by J. T. Edson
Ignoring the yells of alarm raised by the other riders who were commencing to descend the slope, the man took a careful aim at the small Texan.
‘Don’t shoot unless he hits it!’ Lonegron yelled, guessing what Dusty was trying to do and helping his other man to keep the rope taut.
While the hide and tallow man had realized from the beginning that there was no hope of making the incident look like an accident, it was his wish to prevent the real motive from being suspected. If Fog was injured by being swept from his saddle, the implication would be that it had been done merely to ensure that he lost the race. Finding that he had been shot, Grillman—a smart peace officer—might consider that there could have been another reason. He could even guess at the truth. Even with de Froissart to supply an alibi, Lonegron had no wish to face the marshal’s questioning.
Although the man heard his employer’s order and understood what had motivated it, he still took a careful aim at the small Texan. He had been at the Snapping Turtle when Dusty had paid the brief and hectic visit. Having seen how well the young blond could handle a gun, he felt disinclined to take chances.
Once again, Dusty failed to catch the ‘official’s’ words. There was, he concluded— having assessed the situation with his usual rapidity—only one course left open to him. It was a desperate and forlorn hope which would hardly be greatly improved even if he had heard Lonegron’s instructions. For Dusty’s plan to succeed, he would have to rely upon the man at the edge of the trail missing him and, at that range, it was highly unlikely to happen.
With the decision reached and accepted, Dusty diverted all his attention away from the man and his revolver. Rising in his stirrups, the small Texan leaned forward and extended his Colt at arm’s length beyond the stallion’s head.
Expecting at any moment to feel the man’s lead ripping into him, for he dare not spare even a split-second to try and see what the other was doing, Dusty watched his Colt’s barrel converging with the rope. He devoted his whole being to holding the weapon steady. There could be no margin for error. He knew that he would have time for only one shot and must make certain that it did not miss.
There was only one way to do that.
It was a desperate chance!
But it was the only chance he had!
Carefully Dusty manipulated the long barreled revolver into position. Its hammer was back at full cock and free to fly forward. Already his forefinger was starting to squeeze the trigger, doing so carefully to prevent a premature discharge. With the muzzle almost touching the rope, he completed the pressure.
Twenty-eight grains of best du Pont black powder detonated, to thrust the conical bullet through the rifling grooves.
Helped in its work by the muzzle blast burning the fibers, the bullet sliced into the tightly stretched strands. Dusty saw the rope separate, becoming two lengths which flickered into the air. Then, as the paint carried him onwards, he heard yells of anger.
Yet the expected bullet had not come the small Texan’s way.
That was not the man’s fault.
Certain that he could not miss, with his sights lines on the centre of Dusty’s chest, the man had begun to squeeze the trigger as soon as the rope parted. Even as he did so, something struck his right temple. It was, although he would never know, a rifle bullet. Nor did he hear the flat bark of the rifle which had sent it from some distance away among the trees. With the lead erupting from the opposite side of his head, he was flung sideways. The revolver fell from his lifeless hand without firing and he measured his length on the ground.
Wondering why he had not been shot, Dusty began to turn his head. Already he was beyond the cottonwood and saw the other two would-be killers. The man in range clothes was clasping his hands, through the fingers of which blood was trickling, to his forehead and twirling around in an unmistakable manner. It was the action of a person who had been shot in the head. Still grasping the end of the rope, the ‘official’ was staggering backwards but apparently unharmed.
Suddenly remembering the nature of the terrain, Dusty returned his gaze to the front. The mass of blueberry bushes, thick enough to be very dangerous if the paint should crash into them, were very near.
Fortunately, Dusty’s equestrian instincts had caused him to maintain contact with his mount through the reins and bit. Equally luckily, the big stallion was not running blindly. Seeing the bushes, it had started to swerve away from them. Dusty started to guide it around in a circle, meaning to deal with the ‘official’ even though doing so would cause him to lose the race.
