by T. T. Flynn
He was in a strange world, a quiet world-quiet and dim and peaceful. Yes, peaceful and restful, but strange The wallpaper on the ceiling and side walls was strange, the pictures on the wall, the bed, even the quiet and peacefulness were strange. There never was much quiet where the twelve Macgillicuddy children lived.
The sound of a distant chime whistle floated into the room, and a lump came into Shadow's throat. He was near the railroad, near home-home and his twelve children and their mother. Twelve children and their mother, and jobless. He was jobless, he knew. No need to speculate about that. Gatz would not hold the job open for a day. How long he had been away he did not know. It was long enough to lose the job. He sensed that.
Shadow closed his eyes and lay quietly for some time Finally hot tears oozed out from between his closed lids. Fourteen mouths to feed, and he had no job. They were probably hungry. The tears came faster.
Of a sudden a gruff voice beside him asked: "What's the matter with you now?"
Shadow turned his head and opened his eyes. Leaning in a doorway, close to the bed, was Blanton, a wan Blanton, a Blanton with his head all wrapped in bandages. Blanton looked at Shadow sternly.
Somehow, in a way, it seemed natural for Blanton to be there. Shadow looked at him in silence. Finally he asked: "Where am I?"
"My house," said Blanton gruffly. "There wasn't room at your house for a sick man, so they brought you here. Anything else you want to know?"
There was.
"Gatz," said Shadow heavily, "I suppose he's fired me?"
"Yes," said Blanton. "I told him to"
Shadow swallowed. "My kids," he said painfully. "They'll starve. Gatz was the only man with work."
"Bosh," said Blanton roughly. "What do you care about that piddling job? You've got a good job on the railroad. Now that you've got a yard engine to run you ought to be satisfied." He added somewhat unnecessarily: "Ryan was in this morning to see how you are. He comes around almost every day to ask about you."
Shadow's thin hands clenched under the covers, and he swallowed again. The tears came again in spite of himself. "It's a good world," he said, and choked and managed to grin.
Blanton's eyes crinkled and moistened and he nodded.
"It is a good world," he agreed. "A great world if you make it so."
By 1944, T. T. Flynn was writing fiction primarily for the Popular Publications magazine group, Argosy, which by then had become a slick monthly, his Mr. Maddox racetrack mysteries for Dime Detective, and Western stories that, depending on length, appeared either in Dime Western or Fifteen Western Tales. Because Mike Tilden, who edited Dime Western, changed virtually all the titles of the stories in each issue according to his own calculus as to what would most appeal to readers, Flynn stopped giving his Western stories titles, leaving this up to the editor. In his story log he placed in parentheses after the word Western (Mex War) for this story. It was accepted on October 18, 1944, and appeared under the title "Guns of the Lobo Trail" in the May 1945 issue of Fifteen Western Tales. The author was paid $225.00.
The three riders moved single file and quietly through the thorn brush. Old Tucker Mossby led the way, his wild black beard slightly thrust forward, as if the beard, too, were as alert as Tucker's keen eyes.
John Brent rode second, and Shorty Quade brought up the rear. There was still fire in the setting sun, and heat in these south Texas thorn thickets that slapped a moist grip around a mountain man's throat and brought sweat from every pore.
Brent thought of the beaver country in the high Rockies, 1,000 miles and more behind them, and turned in the saddle with a faint smile.
"Shorty, what'd you give for a mountain camp tonight?"
"Tucker's whiskers an' this whole dern' Mexican War we're tryin' to find," Shorty groaned wistfully. "When I think what you an' Tucker talked me into, I could sit down an' cry. All these weeks of ridin', gettin' shot at by hostile Injuns, an' we find a lowdown, thorned-up, god-fersaken country like this. Nary a mountain. Nary a cold spring. If old Gin'ral Taylor's fightin' Mexico over thorny brush like this, he oughta get whupped. I always knowed Texans was queer. They'd have to be to put up with this."
"Quiet!" Tucker Mossby's warning growl reached back to them.
The old mountain hunter had flung his face up and was sniffing, watching the gently moving leaves at the top of an oak, ahead and to the left of the trail.
