by J. T. Edson
Yet it was nearer to one in ten thousand that so perfect a barrel was found as to warrant the added care and attention which went to make such a rifle and give it the right to bear that title. That then was the prize in the rifle shoot. It was a prize the Ysabel Kid swore in the most solemn lodge oath of the Comanche Dog Soldier that he would win and own.
Beneath the box, in a case with a special leather holster, a brass skeleton carbine stock and a set of carbine type sights set on the frame over the chamber, was one of the long barreled Colt Peacemakers such as carried by Wyatt Earp. It was the second prize in the Pistol Shoot.
Below this, in the center of the window, in the place of honor, lay the first prize for the man with the fastest double draw of them all. The mahogany box lid was raised to show the brass plate on which was engraved:
“COCHISE COUNTY FAIR PISTOL SHOOT WINNER”
In the box, held and caressed by red felt, were a pair of matched, pearl handled, gold inlaid Colt Cavalry Peacemakers, their metal work of the finest blue citizen’s finish and chased with gold in a manner that no other guns from the Colt factory ever had. They were fine guns and would make the winner proud to own them.
“Now there’s what I call a fancy brace of guns, Dusty,” drawled Mark. “I reckon they’ll look swell on the wall in Ole Devil’s study back home.”
“There’s only one thing to that, Mark,” replied Dusty. “One of us has to win them first.”
Mark laughed. “With luck I might get that long-barreled Colt gun, but you’ll be taking that fancy pair of guns with you when we leave.”
The Kid could not tear his eyes from the rifle and had not heard a word his friends said. To the Kid a revolver was something just to be toted along for use when no great accuracy was called for and his knife would not answer the question. That rifle, that wonderful Winchester, was all he was interested in.
With a final glance at the window, Dusty turned and walked away. He knew that even if he won the guns they would never see use, but would be left with his Uncle. He had little use for the idea of the long-barreled revolver, but Mark stood a good chance of winning it. Mark turned to follow his friend, then noticed the Kid was not following them. He turned back and saw the way the dark youngster stood. A grin came to Mark’s face and he poked the Kid hard in the ribs with his forefinger.
“Hey, Lon,” he said.
The Kid perked as if wakened from a deep sleep. He looked at his friend with unseeing eyes, then they were drawn back to the rifle again. Mark jabbed his thumb home again and the Kid swung around.
“Huh!” he growled. “What’s wrong now?”
“Just a couple of Rambeau’s men lining shotguns on you,” Mark replied with a grin. “I never saw you look at any gal, not even Juanita Estradre, like you’re looking at that Winchester there.”
“You could be right at that, Mark. I’m going to have that rifle or die in the trying for it.”
“Ambition’s a wonderful and inspiring thing, amigo,” drawled Mark, grinning broadly. “But give me the first choice of the remuda and I’ll take me a pretty gal ’most any old time.”
The Kid stepped from the window, crashing into something which gave a very feminine gasp and began to apologize. Then he saw the smiling eyes and pretty face of Cindy Alban through the mist which surrounded him. The girl staggered slightly and her escort, the young actor, Hamish, steadied her. Cindy’s face held a smile but it flickered, for the Kid did not appear to recognize her. Without being vain about it, Cindy knew she was a pretty girl, not unattractive to the opposite sex. She felt rather piqued that this handsome yet so young looking boy should have forgotten her so soon. It was only that morning she’d been chatting gaily with him as he rode beside the show wagon; then he’d been polite, attentive, and now he hardly appeared to recognize her at all.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said the Kid, then gave a start. “Why, it’s you, Miss Cindy—”
“It has been for the last minute or so,” she replied tartly, then she realized the Kid was not even now giving her his full attention. His eyes flickering back to the shop window and that wonderful rifle inside. “Have I changed so much since this morning?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the Kid absently.
“You’ll have to excuse him, ma’am,” Mark put in. “He’s got a real bad attack of Comanche fever.”
The girl looked anxiously at the Kid’s face. It certainly did not show any sign of fever.
“Is he all right?” she gasped.
“Why sure, Miss Cindy. It’s a disease that hits a Comanche when he sees a repeating rifle.”
The girl glanced at the shop window and for the first time realized what was in it. She saw the way the Kid’s eyes were drawn back to that magnificent rifle and her annoyance rose again. Then she started to smile as she remembered all he’d told her of his plans on the way into Tombstone.
“Well,” she said with a smile, “I never ran second to a rifle before.”
It was then the Kid came above water and he realized how he was acting. The grin which came to his face was boyish and infectious and the girl could not hold her annoyance any longer.
“Hi, Miss Cindy,” he said. “Fancy meeting you here.” Cindy raised her eyes to the heavens. She could sense that Hamish had drawn back and took a delight in teasing him.
“Now he recognizes me,” she remarked. “I hope you can see me better on the stage tonight. I suppose you will be coming to the opening?”
“Waal no, ma'am. I don’t reckon I will.”
“Why not?” demanded Cindy. “Don’t you want to see the play and hear me sing?”
“I’d sure enough admire to do both, ma’am,” answered the Kid. “And likely will when I get back.”
