by J. T. Edson
Going down in a rolling dive, the Kid parted company with Ruiz. Surprised as he had been, the Mexican recovered fast. Regardless at first of their trailing reins, the horses plunged off into the trees. Ignoring them for the moment, the Kid concentrated on the Mexican. They made their feet at almost the same instant, facing each other in the darkness.
Two right hands flashed to the hilt of knives and steel glinted faintly under the pale light of the stars. Even as Ruiz saw the Kid start moving toward him, he felt elation rise inside him. White men in general, and Texans in particular, tended to regard Mexicans as knife-rather than gun-fighters. It was a belief that Ruiz had used to his advantage on more than one occasion. His white opponents had expected him to make his play with cold steel rather than hot lead. That expectation had cost four men their lives.
What Ruiz failed to take into consideration was that the Kid was only part-white. Both the French-Creoles and the Comanches had long been knife-fighters. In addition to that, the Kid had been around Mexicans long and often enough to know that some of them were good with handguns.
Taking in the other’s stance, the Kid’s mind screamed a warning. Ruiz’s foot placement was wrong. Correct for using a gun, but not offering the freedom of balance and movement needed when fighting with a knife.
Even as the thought came, Ruiz dropped the knife, and his right hand flew down to the Colt’s butt. Up tilted the long barrel, still in its holster and the hammer clicked back under Ruiz’s thumb. The trigger had been removed, so he had only to release the hammer to fire.
No white man could have saved himself, but at that moment the Kid was pure, unadulterated Pehnane Dog Soldier. Only an arm’s length separated them when the Colt’s cocking click reached his ears. Already he had remembered what kind of holster Ruiz used, recognizing its advantages and limitations. While such a rig allowed its user to get off a shot very fast, it severely restricted the mobility of the revolver.
With the sound of the click registering in his ears, the Kid twisted his body sideways and to Ruiz’s left. He heard the crash of the shot and felt the heat of the muzzle-flare against his back, but the bullet scraped by his shirt without touching him. In a flash, the Kid retaliated. Up that close, he did not dare hesitate. Nor, if it came to the point, could he halt the instantaneous response the narrow escape from death triggered off.
Lashing back and up with his right hand, the Kid swung his bowie knife in a savage chop. He turned his torso, adding force to the blow. The razor-edged, eleven-and-a-half-inch-long, two-and-a-half-inch-wide blade passed under Ruiz’s chin and bit deep into his throat. Blood spurted from the terrible, mortal wound and the man stumbled backward. Releasing the butt of his Colt, the right hand rose to join the left in a futile attempt to stop the life-blood gushing from the bone-deep tear in his throat.
The blow had been struck by a Comanche, a name-warrior of the dreaded Pehnane Dog Soldier war lodge. So deeply had the training of his childhood been ingrained into his being that the Kid could not have halted his reaction to the Mexican’s shot. Nor could he hold down the coup-cry which followed the delivery of the blow.
“A:he!” the Kid growled in guttural Comanche, meaning, “I claim it!”
Standing balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, body crouched in a knife-fighter’s stance, the Kid allowed the savage passions of a Nemenuh brave-heart to ebb away. Then he looked around him. Ruiz lay huddled against the trunk of a tree, spasmodic movements of his limbs growing weaker. Not far away, the sabino had come to a halt with its reins tangled in a bush. It stood snorting and trying to free itself while the bay ran on, but more slowly.
“Damn it!” the Kid grunted, walking over to Ruiz’s body. “He sure won’t be telling us anything.”
Yet there had been no other way to handle the situation. Men like Ruiz had no compunction about killing and were deadly dangerous as long as they lived. Up so close, if he had not been stopped, he could have turned the holster far enough to make a hit with his next bullet. So the Kid had stopped him, swiftly, effectively—but permanently.
Kneeling by the corpse, the Kid searched it. He did not find Calamity’s letter. So, after cleaning the blade of his knife on Ruiz’s jacket, he rose and walked across to the sabino. Soothing it, he freed the reins and swung into the saddle. Although he knew that Calamity would be raising a muck-sweat of anxiety, having heard the shot and being aware that he did not carry a firearm, he rode after the bay. Catching Hogue’s horse, he gathered in its reins and led it back in the direction of the hollow.
