by J. T. Edson
‘Hey Louise!’
The girl turned and saw a woman waving to her from one of the wagons as it went by. She rode alongside Maisie Simons’ wagon, for the older woman was her best friend. Maisie was something of a mystery to the other travelers, for she was not one of the original party but joined them in Nashville. She was a small, shapely and not bad looking woman in her early thirties. Her hair was mousey brown and her tanned face usually wore a smile. She dressed in the same style as the other women but was much more worldly than most of them. For all that Maisie led a blameless life on the train. She kept her wagon in good condition and the three Chinese helpers were no trouble. Her reason for going west was to start a small cafe. Why she decided to go, or why to travel with this train was something she never mentioned and nobody asked her.
From the start Maisie and Louise had got on together, although the girl was aware her father did not entirely approve of the friendship. Maisie knew much of living in a wagon and helped the girl. Right now Louise wanted someone to talk with and discuss what happened to Tom Blade.
With surprising agility Maisie dropped from her slowly moving wagon. The Chinese driver gave no sign of ever knowing she was gone but carried on following the preceding wagon around in the circle.
‘What’s wrong, Louise?’
Louise did not know her face showed so much. She told Maisie of the killing of Tom Blade and the woman’s mouth lost its smile. There was little change in her expression however, and her voice was gentle as she asked. ‘Where’s your father now?’
‘He waited for the men to—’ Louise began to reply, then stopped, for she saw three riders coming, one leading a horse over which hung a tarp wrapped figure. Louise gave a gasp for her father was not with them. She whirled the horse and rode away before Maisie could say another word. The woman watched her go for a moment, then turned and went after her own wagon.
‘Where’s papa?’ Louise asked the men, trying not to look at the thing over the saddle.
‘Must have gone to the town for the law, Miss Louise,’ Lourde replied.
He almost immediately wished he had said nothing for the girl sent her horse by them and was riding fast across the range, ‘Where’re you going, Louise?’ shouted the doctor.
‘To town after papa. You know how quick tempered he is.’ The men knew all right. They also knew Louise was like her father in that when she made up her mind she let nothing stand in her way,
‘One of us should go after her,’ Lourde growled. ‘But I don’t want to take men from the train. You know what it’s like around these towns.’
Fremont nodded. It was always wise to have a strong guard when this near to a town. More so in the case of a rough town like Hammerlock was reported to be. In such a town would be men who regarded a wagon train like this as a god-sent opportunity to collect loot, horses or livestock.
‘Leave it for a spell,’ the third man suggested. ‘Miss Louise’s a sensible enough girl. She won’t run into any trouble and will likely find her father with the sheriff. She’ll be able to keep the Colonel calm if he gets hotheaded.’
‘All right. If she’s not back by dark I’ll send some of the men to look for her,’ Lourde growled. ‘Now let’s get down to doing what needs to be done.’
Holding her horse to a fast trot, Louise headed towards where rising smoke marked the site of Hammerlock. She did not know that her father took a roundabout route and felt worried at not seeing him. Knowing his quick temper, she wanted to be at his side and exert a soothing influence should chance bring him face to face with Blade’s killer.
With growing concern, Louise rode into town along Prescott Street and still saw no sign of her father. She looked for the sheriff’s office, not knowing that it lay on a side street; the citizens not wishing to have open flaunting of law and order in the business sections, as this might damage their image as a wide-open town where anything went, such being good for trade.
A crowd of men burst from a saloon, a bunch of wildly excited spectators to a pair of fighting cowhands. They erupted into the street before Louise, milling about and spilling into the street.
The girl brought her horse to a halt. It was a spirited and highly-strung animal, not used to having excited crowds leaping about, yelling and waving their hands or hats before its face. So the horse started to fiddle-foot and rear. Louise slipped from the saddle, holding the reins and trying to calm the horse. She showed that she was not in a panic for she took time to toss the reins over the hitching rail and tied them, leaving both hands to soothe the horse while preventing it from bolting.