“Back?”
“Why, sure, Dusty, Mark and me have taken on to drive a herd of cattle in for a rancher. We’ll be back before the Fair starts, so you can save me a seat up front.”
The girl looked at the innocent face and tried to reconcile his appearance with what Madame Paula had told her of the Ysabel Kid. It was hard to believe so young an innocent a boy could be all Paula said he was. It was then Cindy remembered how the Kid came around the bush and faced the Apache to save her life.
“Say, Lon,” drawled Mark. “Ole Dusty’s moving on and looking back to us like he wants something.”
“Reckon he does at that,” replied the Kid, looking to where Dusty stood further along the sidewalk. “I’ll likely see you when I get back, Miss Cindy If I make it.”
The girl tried to read something in the face which was suddenly cold and as impassive as a Comanche Dog Soldier’s. “Will it be dangerous?”
“Shucks, no. Maybe a lil bitty stampede or two. Maybe rustlers. Could be a few hundred head of Apaches after us. It won’t be too dangerous.”
“Said danger’s going to start right now,” growled Mark. “Happen you keep Dusty waiting much longer.”
The girl tried to decide if the Kid had been teasing her and was not entirely sure. She managed a smile, saw the twinkle in the Kid’s eyes and the smile grew broader and brighter.
“The best of luck then, Lon,” she said. “I'll try and think about you once a night—for about five seconds. Take care of him, Mark.”
The girl watched Mark and the Kid walk away, then she felt Hamish’s hand on her sleeve and looked at him with a gay smile.
“You look awfully serious, Miles,” she said. “Don’t you approve of my friends?”
“They’re all right,” was the grudging reply.
“For talking to, but for anything serious I prefer someone in my own walk of life. Say a tall, handsome hero who can save me from all the villains.”
Hamish felt his cheeks burn and knew they must have reddened in a manner he’d not known since he first became an actor. He did not know what to make of the words, for twice when she’d been in peril he’d failed to do anything spectacular. Then he felt the girl squeeze his hand.
“Yes,” she said gently. “A boy like the
Ysabel Kid might be all right. But a man who’d rather look at a rifle than a girl— well, there’s not much future for the poor girl, is there? Now come on or we’ll be late for rehearsals. And when you kiss me in the last scene,” she looked up at him with sparkling eyes, “make it look as if you mean it.”
Hamish started to walk along the street by the side of the girl. He was conscious of eyes turning towards him and the pretty girl by his side. That was how it should be, he was used to it. He squeezed her arm gently and felt the pressure back on his own. It did not look as if he need bother about the Ysabel Kid or any other man, now.
Dusty, Mark and the Kid rode up to the Wedge camp and received greetings from their old friends. Short, stocky Silent Churchman, who belied both names when roused; heavily mustached, miserable looking, medium sized Peaceful Gunn, who would always ride a good two inches out of his way to avoid trouble; tall, grizzled and capable Waggles Harrison, the segundo, all greeted the three riders delightedly. Doc Leroy, tall, slim, pallid and studious looking, his store coat with the right side stitched back to leave clear the ivory handle of his Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, turned from where he was checking the supply of bandages and other gear he used for his doctoring chores, raised a hand in a cheery salute then went on with his work. The old cook, Chow Willicka, short, clean-shaven and quick, paused in his tirade against his regular louse, grunted as he saw who was here and went on with it once more. Young Rin, the wrangler, the night hawk and the four men Stone hired to supplement the crew for the drive, all looked on. They did not know who the three Texans were but they did know what they were.
Stone Hart sat with Vance Brownlow and his wife by the fire and looked up with a grin.
“See you made it, Dusty,” the trail boss said. “I took on all the hands I need to ride the herd through. How about coming along as shotgun guard?”
“A good idea,” agreed Vance. He’d been worrying about how Stone would get on if Dusty rode with them. Dusty had a reputation as being a trail boss and might not take to riding under another man. He did not know that Dusty would have been just as willing to ride as a hand and take orders as he would to take command. Dusty had been a soldier and knew that to lead men one had to be ready to take orders as well as give them.
“We’ll ride with you like that,” Dusty agreed. “When do we pull out?”
“Right now. I want to put a few miles between us and Tombstone,” Stone replied. “There’s a chance Rambeau might try and scatter the remuda, or shoot up the camp and I don’t want to take a chance on any of the crew catching lead.”
So it was arranged without fuss or bother. Dusty was to ride with Mark as a guard while the Kid went ahead as scout. The herd must be brought through and they aimed to see it was.
Seven – A Chance Offered
Vance Brownlow rode between Dusty Fog and Stone Hart towards his old white-walled Spanish style house. The building was in the grand style of the old hacienda made by men who had plenty of good, cheap labor and wanted a home which would last for centuries. The house stood in the center of large grounds and was surrounded by a high parapeted wall from the safety of which riflemen could pour lead down on any attackers. There was but one entrance to the grounds, through a large, steel-studded, heavy wooden gate which looked strong enough to stand up to an artillery pounding. All in all the place looked as if it was built to be used as a fort—and had been more than once.
