by J. T. Edson
Hearing the sound of Masters approaching from the rear, the Kid prepared to meet the danger. He had not heard any disturbance from Calamity’s direction, but hoped the girl could take care of herself until he could give her some help. In turning to meet his attacker, the Kid thrust his right leg to the rear and bent his left knee. At the same time, he bowed his torso forward and crouched with such speed that he took Masters by surprise.
Despite seeing his proposed victim’s movements, the wrangler could not halt his attack. The pick-handle swung around and whistled above the Kid’s head. Driving himself forward with the abrupt, instantaneous impetus shown by a cougar making an attack, the Texan locked his arms around the top of Masters’ thighs. Straightening up, the Kid raised the unbalanced, amazed man from the ground and heaved him over. The moment he released Masters, the Kid lunged forward and started to swing around.
In falling, Masters rammed his head against the floor of the forge, and the hard-packed earth came off better from the encounter. The wrangler crumpled and landed almost at the feet of the charging blacksmith. Distracted by the sight of Calamity effectively coping with Misery, Tully belatedly tried to leap over his companion. Instead, his forward foot caught against Masters’ body and he stumbled as he landed. Big hands reaching for a hold, the blacksmith blundered toward the Kid. Jumping aside, the Kid caused the hands to miss. As Tully went by, the Kid drove a kick into his rump, which increased his speed.
During his evasion of Tully’s attack, the Kid had approached the anvil. Tully continued across the forge at a fast clip, but managed to hook his left arm around one of the roof’s support-posts. Using it to turn him, he started to charge again. The Kid wanted to end the matter swiftly, in case Calamity needed his assistance. Nearby lay the means by which he could do so. Scooping up the turning hammer from the anvil, he was reminded of Pehnane war-clubs he had seen and handled as a boy. Like a flash, he hurled the hammer as he had been taught by Grandpappy Long Walker. Flying across the forge, its head struck Tully between the eyes. Halted in his tracks, the blacksmith buckled at the knees and sprawled face down on the floor.
With the hammer thrown and its results observed, the Kid swiftly looked around. Tully no longer posed any threat and Masters lay where he had fallen. About to swing toward the river, a movement caught the corner of the Kid’s eye. Turning his head, he saw a portly, bald man running from the rear door of the main building. Wearing a collarless shirt, fancy vest, town suit and boots, he fit the description Goff had given of Agent Spatz. Which interested the Kid far less than the fact that the newcomer carried a double-barreled shotgun. Finding his presence had been detected, Spatz skidded to a halt and began to raise the weapon.
Right hand turning palm-out and fanging down to close about the Dragoon’s butt, the Kid vaulted over the anvil. It would not be large enough to offer him shelter from the shotgun’s spreading pattern of balls. Ahead was the pile of rubbish from which the pick-handle had come. It was of sufficient size and quality to give him protection—if he could reach it in time. At that range, Spatz would be unlikely to miss with a charge of buckshot. The chance had to be taken. To stay put would mean almost certain death. Bringing the Dragoon from leather, the Kid threw himself across the open space between the anvil and the pile of rubbish.
Calamity had also seen Spatz appear and knew that she could not handle the situation with her whip. Letting it fall, she darted to the horses and snatched her Winchester carbine from its saddle-boot. Swiveling around, she advanced three strides. Then she knew that she must stop moving and start shooting. Dropping her right knee to the ground, she adopted a firing position as fast as she had ever made it. Taking sight, she squeezed the trigger.
With his shotgun starting to line on the Kid, Spatz found the arrival of Calamity’s bullet very disconcerting. Dirt erupted between his feet, causing him to jerk hurriedly backward and press both triggers of his weapon. Bellowing like a cannon, the twin tubes discharged their loads. They had lifted when their user made his involuntary retreat, so the eighteen buckshot balls plowed into the roof of the forge. In his surprise, Spatz had relaxed his grip on the gun. So the recoil hurled the butt against his shoulder with numbing force. Letting out a screech of pain, he released and dropped the weapon.