Everything looked quiet and peaceful as the Kid came into sight of their camp. Hogue’s body sprawled where it had fallen, the horses still stood quietly on the picket lines and the blanket-covered mounds were by the fire. However, there was no sign of Calamity or the Kid’s rifle.
Hearing a sound from the bushes to his left, the Kid swung in that direction. Calamity walked from the undergrowth, carrying her carbine in one hand and his rifle in the other. Relief showed on her face as she came toward the Kid and he dropped from the sabino’s saddle.
“When I heard the hosses coming, after that shot, I didn’t know which way it’d gone,” she explained. “So I got out of sight until I knowed who’d won. Can’t say I’m sorry to see it’s you.”
“I didn’t get him alive ’n’ talking,” the Kid admitted. “Hold on to these hosses while I search his amigo. Otón wasn’t carrying your letter.”
Taking the horses’ reins. Calamity watched the Kid search Hogue’s body with the precision of a trained peace officer. Failing to produce the documents, he asked her to help him with the animals. After they had unsaddled the bay and sabino, they hobbled all but the white stallion. Hobbling was to be preferred to using a picket line. With their front legs secured by two cuffs connected by a short swivel chain, the horses could move around slowly, graze, but not wander too far. The stallion was set free and moved off, snorting a little.
“Damned if ole Nigger ain’t riled because he’s been tied up for once,” Calamity grinned.
“We had to do it,” the Kid answered. “Else he’d’ve heard them coming and either got shot charging ’em, or scared ’em off.”
Despite Hogue’s and Ruiz’s thoughts, their pursuers had not been unaware of the danger. In fact Calamity and the Kid had become aware how close behind they were on their arrival at Silvers’ way station.
The previous night, Calamity and the Kid had made a carefully concealed camp. Leaving it early, they had continued their swift progress along the stage-trail. On reaching the way station, they had found proof of the men’s proximity. Newly left horse-droppings at the hitching rail gave a warning that was augmented by the presence of two sets of plates and cups on a table. Small things in themselves, but sufficient to tell them that the men they sought had passed that way recently. Maybe so recently that they had seen Calamity and the Kid ride up. If so, they would know that Spatz’s attempt had failed and decide to take action themselves.
When the Kid had tried to raise the matter of the previous visitors, the Silvers’ family had proved uncommunicative. While honest enough, the agent also possessed a streak of sensible caution. He had read the signs and known that the two hard-cases were expecting, or at least ready for somebody to arrive. As long as the trouble did not erupt on his property, Silvers did not intend to become involved.
Respecting Silvers’ reticence, Calamity and the Kid had restricted themselves to the first evasively answered questions. They had eaten a meal, rested and grain-fed their horses. Then, after purchasing sufficient food to last them until they reached Hollick City, they had ridden on. Keeping up a fast pace, they had been even more alert for the possibility of an ambush. Not that the Kid expected the attempt to be made in daylight. Even without knowing that he was followed by Cabrito, the Mexican would most likely insist on playing things safe. Either the men would keep going, intending to collect reinforcements at Hollick City, or make their move after dark.
From his first view of the valley, the Kid
had guessed that the Mexican would go for the latter alternative. With his extensive knowledge of men like Ruiz, the Kid had accurately followed the other’s line of thought. Discussing the matter while riding down the southern slope, the girl and the Kid had decided that their chances of retrieving her letter would be better that night than after it had been delivered to whoever hired the men. So they elected to lay a trap in the hope of luring Hogue and Ruiz into their clutches.
Riding along the valley, they selected the campsite in the hollow as the one best suited to their needs. Already the Kid had located the watching men and guessed at their intentions.
Although Ruiz had seen Calamity at her wood-gathering, he had failed to notice that the Kid also left the clearing. Taking advantage of every scrap of cover, the Texan had examined the surrounding area to make sure that their enemies could not see what went on beyond the bushes. Satisfied on that point, he had rejoined the girl. They had lit a fire and made their preparations. Not wanting the horses wandering about the clearing, they had set up a picket line in a place from which the attackers were unlikely to come.
