Smith turn the revolver in his direction, he was already bringing the rifle into a firing position.
Swiftly the Kid sank into a kneeling posture. Nor did he move an instant too soon. Along the sidewalk, Smith’s revolver cracked and its bullet passed through the space just vacated by the Kid’s head. More than that, the man cocked his weapon as its recoil kicked the muzzle into the air. There was a smooth precision about the move which warned the Kid that the loafer possessed a dangerous proficiency in the use of a revolver.
Certainly sufficient for the Kid to be disinclined to take chances. Moving as if of its own volition, the rifle cradled its butt against the right shoulder of the black shirt. Instinctively the Kid’s left elbow came to rest on his raised left knee. The moment his right knee settled on the planks of the sidewalk, the Kid was setting his sights. His right forefinger caressed the trigger and he felt the rifle recoil against his collar-bone. Smoke swirled momentarily before him and, as it whisked away, he saw the loafer rear back. Caught in the head by the Kid’s bullet, the man tossed aside his revolver. He spun around, struck the hitching rail and fell over it to land limply on his back in the street.
Blurring the loading lever through its cycle, the Kid ejected the empty case and replaced it with a cartridge from the magazine tube. With that precaution taken, ignoring the shouts which rose from Leicester Street and across the stock-pens, he sprang forward. Running toward the alley, with the intention of catching the other two men, he received his first clear view of their victim.
Having met Calamity outside Elkhorn, Montana, the Kid recognized her immediately. There might be other young women who wore male clothing in the West, although few of them would appear so dressed on the streets of a big town like Mulrooney, but the coiled bull-whip on her belt identified Calamity almost before he had seen her face.
“Anyways,” the Kid thought as he skidded to a halt. “It’d have to be that danged fool Calamity. No other gal’d get herself into a fix like this.”
Resting his rifle against the wall, he knelt by the girl. Despite his thought, concern showed on his Indian-dark face; even if it would have taken a real close friend to detect the emotion. Gently he raised the girl and supported her back against his raised left knee. From what he could see, Calamity had been lucky when Job had struck her. Instead of going head-first into the wall, she had still been sufficiently erect for her shoulder to take the impact. So she had avoided suffering a serious injury and was already groaning her way back to consciousness.
Footsteps thudded from two directions as people ran toward where the Kid supported Calamity. Turning his head to look at the loafer’s body, he saw several men approaching fast along a space between two sets of stock-pens. He forgot his intention of pursuing the other two men and turned his attention back to the girl. Much to his relief, he saw her eyes flicker open. No mutual recognition showed in them. Letting out a muffled gurgle that the Kid guessed was meant to be some mighty explosive profanity, she tried to grab at the indistinct shape in front of her.
“Easy there, Calam gal!” the Kid suggested gently, catching hold of her wrists with his hands and not sorry that the blow had left her in a weakened condition or that the jacket still entangled her biceps. “Take it easy, you loco she-male you. They’ve lit out and this here’s me.”
Slowly the dazed expression cleared from the girl’s eyes. Looking at her rescuer, she stopped struggling. Still letting her lean against his knee, the Kid returned the jacket to its correct position.
“L-Lon——!” Calamity croaked. “What—Where——” She placed a hand on her jaw. “Ooh!”
“How’s it feel, gal?” asked the Kid.
“Like my son-of-a-bitching jaw’s busted,” Calamity muttered thickly as she tenderly fingered the impact point of Job’s fist. Then she glared around in fury and tried to rise. “Where’re they at?”
“Two of ’em took off, running like a Nueces steer,” the Kid replied. “The other’s on the street there, but don’t pay him no never-mind. He’s not going any place right now.”
In the lead of the crowd attracted by the shooting, a pair of Texas cowhands came to a halt. They had known the Kid when he wore a badge in Mulrooney and the taller man asked what had happened.
“Three pelados set on Calamity here,” the Kid answered. “Why’d they do it to you, Calam gal?”
“Damned if I know,” the girl began. Then she grabbed at the left side of the jacket and discovered that its breast pocket was empty. “Hey! Did I drop a letter while I was fussing with them?”
“Don’t see it arou——” the Kid started to say. “One of them was putting an envelope in his pocket when they lit out!”
“They must’ve wide-looped mine then!” Calamity yelled indignantly, ignoring the pain it caused to her jaw.
“Take after ’em, boys!” the Kid requested, looking at the cowhands. “One’s a big jasper and the other’s dressed like a Mexican. Watch ’em, they look like they can use their guns.”
“So can we,” the shorter Texan pointed out and sprang into the mouth of the alley followed by his companion.
“Was the letter important?” the Kid inquired, helping Calamity to rise while the onlookers milled aroun
d uncertainly.
“Not ’specially. It told who I am.”
“Don’t you know who you are?”
“Of course I know, you blasted knob-head!” the girl yelped and her face twisted in a spasm of pain. “Damn and blast you, you grinning Pehnane slit-eye, you made me hurt my poor aching jaw. Them papers was to show to Counselor Talbot.”
“All right, folks,” said a polite, yet authoritative voice from the rear of the crowd. “Open up and let us through!”
Obediently the assembled people moved aside. Not only did Marshal Kail Beauregard make the request but he was accompanied by three deputies and Mulrooney’s well-respected lady mayor.
Six foot tall, well-made, ruggedly handsome, Beauregard wore the dress of a professional gambler and belted a low-hanging Army Colt. He had been the man selected as best suited to handle the varied, often conflicting personalities to visit the town. The residents had no reason to regret Freddie Woods’ choice. Taking over from Dusty Fog, Beauregard had continued to uphold the high standards of honesty and fair dealing established by the Rio Hondo gun wizard in his brief term of office.
Without wasting time, the marshal set about his work. Indicating the body crumpled on the street, he asked, “You, Kid?”
“Me,” the Kid confirmed and picked up his rifle. “It seemed like a good thing to do at the time, seeing’s how he was set on shooting Calam here when I showed up and he tried to turn his gun on me.”
“Oh! Hey, Calamity,” Beauregard greeted, eyeing the girl from head to toe and adopting a tone that she had heard from more than one friend whom she had visited when he was employed as a peace officer. “You’re sure livening up my town.”