Struggling to retain his balance, Lonegron contrived to turn away from the cottonwood tree. He had heard the rifle shots which had ended the lives of his two men, both having been fired practically simultaneously, and wanted to find out who had intervened.
Two riders were galloping through the trees, displaying considerable skill and control of their mounts as they guided the animals with their knees and body weight, their reins being knotted to the saddle-horns to leave both hands free to use the weapons.
At the right, sitting his huge white stallion and levering another bullet into his Winchester, the Ysabel Kid looked as mean as a Pehnane Dog Soldier on the war path.
In the shape of his body and riding skill, the second of the newcomers had the attributes of a Comanche; except that no member of the Nemenuh ever had a beard. Stockily built in the manner of ‘The People’, he wore the attire of a prosperous rancher. The most prominent item of his clothing, giving Lonegron an unnecessary clue to his identity, was a vest made from the black-rosette speckled hide of a jaguar.
‘Goodnight!’ Lonegron screamed.
The word came out redolent of all the frustrated rage and fury which was boiling inside the hide and tallow man. Clearly the message received by Dusty Fog had been either a mistake or, more likely, a deliberate fake. That was no ghost who came towards Lonegron, feeding another bullet into a Henry rifle by means of the leading lever.
Goodnight was alive!
Snarling curses, Lonegron forgot all idea of escaping. Or he may have realized that he could not hope to do so. Whatever his reason, he had only one thought in his head, to kill the man who had fooled him. Snatching out his revolver, he proved to be both fast and accurate, or lucky. Not quite lucky enough, however. While his bullet tore the hat from Goodnight’s head, it did no greater damage. Nor was he granted the opportunity to try and improve his effort.
Still riding at a gallop, the approaching Texans lined their rifles. They fired so close together that the two detonations merged into a single sound. Converging in their flight, the bullets entered Lonegron’s chest less than an inch apart, hurling him bodily against the trunk of the cottonwood. For a moment he hung there, the revolver sliding unheeded from his fingers, then he fell on to the rope which ought to have ended Dusty’s life.
The small Texan had seen what was happening as he brought his horse around in as tight a half circle as the trees and its speed would permit. Nor did he overlook the other men in the race as they went by. At that moment, he was not interested in them. He was far more concerned with what was going on across the trail.
Recognizing his rescuers, Dusty showed no surprise at one of them being Colonel Charles Goodnight. As soon as he had read the name of the town in which his uncle’s death had been reported to have happened, Dusty had known it could not be true. The first message he had received was sent from Sulphur Springs, which had meant that Goodnight would have been well on his way to Dallas by the time the second was dispatched. Guessing what was expected of him, Dusty had gone along with the deception.
‘Get going, Dustine!’ Goodnight bellowed, reloading his Henry. ‘We’ll see to things here.’
‘Go win that race, blast you!’ the Kid supplemented, sending an empty cartridge case flipping through the ejection slot on top of the Winchester’s brass frame. ‘Why the hell do you reckon we bust a gut coming to save you?’
Acknowledging the words with a wave of his gun-filled left hand, Du
sty allowed the big paint to complete the circle and return to the trail as another of the riders tore by. He felt the stallion’s eagerness to go after the departing horse and returned the Colt to its holster.
‘Yeeah!’ Dusty yelled and allowed his mount to have its head.
With the lead the closest of his rivals had built up, Dusty doubted if he had any hope of winning. For all that, he had no intention of giving up. Nor had the stallion. By nature, it was a front runner and hated to see another of its kind ahead. So it strode out faster and faster, its powerful hind quarters driving it onwards with tremendous force and fore legs reaching ahead as if trying to drag the ground under it. Urging it on, Dusty used every trick and skill he possessed to help it run.
Gradually, the paint began to recover some of the ground it had lost while making the turn. It went by one man just as they reached the edge of the woodland and tore on in pursuit of the rest. They were covering the last three quarters of a mile and already going by the first of the spectators.