One of the fighters swung a wild punch which sent the other sprawling back through the batwing doors of the saloon. With a wild yell the cowhand plunged after his opponent and the crowd started to surge after them not wishing to miss the fun. Almost all of the crowd that is.
‘Now ain’t this a purty sight, Sam?’ asked a voice.
‘Purty as a June bug, Homer,’ came the reply in a drink slurred voice. ‘Yes, sir, as purty as a June bug.’
Louise turned to look at the speakers. They stood on the edge of the sidewalk and the girl knew both carried a full load of coffin varnish. They were a pair of bull-whackers from their dress and appearance. One was tall and hefty, the other shorter, though even broader and fatter, did not look soft or flabby. On their faces, unhidden by a week of whisker-growings, was the truculent look of men who were drunk enough to be primed for any kind of trouble.
The taller of the two men swung from the sidewalk and stepped towards the girl. The other man grinned, then also stepped down to move forward.
‘Yes, sir, Sam,’ said the tall man. ‘This here’s a real fine looking gal.’
‘Wonder if she kisses as well as she looks?’ asked Sam. ‘What you reckon, Homer. Reckon she would?’
‘Ain’t but the one way to find out,’ Homer replied, moving towards Louise with his hands held ready to grip her.
Louise gave a gasp of fright as she backed away. Then her shoulders hit the hitching rail and she could go no further. The man was coming towards her, she could smell the stale sweat and bad whisky and his whiskery face loomed above her. Louis was scared, more scared than she’d ever been in her life.
There were few onlookers on the sidewalk and none of them offered to help the girl. The men on the sidewalk were town dwellers and they were not aiming to tangle with a pair of bad mean drunks to help a strange girl. She would get kissed but nothing more would come of the matter, not in the streets in plain daylight. No Hammerlock citizen was going to antagonize men who were good customers in town, especially if doing so was likely to get them hurt.
Luckily for Louise that sentiment only applied to townsmen. The man who swung from the sidewalk and moved forward was no town dweller. He was a cowhand and a Texas man or his clothing lied. It showed from his low crowned, wide brimmed J.B. Stetson hat, in the multi-hued bandana around his throat, in his short levis, star decorated boots. It showed also in the buscadero gunbelt around his waist and the butt forward walnut handled Army Colts in his holsters. He was a red-haired young man with a freckled, pugnaciously handsome face, the sort of face which only looks right with a broad grin on it. The grin was still in evidence as he moved forward although it was a tight lipped and hard grin.
‘All right,’ he said and if there was any doubt as to his place of origin it was dispelled the moment he opened his mouth. His drawl was Texas, pleasant and yet grim in undertone. ‘Let loose!’
The two toughs looked at the rash intruder, one look being all they needed to know this was the real thing and not some dressed up kid trying to act like a knight in shining armor and rescuing the maiden in distress. There was a heft to the tall young Texan’s build which told of hard muscle under his hide. There was a look about the way his guns hung which warned the bull-whackers he was their match and more in any matter of ‘triggernometry’. They were fist-fighters, only wearing their guns for defending themselves against Indian attack, not for fighting in town.
He did. His hand came up against Sam’s face and shoved hard. Taken by surprise Sam staggered backwards and sat down hard on the sidewalk. His drunken mind could not accept that any man dare tangle with him so the Texan’s direct and forceful action threw him right off balance. To the drunken Sam it was as if a sheep turned and attacked a mountain lion without provocation and his brain could neither understand the situation or give the necessary directions to his limbs in the matter of dealing with the Texan.
‘Get away from that girl!’ barked the Texan.
Louise clenched her fists, preparing to sell her honor dearly, for the big man’s hands rested on either side of her shoulders, pinning her to the hitching rail while his face came nearer. She heard the Texan’s words, saw the sudden anger on Homer’s face as he also heard and the meaning sank through to his brain. His hands came from the rail and he turned.