Working fast, Calamity and the Kid had made two dummies out of their spare clothes stuffed with grass and bush-branches. The Kid had changed shirts, using the one the men had seen him wearing to clothe the “man.” Arranging the saddles to hide the fact that the dummies had no heads, they had covered the “bodies” with a blanket and placed the “man’s” arm across the “woman’s” shoulders. The hats, gunbelts with revolvers in plain view, and boots had been placed to give the impression that the girl and the Texan slept by the fire.
There had been one more touch added to convey an air of life to the dummies. Borrowing a reel of stout black cotton thread that Calamity had in her parfleche, the Kid had attached its end to the “male” dummy’s exposed shirt-sleeve. Unwinding the cotton as he backed across to the bushes, he had tested its part in the deception. On being tugged gently, the thread of cotton had caused the sleeve to move as if the “man” was stirring in his sleep.
Maybe the dummies would not have worked in the light of day, but they had proved realistic enough when seen by the faint glow of the fire. Taking cover, Calamity and the Kid had waited for the men to come.
“Seeing’s how I’m all set to be a rich rancher,” Calamity remarked as she took the dummies to pieces, looking to where the Kid was unrolling and searching Otón’s belongings, “I’ll stand treat on a new shirt for you.”
“Gracias,” grinned the Kid. “That letter ain’t here. Unless it’s in the other feller’s gear, you won’t get to be a rich rancher. You won’t be able to prove to that law-wrangler in Hollick City that you’re Martha Jane Canary.”
“It’ll be easy enough,” Calamity stated.
“How come?” inquired the Kid, completing the repacking of the Mexican’s bedroll and opening Hogue’s.
“Why, I’ll just look at him right truthful and tell him who I am.”
“What if it don’t work?”
“Then I’ll whomp the son-of-a-bitch over the head with my whip-handle for not trusting a sweet, loving-natured gal like me,” Calamity replied. Seeing a familiar object fall from Hogue’s up-ended warbag, she pounced on it. “Yahoo! Here’s my letter, Lon!” She opened the envelope and looked inside. “They’re there. Now I can prove I’m me.”
“Was I you, knowing you the way I do,” the Kid replied, “That’d plumb give me the miseries.”
“You watch your mouth,” Calamity warned. “Us rich ranchers all stick together. More of your uncivilness, and I’ll ask Ole Devil to put you riding the blister end of a shovel when you get back to home.”
“Being rich hasn’t changed you, gal,” the Kid announced. “You’re still the same ornery, perverse cuss you allus was.”
“And I’m right proud of it,” Calamity grinned. Then she became more serious. “Anything to say who sent them after me, Lon?”
“Nothing’s I can find,” the Kid replied, after completing a search.
“What’re we going to do, then?”
“Get us some sleep.”
“I mean tomorrow!” Calamity snorted.
“Keep going, gal,” the Kid told her. “We’ll take their hosses ’n’ gear along with us. I’ll be kind of interested to see who takes notice of us bringing them into Hollick City.”
Chapter 10 I’D SAY THEY WAS EXPECTING TROUBLE
LEAVING THE TWO BODIES SO THAT ANY INTERESTED peace officer could come out and check their story of the incident, Calamity and the Kid continued along the trail to Hollick City. They had spent the night in the clearing, moving on soon after dawn. Calling in at the South Loup River way station, they had attracted no interest from having the sabino and bay along. So they had pushed on, holding to the same pace that had covered at least sixty miles a day since leaving Mulrooney. In the middle of the afternoon, they saw the sun glinting on the roofs of their destination. Built on the banks of the Middle Loup River, under the slopes of a wood-covered hill range, the town looked small and unimpressive in comparison with Mulrooney. It was still a good three miles away and, not far ahead of them, Calamity and the Kid saw a narrow track branching from the trail. Hardly more than the marks caused by a solitary wagon and a few horses going back and forward, the track turned off beyond a big old cottonwood tree and continued across the range in the direction of the hills.