A moment later Tucker pointed. Not far beyond the tree broad buzzard wings circled low across a patch of sky and went out of sight behind the rampart of thorn brush that sided the trail. Tucker Mossby rode on silently, his greasy, fringed buckskin hunting shirt dark with perspiration.
A few moments later Brent caught the sweet, sickening odor of death, faint, far away, yet noted by old Tucker's nostrils as surely as a wolf ever nosed a hot deer trail.
Wild cattle, unshod horses had traveled the brush trail they were following. None of the sign was fresh, not even the sign they had been following for a day and a half. Tucker's judgment had been as good as any.
"Comanche bucks raidin' toward the Rio Grande," Tucker said. "Eight of them, I make it. Might as well let 'em lead us to the river. They'll know the quick way an' the water holes."
The trail swung left. Tucker presently pointed to more buzzards soaring in the rays of the setting sun. Beside the trail in a little grassy clearing a small log cabin stood with its door open invitingly.
The smell of death was stronger. Fresh white bones gleamed in the wild grass near the cabin. Two buzzards took off from the ground with a clumsy rush and beating of wings. Tucker spoke briefly as Brent and Shorty ranged up beside him and they rode toward the cabin.
"Them Comanches got blood here. I bet it was so easy they laughed."
Two horses had been killed. The bones of a man were nearby in the grass, skull grinning toward the blue sky and all bones cleaned by the buzzards.
Shorty picked up a crude leather sandal near the skeleton. "Mexican," he guessed.
Brent walked to the cabin doorway, a tall, powerful, loose-limbed figure, flat-crowned black hat pushed back on his dark damp hair. Since leaving the Ohio River country six years ago he had seen violence and death. He had fought Indians and trapped and traded in the New Mexican settlements. He had become tough and crafty and trail-wise. But he swore at what he found in the ransacked little cabin.
Tucker Mossby stepped in silently as usual. Tucker seemed to melt and flow, to appear and disappear without warning. Now Tucker looked briefly at what was left of the bodies on the hard-packed dirt floor. Two babies, two children not much larger, two women, one of whom had had snowy hair.
"I've knowed good Injuns," Tucker said, and he spat. "They wasn't Comanches." Tucker turned out. "There's a well in back. Might as well camp here. You'll git used to the smell."
There was a well sweep and a crude wooden bucket that brought up sweet fresh water. Brent drank deeply and Shorty followed him, balancing the bucket on the log well curb. Tucker Mossby had moved carelessly around the well with silent steps. His growl came out of the wild black beard.
"Git the hosses here to the well an' water 'em like you wasn't thinkin' of nothin' else. But git your guns ready."
"Trouble?" Brent asked.
"Water's' been spilt on this side. We ain't the first that's drunk here in the last half hour."
Tucker was sitting on the well curb, lazily looking around the grassy opening when Brent and Shorty brought the horses. They had rawhide saddle pockets and blankets strapped behind the saddles. That was all. Pack horses, trail gear had long been lost in running Indian fights far back in the buffalo wilderness.
"They're watchin' us," Tucker grumbled. "Waitin' to see if we make camp or ride on. Injuns again. Bet it's the same bunch that come through here the other day. You can bet they remembered this water. I got one sighted over there in the brush. He's so dern' sure we're easy meat he's bobbin' his head up an' down like a razzled prairie dog."
"I see him," Brent said. "Shorty, it'd be a shame to
lose your hair after coming this far."
"Be worse to lose my horse an' have to walk to the Rio Grande," Shorty said gloomily. "Tucker, we gonna run?"
A turkey called back in the brush. Another answered nearer the trail and a little farther away. Tucker stood up lazily, his Pennsylvania rifle across a bent arm.
"Draw one more bucket an' I'll tell you. That gobble down the trail sounds like they're set to pick us off if we ride on. An' they'll git us afore dark if we set here." Tucker spat. His wild black beard had a threatening look. "Four little kids," he said. "An' a old gran'maw. I mean to git me that red-hided prairie dog over there while I got the light. I'll bet he's the one that kilt of gran'maw."
The last horse drank the last bucket of water dry. Turkey calls drifted through the thorn brush.
