by J. T. Edson
‘Well I still trust her and I’m going right over there to—’
‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ Dusty snapped, his voice taking on a warning note she knew so well. ‘I don’t want her making suspicious, or guessing we’re suspicious happen she’s the one. Leave it lie. There’ll not be anything more whoever it is can do before we reach Backsight.’
The wagon train rolled on in the morning and the grief of their losses died slowly as every mile they rolled brought them nearer to Backsight. The Kid and Red made a wide sweep to come back with news that the Apaches had left their camp and headed south. Most likely they were making for some sacred ground to elect a new leader and make fresh medicine, guessed the Kid when he reported to Dusty.
So the final days and miles rolled behind them, each day seeing more penciled crosses on the Colonel’s army maps. Each day the crosses drew closer to the great slash in the land known as the Grand Canyon and to the town of Backsight.
A new and light-hearted feeling filled the air. The train held a dance one night and a gay time was had by all. Miss Considine came out of her shell enough to prove she possessed a good soprano voice. The people went to bed tired and happy but Dusty never relaxed and it was hard on any sentry he found relaxing at his post on the night herd.
Several times in the days following the fight Louise tried to renew her discussion with Dusty or the others about Maisie’s guilt or innocence. In this the girl found herself unsuccessful. The Texans evaded any conversation on that subject with the ease of matadors avoiding the charge of a bull.
Then one night just as the train was making its circle Louise sat by Dusty’s side and watched. The Ysabel Kid rode up on his big white stallion, he came alone although he went out with Red Blaze in the morning.
‘Where’s Red?’ Louise asked.
‘Gone to see what Backsight looks like,’ replied the Kid, pointing across the range. ‘See that line of hills there, the one with the V nick at the top. There’s a pass by it and about two miles on’s the town. Likely the train’ll be there soon after noon tomorrow and you’ll have the wagons to Backsight by nightfall at the latest.’
‘I’ll tell the folks,’ Louise began eagerly and started to turn her horse.
Dusty’s hand shot out catching her reins. ‘Hold it, hothead. We can’t make it tonight and I don’t want folks starting. There’s no telling what we might run into and I want the folks to go in like a train, not in odd’ns.’
‘But Red rode on ahead,’ she protested.
‘Sure, he knows the range and one man makes a damned sight smaller target than a wagon. Besides, Mark and I’ll be riding after him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve known Cousin Red ever since we were old enough to throw spitballs at each other. He’s plumb likely to get into a fight and wind up in jail.’
The girl looked Dusty over and smiled. ‘Not when he’s doing a job of work.’
Dusty grinned. There were few people who could read Red Blade’s character the way the girl did.
‘All right. Folks’ll likely talk easier happen they don’t know we’re from the train,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Let’s see the Colonel and then head on out.’
The Kid groaned and protested that he’d done all the dirty work on the trip and was now being left behind when a good time stood ahead. The groaning was only a joke for he was pleased of a chance to rest his horse. Dusty gave him his orders, to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of the travelers, any of them, leaving the train and heading for Backsight.
Red Blaze was riding into the town of Backsight just after dark. He timed his arrival with some care, coming in on the side away from the train. It was night and the arrival of a stranger less likely to attract attention. There was less chance of his being recognized if, as they suspected, the tracks found at the mouth of the gap were caused by Collins’ pard heading for Backsight. Red knew one wrong move might end with a bullet in his back. He also knew Dusty, Mark and the Kid would leave no stone unturned until they found his killer but the thought gave him little comfort.
The town of Backsight was little different to Red’s eyes than a dozen or more such hamlets he’d seen throughout the west. There were not more than twenty houses at the outside, possibly half of them forming the main street. Two were saloons, one a run-to-seed store which would also serve as post-office, although there were no telegraph wires to be seen. A building housed the Land Agent’s office, it was dark and deserted, a padlock on the door. Further along was a small wooden structure which housed the county sheriff’s office, jail and town marshal’s office all in the space the cells took up in some of the larger towns. Red had seen many such hamlets, they rose when they were needed and hung on—only Backsight was going to grow instead of finally withering and fading away.