Going by the tree, Calamity and the Kid saw a piece of wood nailed to it. Halting their horses, they looked at the letters burned into the wooden indicator that pointed along the track.
“ ONE MILE”
“That’s the Rafter C brand, gal,” the Kid announced. “I’d say your ranch house’s a mile along that track.”
They looked in the required direction. The land rolled away in undulating green folds until it joined the hills perhaps five miles from the stage-trail. There was no sign of the house or other ranch buildings. However, smoke rose from behind a ridge about a mile away. Not the black cloud of an unchecked fire, but a single plume such as might rise from a chimney.
“There’s somebody at home,” Calamity declared. “Maybe it’s pappy——”
“And maybe it’s not,” warned the Kid. “If your pappy was still there, likely the lawyer in Hollick City wouldn’t’ve needed to start hunting for you to make his offer.”
“Then whoever’s there shouldn’t be!” Calamity snorted and made as if to set her horses moving.
“Hold hard there, you damned hothead!” barked the Kid, reaching out a hand to catch hold of her arm. “We don’t know who’s there, what they’re doing there, or how many of them’s doing it. Could be whoever it is’s got what they reckon’s a real good reason for being there.”
“And could be they ain’t!”
“I’m not gainsaying it, gal. So we’ll just drift over there casual-like and see what’s doing. They don’t know who-all we are. So leave us not go in there with heads down and horns a-hooking when riding up peaceable’ll let us learn more.”
Accepting the wisdom of the Kid’s suggestion, Calamity accompanied him along the track. They saw only a few bunches of cattle, but several fair-sized bands of horses were grazing on what would probably be the ranch’s territory.
“It’s good range, Calam,” the Kid commented. “Been well-tended. If all them critters carry the Rafter C, it’s got a fair head of stock. Six thousand’d be a low price if the rest’s this good.”
“I’d reckon so,” the girl replied. “What I can’t get over is pappy owning a spread this good. He wasn’t one to take to hard-sweating work, way Maw allus told us kids.”
Coming into sight of the ranch’s buildings did nothing to change their opinion of Calamity’s property. The main house was small, but sturdily built and recently repainted. Behind it stretched a carefully cultivated truck-garden that would more than supply the ranch’s needs for vegetables. All the other buildings and structures showed the same care in upkeep. There was a combined barn, hayloft and stable of fair size, a small blacksmith’s forge, a
bunkhouse. Along by the creek that curled about the dwellings, pigs grunted in half a dozen pens. Four corrals ranged to the north of the house. Studying them, the Kid had his theory, that the ranch specialized in horses rather than cattle, confirmed. Two of the pole-built enclosures had chutes attached in which unbroken horses could be saddled and mounted, and a snubbing-post rose in the center of the third.
Suddenly a large bluetick hound burst from the open door of the house. Making the air ring with its baying, it sprang across the porch and headed toward the two riders.
“Sam!” shouted a male voice and the hound came to a stop, but remained menacingly watchful.
Followed by a woman, a tall, wide-shouldered young man came from the house. Ruggedly good-looking, he had no hat on his rumpled brown hair, but wore range clothes. The Army Colt at his right thigh rode in a well-designed, tied-down holster and he gave the impression of being able to utilize both to their full potential.
The woman was medium height, slim, pretty and had hair as red as Calamity’s. Wiping flour from her hands on to the apron covering her gingham frock, she looked at the newcomers. Then she spoke quietly to the man.
“Come ahead,” he called. “Sam won’t hurt you.”
Having halted at the sight of the dog, Calamity and the Kid started their horses moving. Darting quick glances around, the Kid noticed a bewhiskered, leathery old-timer leaning against the bunkhouse door and nursing a Spencer carbine on the crook of his left arm. A younger cowhand stood just inside the barn’s open double doors, his right hand thumb-hooked in his gunbelt close to the butt of an Army Colt. Up above him, at the entrance to the hayloft, a second young cowhand watched the approaching couple with the same alert air that all the other men showed.
Of course one could expect folks to show curiosity when visitors came calling, but there was more than ordinary, casual interest in the way the people on the ranch watched Calamity and the Kid. Having seen the signs, Calamity flashed a glance at her companion.