Crouching forward to cut down the resistance his body offered to the wind, Dusty could feel the mighty propellant power of the paint between his legs. White, foam-like lather flecked its neck and fell from its body, testifying to the effort it was exerting. Dusty was half blinded by sweat, but he did not dare try to wipe it away in case he disturbed his balance and threw his mount off its stride. Soon it had caught up with, and ran between, the two leaders.
First one, then the other of the horses drew just a little ahead of the paint only to fall back into line. Then, with less than a hundred yards to go, Dusty called on his mount for a final effort. Responding gallantly, it started to go even faster. Stride after stride it took, the sequence of its galloping gait continuing in a smoothly flowing rhythm.
Inch by inch, the stallion’s head extended before those of its rivals. Their riders were doing everything possible to gain more speed, but to no avail. By that much and no more of a lead, Dusty’s mount crossed the line to win the race.
Chapter Seventeen – You Might Not Get Out Alive
‘well, dustine, boys,’ Colonel Charles Goodnight said as he sat with his nephew, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid in the dining room of Doctor Sandwich’s house. ‘We got some of them even if we didn’t get them all.’
It was Friday evening. The Ranch Owner’s Convention had taken place that afternoon. Goodnight and Ole Devil’s floating outfit were taking an opportunity to get together so that they could discuss what had occurred, before attending a final reception at the Stockmen’s Hotel. They had selected the doctor’s home as offering the best chance to prevent Mark’s connection with Dusty from being exposed.
When liberated by Goodnight and the Kid, the three race officials had explained that they had been captured by Lonegron’s men. None of them had seen the hide and tallow man, as he had kept out of sight until they had been bound, gagged and hidden among the bushes. However, one had contrived to work his way into the open and it was he whom Dusty had noticed.
On joining the crowd at the finish line, Goodnight had apologized to the Governor for the ruse he had used and had explained his reasons. Wanting help, in view of the various delays which had occurred during the journey, he had sent the first message to Dusty and had relied upon its correct context being understood. By sending the Ysabel Kid, the small Texan had justified his uncle’s confidence in his intelligence and deductive ability. What was more, the precaution had proved to be a wise one.
The Kid had arrived in time to prevent Goodnight and the Eastern cattle-buyers from being ambushed a few miles east of Dallas. None of the attackers who had been taken alive could give any information. The two men responsible for the attempt had both been killed and had not told the rest anything except what was required of them.
Although Goodnight had realized that he might be placing Dusty’s life in danger, he had arranged—with the help of a friend in Dallas— to send the false report of his death. Again he gambled successfully on Dusty realizing the truth and acting in an appropriate manner. That had happened, as had Goodnight’s hope that the man behind the ‘accidental’ delays and attempted ambush would be brought into the open.
Having arranged an armed escort for the cattle buyers, Goodnight and the Kid had pushed on at a better speed. Reaching the town shortly before the Three Miles Stakes was due to commence, they had learned from Grillman’s deputy that Dusty would be riding in it. Remembering what he had seen when examining the course with Dusty, having intended to enter himself, the Kid had realized its potential as a source of danger. So he and Goodnight had set off for the most likely spot, reaching it just in time to play a vitally important part.
Even though the evidence had pointed to Lonegron having been responsible for the attempts to kill Dusty and Goodnight, they had not discounted the possibility of the Pilar Hide & Tallow Company’s involvement. Unfortunately, there had been no way in which their theory could be verified.
On being questioned by Grillman regarding his absence from the race meeting, under the guise of the marshal wishing to disprove certain rumors of his association with Lonegron, de Froissart had stated that his story of the poker game was a lie. Having shown almost convincing reluctance, by pretending to be unwilling to bring a lady’s name into disrepute, the Creole had claimed his real reason had been to hold a clandestine meeting with Marlene Viridian. However, at the last minute she had sent word that she had changed her mind and would be accompanying Mark Counter to the races. De Froissart had been angry, but not wishing to make a scene in public, had stayed in his room.