It only took one look at the building down below to tell Dusty that Vance was no man’s fool and that he could stay alive in this wild country as long as he had plenty of supplies, water from the well in the ground and ammunition. In the grounds of the house was a long line of stables in which the personal mounts of the cowhands were held, while the main remuda was out in the corrals, under the wall, where they could be covered with rifle fire if need be.
Looking around, Dusty tried to catch some sight of the herd, but could not do so, which surprised him. The country rolled up into the foothills about half a mile away, but all around there was little or no cover and certainly nowhere near enough for a herd of five hundred head to hide in. The herd must be held somewhere near the house or the Apaches would have jumped it before now.
“We made it safely,” Vance remarked. “I thought they might try to hit us at the crossing of the Carne River.”
“Lon said there was Apache sign up there, but it was old,” Dusty replied. “I reckon that’ll be where they aim to hit the herd. We’ll all be too busy handling the cattle to keep a good watch.”
“We’ve got to get the herd moving fast,” Stone pointed out, looking around him, clearly puzzled as Dusty had been, at the lack of sign of the herd.
“When do you mean to start out?” asked Vance as they rode through the gates, which had been opened by his foreman and a cowhand.
“At dawn comes the morning,” Stone replied. “Make a fast run and hope that we aren’t being watched.”
The Ysabel Kid and Johnny Raybold drew their horses to one side and allowed the others to ride on by them. For three days since leaving Tombstone they’d been on the scout and what they’d found confirmed that the Apaches were about, just waiting for a chance to hit the herd.
Hooking his leg up over his saddlehorn, Johnny looked around with some considerable care. “We’re being watched, Lon,” he stated.
“Sure,” was the laconic reply.
“Scouts for the Apache?”
“Likely.”
Johnny extracted a sack of tobacco, took out papers and rolled two smokes, his fingers working as if they had eyes of their own. He passed one cigarette to the Kid, who rasped a match on his thumb and held it towards the tip of Johnny’s weed. The smokes were going and the two men sat their horses drawing in the tobacco fumes and exhaling them once more.
“Never rode scout against Apaches,” Johnny remarked, not for the first time. “Hoss-Indians, like your kinfolk, are more my line.”
“Man’d say they’re the worst of all the tribes,” answered the Kid. “Grandpappy Long Walker always used to tell me he claimed one Apache coup counted for two against any other tribe.”
Johnny thought over the words and they gave him little comfort. It was not bad praise, coming from a war leader of the Dog Soldier Lodge, a branch of the Comanche Nation noted for being great fighting men in their own right.
“Where’d the scouts be?” Johnny asked, as he finished his smoke and carefully put out the stub before throwing it away.
“Out there somewhere,” drawled the Kid, waving a hand to the open land before them.
The smoking had not been the sole reason for Johnny and the Kid staying out here after the others had all gone in. All the time they’d been smoking their eyes had been flickering around, checking every inch of the ground ahead of them for some sight of the Apache scouts their instinct warned were watching.
Johnny had been born and raised in Indian country and had learned the tricks of the Indian scout early and from necessity. He knew the ways of Indians—but as he said, they’d been Comanches, Southern Cheyenne, Kiowa, horse-Indians all. The tribes Johnny knew did their moving, scouting and fighting from the back of the “god-dog”, that wonderful four-legged creature which came to them from the early Spanish Conquistadores. Johnny knew the ways of such Indians and knew little or nothing about Apaches. The horse-Indian scorned excessive stealth as a way of war and any fighting he did was from the back of a racing war pony, plainly, openly and with spectacular results. The Apaches were different. They used the horse, but not to the extent of the plains tribes. True, given a war relay, an Apache would run a grain fed cavalry troop into the ground, but the Apache would do that same thing on his own two feet given a start across his type of country. The Apache was just as at home on his two feet as he was on a horse and he would fight from cover, in ambush if he could, preferring to take life in war, rather than lose his own through lack of caution.
“I don’t see them any place,” Johnny remarked after another moment’s hard searching of the g
round ahead.
“You wasn’t expecting them to stand on top of the rocks and wave signal blankets, now was you?”
“Was they Comanches, I might. Comanches don’t have no better sense,” scoffed Johnny, then became more serious. “You got any of them spotted, Lon?”
“Think maybe I spotted one, about half a mile away out there. By them two rocks that are side by side. I could be calling it wrong though.”
Johnny reached down to his saddle pouch, where he carried a pair of powerful field glasses for just such an emergency. Before he could take out the glasses he was stopped by the Kid shooting out a hand to grip his wrist.
“No go, amigo,” warned the Kid. “They can see us and likely know what those glasses are for. Happen they reckon we’ve got one of them spotted they pull out and hide up again, only this time we won’t get to see them. Let’s ride on in and tell Stone what we’ve seen.”
“We haven’t seen anything,” Johnny pointed out.
“Sure, that’ll please him. Show him we’re doing our work.” The other men were already in the grounds and dismounting when the Kid and Johnny rode towards the gates. Already Vance’s foreman was showing the men where to leave their horses. Stone looked around, saw that his men were being attended to and got down to serious business.