Landing belly-down behind the heap of rubbish, the Kid heard the whip-like crack of Calamity’s carbine mingle with the boom from the shotgun and the buckshot’s impact on the roof over his head. Raising himself until he could see over the cover, he slanted the Dragoon in Spatz’s direction.
The agent stood with an expression of pain and shock on his face. It changed to raw fear as he turned his head and located Calamity. Already the girl’s right hand had returned the loading lever to its closed position. As his eyes focused on her, she laid her sights at his expansive stomach with cold deliberation.
“Make a move and you’re dead!” Calamity yelled.
“If she don’t get you, I will,” promised the Kid.
Finding himself covered by two weapons in obviously capable hands, and with his full working staff sprawled unconscious on the ground, Spatz knew there could be only one course left open to him. Surrender and hope to talk himself out of the reprisals his would-be victims might be considering taking against him.
Sick anxiety filled the agent as he massaged his numb, aching right shoulder. On learning what he had wanted them to do, his men had stated that they would not go up against that alert, proddy-looking Texan with guns. So Spatz had persuaded them that they could take the visitors with their bare hands. In fact, he had told them, their victims would be less likely to expect trouble from unarmed men.
Studying the cold, Comanche-mean features of the Ysabel Kid as he rose from behind the rubbish heap, Spatz felt his anxiety increase rapidly. The agent began to wish that he had never listened to the suggestions of his previous pair of visitors, or taken their money to prevent the girl and the Texan following them.
Deciding that the Kid could deal with the agent, Calamity came to her feet. She looked at the horses, wanting to make sure that they had not been disturbed by the shooting. Satisfied on that score, she tucked the carbine on the crook of her right arm and walked to where Misery lay. Removing her whip from his ankle, she strolled toward the forge, coiling its lash.
“You all right, Lon?” she asked, returning the handle to its belt loop.
“Well enough,” the Kid replied, joining her. “You?”
“He never come close. What’s it all about, Lon?”
“We’ve got the feller here’s can tell us,” the Kid answered, nodding to Spatz. “The lady asked a polite question, hombre. Why’d your hired help jump us?”
“This here’s the Ysabel Kid, fatso,” Calamity warned. “He don’t look it, but he’s got him a real mean temper when he’s lied to.”
Spatz might have disputed the statement about how the Kid looked. Instead he stared at the Indian-dark Texan and croaked, “The Ysabel Kid?”
“That’s me,” the Kid admitted. “And, seeing’s how we’re getting so all-fired friendly, this’s Calamity Jane. I bet Otón ’n’ Job never told you who we was.”
“They sure as hell didn’t!” Spatz agreed indignantly.
“Then what’d they tell you to make you try ’n’ jump us?” Calamity demanded.
“My men’re hur——!” Spatz began.
The words ended abruptly as the Kid’s left hand laid hold of their speaker’s shirt-front and hauled him forward. The Dragoon’s muzzle bored hard into Spatz’s belly and a savage face came close to the agent’s perspiring, frightened features.
“They won’t be the only ones that way,” warned the Kid, “happen I don’t real quick get some answers.”
“Hey! Easy there, Kid!” Spatz yelped placatingly as the Texan thrust him away. “Them two fellers come here. Allowed they’d been to Mulrooney and the greaser’d killed a feller who was trying to pull the badger game on him. Reckoned the dead feller’s gal ’n’ brother was gunning for ’em.”
&
nbsp; “And you thought we was them?” Calamity finished for him.
“I didn’t know. That’s what I sent the boys out to ask. Only I ought to’ve remembered——”
“About what?” prompted the Kid, holstering his Colt.
“I ought to’ve thought. Tully don’t cotton to Texans. Anyways, when I saw them jump you, I come right out to stop them.”
“I just bet you did,” drawled the Kid. “Who were those two fellers?”
“I’ve never seen ’em afore,” Spatz replied.
“Not even in Hollick City?” asked the Kid.
“I don’t often go up there. Mulrooney’s a whole heap livelier.”
“How about that telegraph message they got?”
“Hey!” Spatz ejaculated. “It was right after I give it to ’em that they told me about the trouble in Mulrooney. They must’ve knowed you was coming, Kid, and slickered me into helping ’em.”