"Jump on the horses quick when I shoot him," Tucker said. "Ride to the other side of the clearing an' sort of circle fast to draw some shots. My guess is there won't be none on that side."
"Why not ride into the brush over there and see if they follow?" Brent suggested. "Might catch them out in the open if they get the idea we're leaving fast."
"You always come up with a good idee," Tucker granted. He spat again. "I had the same idee. You ready?"
No one answered. They rode and fought and worked this way, three men used to each other, trusting each other, usually thinking alike. Tucker Mossby was the best shot. He could take the eye out of a sitting jackrabbit almost as far as the small animal was visible. Tucker stepped to his horse as if to mount, and aimed and fired with one smooth quick motion.
Brent glimpsed a quick flurry of motion where the Indian had been watching. By the time he forked the saddle the sound of the shot was followed by silence.
"Got him in the head!" Tucker exclaimed. "Now he can tell gran'maw how it feels!"
A high-pitched howl of warning rang from the brush. Gunshots broke raggedly after them. Tucker Mossby yelled as they circled in the clearing at full gallop.
"Only four guns so far! It's that small bunch of Comanch'! Bust back in the brush after 'em afore the devils git a chance to reload!" Tucker set the example by howling wildy and charging the brush. Brent and Shorty followed, spreading out. They could fight this way, changing plans, each knowing what to do. They struck the brush, leaning low forward, and knowing that the thorns would rip and tear.
Beyond whipping branches, Brent sighted a darting shadow off to the left. He reined sharply that way, lost the figure, and then got a quick sight of a bare, dodging torso. The man wheeled, fired a heavy musket, missed. Thorns slashed Brent's face. He held steady and fired the Colt revolver he carried and preferred. He saw the brown figure plunge down, try to scramble up, and fall flat again.
Blood was oozing on Brent's face as he reined to a stop beside the dark-skinned figure. He heard two fast shots over toward the trail, and the farther battle whoop of Tucker Mossby and the plunging rush of Tucker's horse. But as the man he had shot rolled over and showed a hideously painted face in black, red, white stripes, Brent swung fast out of the saddle. The man was dying, red froth on his lips, eyes rolling, chest heaving as he tried to breathe. Brent roughly ran fingers through the man's light brown hair, and wet a fingertip and rubbed a spot on the bony chest. The brownish red color lightened and showed dingy white skin where he rubbed.
"Thought so," Brent said. "White man, aren't you?"
The rolling eyes fixed on him. The man stopped struggling for breath, as if in the haze of death he were trying to collect himself, to think.
"How many more like you around here?" Brent asked.
The man sucked a convulsive, bubbling breath. His fists clenched, the cords in his brown throat tightened as he gasped: "Polly dancing Matamoras. Watch rooster."
"What's that?" Brent demanded, bending lower.
But he was speaking to a dying man, whose life gushed from a slack and silent mouth.
Frowning, Brent stood up. He heard another burst of shots, and he rode through the thorn brush in that direction. When he sighted another dodging figure, he held fire and spurred after it.
He was riding down a slender youth, dressed in shirt, pants, and armed only with a hunting knife. He could have killed the fugitive, but he rode the youth down instead, and made a flying drop from the saddle, revolver in one hand, rifle in the other. He was met with a rush and the slashing knife.
Brent was head and shoulders taller. There was something so laughable about the sobbing fury of the attack that Brent dropped both guns and met the rush, grinning and empty-handed. Even at that he was surprised at the ease with which he slapped the knife aside, and then wrenched it from a small, brown-stained hand. For this was another white one, with fine dark hair tied back with a red cloth about the forehead.
"Hold quiet, you young snake," Brent panted. "White or red, I oughta kill you, and maybe I will." He slapped the scuffling figure reeling.
"iMadre de Dios! You slap me?" was the furiously sobbing threat that came with another rush
Brent caught at a hand that was trying to rake fingernails across his face. He missed the hand and got the shirt instead, and the power of his grip tore the old sleeve half off. "You ain't a man!" Brent gulped, backing away.