Homer looked at the tall Texan, his eyes glowed with sudden rage, aided by the load of Old Scalp Lifter he carried. Unable to deal with more than one thing at a time Homer’s eyes took in the Texan and did not see Sam sitting in a dazed manner on the sidewalk. So Homer wondered why the Texan stood there instead of being stomped into the street by Sam’s boot heels. One thing Homer knew for sure, that red-haired Texan was shoving his face into something that did not concern him. Homer decided to remove the face forcibly and alter its shape considerably.
With that thought in mind he growled, ‘Yeah!’
Saying it, he swung his fist, only that proved to be the wrong thing to do. The fist, thrown by a powerful arm and body, was slow, although the result would have been highly satisfactory had the blow landed. The redhead’s left hand came up and deflected the punch sending it harmlessly over his shoulder. Then his right hand lashed out, shooting forward with the full weight of his body behind it and a clear brain to guide it. His clenched fist exploded on Homer’s bristle covered jaw, snapping the man’s head back with a click like two king-sized billiards balls coming together. The difference in style showed in that blow, for where Homer used only muscle the Texan hit with speed, precision, aim and muscle. It would have written a finish to Homer’s fighting capabilities for some time had the Texan been able to follow it up. As it was the blow put Homer out of action for a few moments which suddenly became vital to the Texan’s wellbeing.
Even while the Texan moved in to finish Homer off in the approved manner, Sam took a hand. His partner hung on the hitching rail, eyes glassy and head shaking in an attempt to regain control on a world which appeared to roar around in circles. Sam saw this as he lunged forward with his arms held wide. The Texan did not see the fresh danger and heard Louise’s warning cry an instant too late. His intention to move in and make sure Homer did not come back into the fight was forgotten as he found himself with trouble on his hands.
Sam came in with a speed out of keeping in one of his bulk and possible liquid content. The bull-whacker’s arms were locked around the Texan’s waist before he could defend himself and in a crushing bear hug which had brought Sam victorious through more than one fight.
Louise gasped in horror. She saw the Texan’s face twist in agony as the arms crushed down on him. His hands thrust under Sam’s chin forcing the head back but not breaking the grip around him. Grunting again Sam squeezed harder, he heard the Texan’s gasp of pain and grinned savagely. Then the Texan changed his grip, his hands going under Sam’s chin and his thumbs gouging into the fat flesh of the throat, cutting Sam’s breath abruptly with the steel hard fingers. Sam’s next crush lacked the power of the others. In his present condition, due to the whisky, having his breath cut off in such a manner ended his attack. The Texan tore free and thrust Sam backwards. In a continuance of the thrust the Texan’s right hand smashed into Sam’s stomach bringing a grunt of pain and folding him over. The right fist drove up in a whistling blow which lifted Sam erect and over, back to the sidewalk edge where he sat down hard once more.
Homer moved from the hitching rail, still dazed as he dropped his hand to the butt of his revolver, trying to haul it free of leather. The Texan pivoted around, his right hand turning palm out to bring the walnut handled Colt from his right side, throwing down on Homer in a fast done cavalry twist hand draw.
‘You can have it that way too,’ he warned.
Homer’s drunken condition prevented his seeing the danger. He still tried to get out his gun even though he would be too late. Louise closed her eyes, for she expected to hear the roar of a shot and had no wish to see a man killed. She thought her rescuer would not hesitate to use his Colt. He used it, but not in the way she expected. Instead of shooting he stepped forward and swung the gun around. The Texan struck hard but not with the barrel, for the 1860 Army Colt’s ramrod lever, laying under the barrel, might be damaged by striking something like a human head. Instead he brought his arm around and crashed his fist like a hammer’s head, the butt of the Colt crashing into Homer’s jaw. The big drunk spun around in a full circle, smashed into the rail again by Louise’s side with his eyes glazed over. His legs buckled under him and he slid down to the ground. From the way he went down it did not appear likely he would rise for some time.