“Why sure!” snorted Calamity. “I’ll just bet that’s what they did.”
“And me,” the Kid agreed mildly. “Only I’m wondering if ole Jim Hume’ll see it that way.”
“Ji——!” Spatz gasped. “You know Mr. Hume?”
“Well enough,” the Kid replied. “I’m a deputy, special hired by the folks of Mulrooney, so I’m wanting help from you, hombre.”
Spatz gulped, knowing how long he would continue to hold his lucrative position after Wells Fargo’s head trouble-shooter heard of his activities. Even if the Kid was not so well-acquainted as he claimed with Jim Hume, the mayor of Mulrooney knew him. Freddie Woods was noted for the backing she gave to her town’s peace officers. The agent decided that cooperation was his only hope of remaining in employment. So he forced a friendly smile.
“What do you want to know, Kid?”
“When’d they pull out?”
“Be just after noon, I’d say. Right after Tully’d fitted a new shoe on the white feller’s hoss.”
“Do they work for The Outfit?”
“Not any mo——I don’t know what outfit you mean, Kid.”
“Let’s go, Calam,” the Kid growled, sensing that he would learn nothing more from the man.
“Er—Kid,” Spatz said. “I was going to stop them——”
“Sure you was,” the Kid replied. “And I won’t say nothing about it to Jim——Happen you don’t telegraph ahead about that white stallion and red mare coming. I’m not partial to being talked about that way.”
“Or me!” Calamity yelped, realizing what the Kid meant. “Red mare!”
“I wouldn’t do that, Kid!” Spatz whined. “You can count on it.”
Turning their backs on the frightened agent, Calamity and the Kid went by the forge to collect their horses. Neither of them looked around as they rode across the ford. On dry ground once more, the girl let out a snort of disgust.
“Do you reckon that they spun him a windy like he told us?” she asked. “And he believed it?”
“Nope. He thought it up real quick as an excuse for what his bunch’d tried to do.”
“And we’re going to let him get away with it that easy?”
“You want for me to go back ’n’ scalp him, ears ’n’ all?” grinned the Kid. “’Cause apart from that, or burning down the station comes nightfall—which Jim Hume’d reckon was damage to Company property—there ain’t a whole heap’s we can do.”
Giving her companion a cold glare that bounced right off him, Calamity scanned the range ahead.
“They’ve got about a three-hour start on us, Lon. Like you said, we’re making better time than they are.”
“Sure enough are, gal.”
“And one of ’em’s likely got my letter.”
“Likely,” agreed the Kid, glancing up at the sky. “Only we’ll not catch up with ’em today. Won’t’ve reached another way station before dark, neither.”
“So I’ve used the ground for a mattress and the sky for a roof afore now.”
“I ain’t gainsaying it. Only when we make camp, it’ll be without a fire. Just in case them two pelados figure Spatz’s bunch didn’t stop us and come back to do it personal.”
“Would having ’em come back looking for us be so bad?” Calamity asked.
“Not’s long’s we knowed they was likely to do it,” admitted the Kid. “Which’s why I reckon we shouldn’t take chances tonight.”
“You’re the boss,” Calamity conceded.
“Then why’m I leading the pack-hoss?” asked the Kid.
Chapter 8 WE’LL TAKE THEM WHILE THEY SLEEP
OTÓN RUIZ FELT UNEASY AS HE RODE WITH JOB Hogue into the woods beyond the Silvers’ way station on the Platte River. Turning in his saddle, he looked back at the buildings.
“Hijo de puta!” the Mexican spat out, reining his sabino around.
Wondering what had disturbed his companion, Hogue swung his bay to face in the direction from which they had come. He stared back across the half a mile that separated them from the buildings. At first he could detect nothing to have brought about the other man’s actions. Then he looked beyond the way station and felt relieved by the fact that the trees and undergrowth flanking the trail hid them from the buildings and the ford behind them. Letting out an Anglo-Saxon curse even viler than his companion’s Spanish comment, Hogue turned his eyes to the other’s face. Ruiz was grinning in a faintly mocking manner.