A man walked along the street ahead of Red and turned to look as the big claybank stallion came alongside him. The man halted, peering into the darkness as Red leaned forward and spoke to him.
‘Howdy friend,’ Red drawled. ‘Where’d a man leave his hoss, happen he wanted to leave it?’
‘You want to leave one?’
‘Nope. I’m only asking ’cause I’m curious.’
The man grinned. ‘Curiosity’s a terrible thing. They do say it killed the cat.’
‘I’m no cat, so chance telling me,’ Red answered, also grinning.
‘Try behind the Alamo saloon down there. It’s the civic pound but if anybody objects tell ’em you’ll get drunk, go to jail and the hoss’ll be there ready for the town marshal.’
‘Thanks. I like a helpful town,’ Red replied, turning the head of the claybank between the two houses indicated by the man.
The corral lay behind the houses and Red swung down from his horse. There was a pump close at hand, with a water trough fixed to it. Red watered and cared for the big stallion before removing the saddle. The corral was empty so he could leave his stallion without being worried about it fighting. He let the horse enter the corral and placed the bar into place then looked for somewhere he might leave his saddle until such time as he was able to find a place to sleep. He settled on a clump of bushes, carrying the heavy kak saddle to where it would be safe until he fetched it. He left the Spencer in the boot and laid the saddle carefully on its side, then turned as another rider came towards the corral.
The newcomer appeared to be a tall, slim and young man in cowhand style clothes and with a splash of white showing across his body which puzzled Red at first. Then the young man halted his horse and dismounted. Red could now tell the white splash was formed of a sling on his right arm.
Moving forward in silence Red came towards the corral. He was about to speak when he saw two men walking between the houses, following the newcomer. They were a pair of Mexicans, even the darkness could not hide the shape of their sombrero hats or the silver filigree decoration on their coats and trousers.
‘Hey gringo,’ one of the two said.
Red froze, standing by the side of the corral. The newcomer, a cowhand in his dress, turned to face the Mexicans, although he did not appear to be armed, or if he was did not have his gun in a holster at his side.
‘Talking to me?’
‘Who else?’ came the reply from the shorter of the Mexicans. ‘Señor Fernandez is in town. He says for you or your sister to come over and see him. Most especially your sister.’
‘Tell him to go to hell!’
‘He wouldn’t like that, gringo. He wouldn’t like it at all. More so from a man with only one arm. We don’t like it either.’
The two men moved nearer, fanning away from each other. Red stayed as he was, awaiting events and not wishing to take cards until he knew more about the game. Red might be a wild and reckless heller with a way of finding trouble and a habit of not wasting time before jumping into a fight. That only applied when he was on his own time. Doing a chore, even a self-appointed one like this, he was as cool and capable as any of the floating outfit.
‘I’ve told Fer
nandez to stay well clear of my sister,’ the young cowhand replied, his stance more of a fist-fighter than a good man with a gun. ‘And to keep his bandidos off my spread.’
‘Bandidos, Pablo!’ purred the smaller man. ‘You hear what the gringo just call us and our friends.’
‘I heard and I didn’t like it,’ replied the other, dropping his hand towards the butt of his gun. ‘I think we teach this gringo a lesson.’
That gave Red warning he must cut in or see murder done. The Mexicans stood so far apart they had the cowhand whipsawed from the start but they were in line where Red could down both. His eyes took in the low hanging guns and the sheathed knives. These were not vaqueros, Mexican cowhands on a spree. They were a type he knew too well, a pair of bandits or he’d never seen their kind. In all the world, up to and including an Apache warrior after coups, there was no more cold-blooded killer than a Mexican bandido. Either of that pair were willing to cut the cowhand down, one arm out of action or not.
‘Saludos señors.’
Red’s soft-spoken words were backed by the click of his right hand Colt come to full cock. He knew Mexicans better than to speak without his gun in his hand, hammer back and ready to fall.