Sam came up again and attacked. Anger brought him forward in a wild rush with his fists swinging. The Texan avoided the wild-swung blows, his right hand, still holding the Colt, swung under the man’s arms and thudded home into his belly with the boom of a bass drum when struck by the stick. Sam had hard belly muscles protected by rolls of fat but they’d been soaked in a whisky-jag and he could not take a blow of that kind. Sober he might have fought on after such a blow, but not in his present state. Croaking in agony Sam sank to his knees, holding his injured stomach and gasping for breath.
The Colt pinwheeled on the Texan’s finger, twisted and went back into the holster. He moved towards Sam who, still holding his stomach with one hand, tried to force himself to his feet. The Texan took careful aim and threw his left fist with the power of a mule-kick against the side of the bull-whacker’s jaw. Sam’s body hurled to one side, crashing to the ground and looking as if he tried to plow up the street with his ear. He lit down spread out flat and did not offer to rise, in fact he did not move at all.
Working his fingers to get the use back into them the Texan turned towards Louise. He was breathing hard and once his hands would work again he touched his ribs. A wry grin came to his face and Louise moved forward. Her legs felt weak and shaky and her hand trembled but she gained control of herself.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘I’ve felt better, ma’am,’ he replied and the grin grew even broader. ‘Like one time when a hoss throwed me, then walked back over me. Sure, reckon I felt some better then.’
‘Are you badly hurt?’
‘I’ll likely live. The boys though, they didn’t mean no hurt. Just been taking on too much bottled trouble and bravemaker. Can I help you?’
Louise felt a momentary panic. If the redhead acted as had the other two she would be in a far worse position for nobody dare help her after seeing how he handled the two men. Then sense came back to the girl. The young man spoke with a southern drawl and showed no signs of being drunk. His offer of help came in the best possible spirit. She heard a shot somewhere beyond the noisy saloon and her hands clenched nervously.
‘Easy ma’am,’ drawled the Texan. ‘There’ll be no more trouble from them two for a spell. You’ll be long gone before they wake up.’
‘Thank you,’ she gasped. ‘But that shot—’
‘Shucks, in a town like this there’s always likely to be somebody fooling and shooting off guns.’
The easy relaxed tones did something to steady Louise’s nerves down. She looked at the grinning freckled face and liked what she saw in it. He was a pleasant enough sounding young man and she decided to trust him, to ask for his help. If she was to find her father she would
need help, for she’d already seen the sort of trouble a girl could get herself into in such a town.
‘Have you seen a rather tall man wearing a Confederate officer’s campaign hat, buckskin jacket, riding pants and boots come along this way?’ she asked, then remembered a vital piece of information. ‘He was riding a big bay thoroughbred stallion.’ In a western town a fine horse would attract more attention than its rider.
‘No ma’am, can’t say I have,’ replied the Texan, although he gave the girl a searching glance. ‘Which same I’ve been wedded to that hitching rail pretty constant for a couple of hours and he hasn’t come by in that time.’
The girl felt suddenly afraid, sure her father lay dead somewhere on the open range. She knew she must get help to find him and the Texan was the only man she might trust in the town.
‘Could you help me find him, please?’ she gasped.
‘I’d surely admire to, ma’am. There’s another street back of here. Reckon we might try looking on it.’
The girl felt relieved for she did not know of Bisbee Street. She unfastened her horse’s reins and led it as she walked with the Texan around the side of the saloon and through the gap between the buildings.
They came on to Bisbee Street and looked along it. One way was clear but down the other they saw a group of men standing in the center of the street. Louise gave a gasp as she saw her father in the group. There were three Texas cowhands in a group around her father and even as she looked Louise saw the group of men facing her father turn and walk into a saloon.
‘Who are those three men?’ Louise asked, sure they were picking on her father and the others had been prevented from helping him. It was a foolish question, she thought as soon as she spoke, the redhead could hardly be expected to know everyone in town.
Apparently he did know, for he replied. ‘The three worst varmints this side of the big muddy. If that’s your pappy he’s in tolerable bad company.’