Admitting that he had known Lonegron and had seen him on several occasions during the visit to Forth Worth, the Creole had insisted that they were merely business acquaintances with a mutual interest in discovering the result of the Convention. Repeating that he had had no idea of what Lonegron was trying to do, de Froissart had declared that, although his Company might lose money, he wished to see Goodnight’s idea succeed. Realizing that to do otherwise might ruin all hopes of learning the truth about Dover’s death, Grillman had pretended to accept the explanations.
While the Convention had not been an unqualified success, it was sufficiently so to satisfy Goodnight. Not only had he convinced the majority of the ranchers that it would be possible to drive their herds to Kansas and show a very healthy profit, he had provided the solution to the one question which had baffled Dusty; that of how the cattle could be shipped.
On hearing of Goodnight’s intentions and hopes, Joe McCoy—a prominent and wealthy Abilene businessman—had grown enthusiastic about their possibilities. Such had been his confidence that Goodnight would succeed that he was having cattle pens, loading chutes and other amenities built. Once the herds had arrived, loading the cattle on to the trains would be comparatively simple.
With that point settled to almost everyone’s satisfaction (there were of course a small proportion who had refused to be convinced) the Eastern cattle buyers had told of their respective companies’ interest. While they had not been able to offer contracts, which had been used as proof by the dissenters that they did not believe the herds could be delivered, the buyers had affirmed their willingness to do business in Abilene.
‘We never thought we’d get them all,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And, once they see it can be done, the fellers who spoke out against it’ll likely start to change their minds.’
‘Some of them might not have that chance,’ Mark warned.
‘How come?’ Goodnight asked.
‘Marlene’s figuring on asking them to come down to Pilar in a week’s time,’ the big blond explained. ‘And when they get there, she reckons on persuading them to sign contracts to deliver cattle regularly to the factory.’
‘You too?’
‘Me too, Colonel. Or the R Over C. Only she allows that I should drift down there with her and de Froisart in the morning.’
‘What did you say to that?’ Dusty inquired.
‘I told her I’d admire to go along,’ Mark replied. ‘When I ge
t there, I’ll see if I can find proof that Viridian killed Dover.’
‘It won’t be easy,’ Dusty stated. ‘And you’ll have to play your cards real close to the vest. Let them find out that you ride for the OD Connected and not the R Over C and you might not get out alive.’
‘I’ll go real careful,’ Mark promised. ‘Count on it.’
‘Did she say why she wanted you to go tomorrow, instead of coming in with the others?’ Goodnight wanted to know.
‘Not in so many words,’ the blond giant admitted. ‘But I get the notion that she might have more than just a cattle contract in mind where I’m concerned.’
‘Such as?’ Dusty asked.
‘She’s started telling me what a lousy son-of-a-bitch her husband is and how he mistreats her. Could be she reckons I’d make a better one.’
‘She’d have to be a widow-woman afore she could do anything about that,’ the Kid pointed out.
‘I reckon she could have notions about that, too,’ Mark admitted, then glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Well I’d best go and get changed. I’d hate to keep the lady waiting.’
‘How’s your shoulder?’ Goodnight asked.
‘Near on better,’ the big blond grinned. ‘Fact being, I’ll be able to leave off the sling comes morning.’
‘That’s good,’ the colonel declared soberly. ‘Because, one way and another, you could be needing your gun hand afore you get through at Pilar.’
Which, as things turned out, proved that Charles Goodnight was more than just a shrewd and far-seeing cattleman. He was a pretty fair prophet too.
In her room at the Belle Grande Hotel, while dressing for her rendezvous, Marlene was thinking about what lay ahead. Maybe Goodnight had convinced many of the ranchers that the Kansas business was practicable, but there had been others who had not believed it or would lack the will to try. Sufficient, at any rate, would decline to make the attempt for the hide and tallow factories to continue their operations, if only on a reduced scale. Certainly the profits would be much lower. There would not be enough to share between five partners. If she played her cards right, Mark Counter ought to be able to help her solve that particular problem. He would also be of use for another scheme which she had in mind.