The Mexicans heard the click and read it for what it was. They also knew their position was as open to the man further along the corral as the cowhand stood open to them.
‘You brought protection, gringo,’ the smaller man said in a disappointed tone. He was furthest from Red but knew he was clear of his compadre and open for a bullet.
‘I never yet saw the gent afore,’ Red replied. ‘But there’s surely going to be some introductions done if you don’t get that damned hand well clear of your gun. Savvy?’
The small Mexican savvied. His hand fell from the revolver. The cowhand moved along the corral rail towards Red, the white butt of a revolver showing against his shirt as he walked, the butt pointing towards his left hand.
‘Thanks, mister. I reckon their boss sent them to warn me against swearing out a warrant against him for cattle stealing.’
‘And I reckon they’re just leaving,’ Red replied. ‘Which way do you want to leave, hombres. Walking or carried feet first?’ The two Mexicans exchanged glances and Red knew the answer without needing to be told. If they intended making a fight they would have done so without hesitation or looking to each other for guidance.
‘There’ll be other times,’ said the smaller man.
‘There’s always manana,’ agreed Red, neither relaxing nor holstering his Colt. ‘And comes morning the mission bells will greet the dawn—only you won’t hear them if you’re not away from here right pronto.’
The two Mexicans turned on their heels and walked away.
They were in plain view of Red all the time and he watched them until they were out of sight before he holstered his gun. He knew better than trust any Mexican under those circumstances.
‘Like to thank you, friend,’ the tall young cowhand remarked. ‘I near to knocked that one down when he said I should take Sister Sue to meet Fernandez.’
Red suddenly realized he was further north than an area in which Mexican bandidos might be expected. No Texan who lived anywhere near the Rio Grande would make such a mistake.
‘Happen you ever hit a greaser, kill him right straight after,’ Red warned. ‘If you don’t he’ll lay up and wait his chance to kill you. What was it all about?’
‘Their boss moved down the canyon country below our place and we started to lose some stock. Then I caught one of his hands slapping a brand on a calf with a Lazy O mammy. Caught a bullet in the arm in the scuffle. I came into town to see if I can get any help from the law.’
‘Way you’re talking it don’t sound like you expect any,’ drawled Red.
‘I don’t. Biscuits Randle, him being our county deputy sheriff and town marshal rolled into one, well, he’s a fine cook and brave enough. But he hasn’t got the sort of brains or gun-skill that’s needed to handle Fernandez. He’s fast with a gun, real fast for a Mexican, is Fernandez and he’s got some bad boys at his back.’
‘Here, let me help you with your saddle,’ Red suggested.
‘Thanks, but I was only looking if there were any horses in the corral. I’ve a stable up at my place with a couple of empty stalls. Say, I don’t think we’ve ever met. I’m Terry Ortega.’
Not by a flicker of his face did Red allow the other man to know the name meant anything to him. He introduced himself and accepted the young rancher’s suggestion that they took a couple of drinks at the Alamo. For all that Red was puzzled. Terry Ortega was about his own age, a fairly good looking and friendly young man. From his dress, Red noticed as they passed the lighted window of the saloon, Ortega was the owner of a middle-sized ranch. He did not look the sort of man with enough money or the necessary connections to hire professional killers all the way across country in Louisville.
‘Where’re you staying the night, Red?’ asked Terry.
‘With the sage hens.’
‘Shucks, the sky’s a poor roof. Come round to our town house for the night. It’s not fancy but Sister Sue sees it gets kept tidy. It’ll likely be a mite crowded being pay night and my crew on their way in. They’ll be sleeping at the house.’
None of which sounded like an arrogant and powerful rancher. Red accepted the invitation eagerly and they entered the Alamo saloon together. The saloon could not compare with the establishments of the big trail-end towns but served the needs of the local ranch crews. It sported sawdust on the floor, tables and chairs scattered around, a battered bullet-pocked bar behind which stood a cheery looking man who grinned broadly at Terry.