“It appears that your amigo Spatz failed to do what he promised and was paid well for,” the Mexican said dryly.
“Yeah!” Hogue answered. “And the lard-gutted son-of-a-bitch never even telegraphed to let us know they’d got by his men.” Turning his gaze back to the two riders crossing the ford, each leading three horses, he reached for his rifle. “Looks like we’ll have to tend to their needings ourselves.”
Deciding that repeating the reminder that it had been Hogue’s idea to hire Spatz would get them nowhere, Ruiz scowled at the way station. Clearly the attempt had been a failure, which was very annoying. All the previous afternoon they had watched their back trail without seeing a sign of their pursuers. Despite Hogue’s belief that all had gone as planned, Ruiz had insisted on finding a high point when the sun went down. From it they had scoured the land behind them, searching for a sight of a camp-fire to tell them that the girl and her companion were still following on their trail. They had seen nothing and continued their journey to the Platte satisfied that the pursuit had been halted. Not only had they been wrong, but their pursuers had closed the gap between them during the day. Not surprising, considering that the Canary girl and the Texan could alternate between reserve horses, while the two men had but one animal apiece.
Becoming aware of Hogue’s actions, Ruiz inquired, “Do you think it’s wise, amigo?”
“Huh?” the burly man grunted, pausing with the Winchester halfway to his shoulder. “What d’you mean?”
“Is shooting them down here any answer?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Silvers is not one of The Outfit. If murder is done at his place, he will inform the law,” Ruiz explained. “There are peace officers in Lexington to the west and Kearney to the east.”
“Only we ain’t going to either place,” Hogue pointed out, feeling annoyed as always when the Mexican showed signs of smart thinking.
“No. We are going to Hollick City, which also has a telegraph office and sheriff,” Ruiz answered. “A sheriff who knows us and would recognize our descriptions, amigo.”
“Day Leckenby don’t worry me none!” Hogue blustered, but did not complete the raising of the rifle. “He could make fuss for the boss, though.”
“Si,” Ruiz agreed. “Needless fuss, when there is a better way.”
“Such as?”
“Such as riding on——”
“You’re figuring on making a run for Hollick City?” Hogue snorted. “It’s still a good day’s ride and these hosses ain’t getting any fresher, way we’ve been pushing ’em. Comes another point, I don’t cotton to the notion of going back there and t
elling the boss that the Canary gal’s trailing along with a Texas gun-slick.”
“He’s not Cabrito,” Ruiz said. “I thought that he was, back in Mulrooney, but not any more.”
“Whether he’s the Ysabel Kid or not don’t make too much difference,” Hogue stated. “If he bust by Spatz’s bunch, he’s good with a gun.”
“But he is not Cabrito, amigo. Which means that we can carry out my plan.”
“I ain’t heard no plan yet,” Hogue growled, watching the riders halt at the hitching rail where their own mounts had been standing while they went into the main building for a meal. “The boss ain’t going to like it one lil bit if we get back with that redheaded calico-cat still living.”
From the expression on Ruiz’s face, he was for once in complete agreement with his companion. They both knew that their efforts in Mulrooney had not been entirely crowned with success. Especially when they considered how much money their employer must have spent in obtaining the specialized services of The Outfit.
The partial failure was Hogue’s and Ruiz’s fault, for The Outfit had done their part. It had been understood from the start that, with the delicate nature of the political situation at the State capitol, The Outfit could not arrange for Martha Jane Canary’s death in Topeka. Instead it had been fixed so that she should be sent to meet an honest lawyer, unconnected with the organization, in Mulrooney and placed in a hotel where the two men could find her.
Except for one slight snag, everything had gone according to plan. Not being sure what the girl looked like, and wishing to avoid mistakes, Smith had been sent by his superior to watch the railroad depot. For some reason, he had failed to see her leave the train. So they had not been aware of the nature of their intended victim. Waiting until after midnight, Smith had escorted Hogue and Ruiz to the Railroad House Hotel. They had discovered which room she occupied by reading the register on the unattended desk.