The atmosphere inside seemed friendly enough and Terry received boisterous greetings from the customers. Red took this chance to study the rancher in good light. His face was almost as freckled as Red’s own, while his clothes, though of good quality were not new and showed signs of much washing and ironing. There did not appear to be anything out of the ordinary or in the least dangerous about him.
‘Take two beers unless Terry’s religious and don’t touch the evil stuff,’ Red told the bartender. ‘Have something for yourself and then rustle me up a meal, will you?’
‘A meal,’ wailed the bartender. ‘Food he wants. Damned if I don’t sell this place and head for some town that has an eating house.’
‘I don’t know why somebody doesn’t open an eating house here,’ Terry put in. ‘There’s trade enough for it and we could use one. Could use a few other things here even more, comes to that.’
‘This doesn’t look a bad lil town,’ Red replied as the bartender walked to a door behind the bar and bellowed an order for one son-of-a-bitch stew.
‘Sure it’s a nice lil town. But that’s just what it is, little. Do you know Red, there’s kids raising nine and ten years old here who haven’t learned to read or write because we don’t have a school. We’ve no doctor and if we want supplies or to send a telegraph message we have to trail to Hammerlock.’
‘More folks and a bigger town’d be the answer,’ Red drawled.
‘It surely would,’ agreed Terry and no actor could have sounded more sincere than he did. ‘We heard rumors once or twice that folks were coming but they never arrived. I’ve tried to get the Land Agent to do something but he allows nobody wants to buy in on a place as far in the back country as this.’
The words did not unduly surprise Red. Considine would not talk about Colonel Raines and his people in case he started a land rush with its following speculation on the resale. Backing his judgment of men Red decided he would take Terry into his confidence and lay the cards down face up.
‘Let’s grab a seat before the boys come in,’ Terry suggested.
Before they could do so there was an interruption. The batwing doors burst open and half a dozen cowhands came in. They were a mixed bunch but they were real cowhands, not hired guns or hardcases. Two were near on old enough to be sitting around a stove and hard wintering, two of middle age and the last
two youngsters, fresh faced, brash, happy-go-lucky. One of the pair was blond haired, good-looking and wore a violent red shirt with a multi-hued bandana. Like the rest he carried an Army Colt at his side but there was none of the signs of the fast gun about any of the crew.
‘She never saw me, I tells you!’ the youngster whooped into the young man’s ear.
‘Wouldn’t want to be you happen she did,’ replied the other. ‘Terry, Duke here done wide-looped Sue’s fresh baked apple pie.’
‘Then may the Lord have mercy on his soul, ’cause Sister Sue won’t have any on his fool hide when she finds out.’
‘She won’t find out. I’m too slick,’ Duke answered modestly.
The cowhands crowded around the table to which their boss and Red moved. Red studied them, for a man could learn much by the kind of hands a ranch hired. All Red learned stood to Terry’s favor for the cowhands were the sort any decent ranch owner would be proud and satisfied to hire. The good-natured chaff which flew back and forwards showed they were all friends of long standing.
‘You boys better get acquainted with Red Blaze from Texas,’ Terry told his crew. ‘He pulled two of Fernandez’s men off my back in the corral.’
The cowhands greeted Red warmly, their gratitude for his actions at the corral there but unsaid. The other youngster, Tommy Malveny, demanded to be told the full story. The crew showed their appreciation of Red’s actions but one of the old timers, the withered cowhand called Tombstone, eyed Red up and down.
‘Now you done got Fernandez after you.’
‘Hush your fool ole mouth,’ whooped Duke. ‘You’ll be a-scaring Red off real soon if you don’t.’
‘He don’t talk nor smell that bad—yet,’ drawled Red. There would be no chance of talking quietly to Terry, Red saw. He was invited into a poker game, with the express intention of being shown how the game got played in Arizona Territory. Red’s luck at poker was talked of wherever it had been seen. That same luck stood high as the cards dropped on the rough tabletop in the Alamo by which token the Lazy O crew found themselves sadder and wiser men when the game broke up and they rose to head for the bar.