Breathing hard, tears of rage and fright still on her stained cheeks, she stood holding the torn shirt together. Now Brent saw that the fine brown hair, cut long for a boy but short for a girl, was trying to curl under the edges of the red head cloth. She could not be twenty. He guessed eighteen, small, with a boyish build. She had made a handsome youth. She made a prettier girl, and the dark-tinted skin of her face and neck and hands did her no harm. Under the torn shirt her arm had been whiter than Brent's.
She watched silently as Brent picked up his guns. He had shoved her knife inside his belt.
"What's your name?" Brent questioned. She looked back silently.
A rider approached through the brush. Brent stepped to his horse and waited warily. The girl gave an uneasy look toward the approaching sounds and edged toward him, still holding the shirt together with one hand.
Tucker Mossby yelled: "Johnny Brent!"
"Here!"
"Got him, did you?" Tucker remarked with satisfaction as he rode up. "I kilt a couple back there where their hosses was tied. Four of them was tryin' to get mounted. One big buck was draggin' this 'n' onto a hoss with him. But when I cut loose, this 'n' fell off an' the big feller sold out alone. This 'n' run off. I'll swear the big 'n' had red hair. Mean-lookin'. You gonna shoot this 'n, or you want me to?"
"Did you look close at the ones you killed?"
"Hell's fire! When I'm killin' Injuns, I ain't got time to look!"
"Go back and look. I'll take care of this one."
"Shoot him in the back fer of gran'maw an' her white hair," Tucker advised callously.
"How many in your party?" Brent asked the girl when Tucker rode off.
"Eight." She sniffed and stole a look at him.
"Eight thieving, killing renegades! You heard him tell me to kill you."
She nodded, biting her lip.
"Colored like an Indian! Killing babies and old women!"
The girl nodded. "Si, senor, if you say so. How many babies?"
"Four," said Bent, getting angry.
"Si, senor. Four if you say so."
"Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"No, senor."
"Don't call me that. You can talk good English."
She smiled faintly and said nothing.
"What's your name?"
The red tip of her small tongue paused between her lips thoughtfully. "Rosita," she decided.
"That's not your right name!"
She smiled faintly again and watched him.
"Who's Polly?"
She stiffened ever so slightly. Johnny Brent thought fright appeared in her look. He was not sure. All the expression faded out of her face. She had lost her fear of him. She had edged instinctively toward him for safety when Tucker Mossby rode up. Now that feeling was gon
e. She stood with sober watchfulness, like a trapped and waiting wild thing.
"Keep close to me," Brent warned, leading his horse in the direction Tucker had vanished.
Rosita walked beside him. Once she stepped quickly forward and held up a low-hanging thorn branch. Brent grunted thanks. She did not look at him.
Shorty and Tucker Mossby were in a small grassy opening. Two pack horses and three saddled horses were still tied there. Tucker was swearing.
"Renegades. An' I thought they was Injuns. Hell. They're wuss'n Comanch'. Whyn't you kill that young devil? Git away from him, Johnny, an' I'll shoot him. I ain't even waitiri to ask him questions." Tucker cocked his revolver and loosed a string of lurid and threatening profanity.
Rosita dodged behind Brent. He could feel her hand tremble as she clutched his shirt
"Hold it, Tucker! You don't want to kill a girl, do you?"
"What's that?" Tucker roared. He stared, openmouthed, and lowered the gun and stalked closer. Rosita shrank closer against Brent. "I'll be...." Tucker swallowed. "I'll be ... he said again weakly.
Shorty had come from the pack horses, and now Shorty's weathered and sharp face puckered in quick admiration. "Purty, ain't she?"
Tucker holstered his gun and snorted. "Prob'ly she's the one kilt old gran'tnaw. Nothin' beats a squaw for bein' blood-thirsty when she gets a chance."
Rosita stiffened inside Brent's arms and flared angrily: "Don't you call me a squaw!"
"White girl," Tucker muttered. "Mean-tempered, too." He gave Brent a reproachful look. "Long as you didn't kill her, you got to worry with her. Better find out what kind of a snake's nest we busted up here."
"Her name is Rosita, and she won't talk," Brent said.
"Whup her," Tucker advised. "I had me a Blackfoot squaw who got contrary an' plagued me until I snatched a willow switch an' whupped her twicet around the teepee. You never seen a woman git so sweet. She tole me later it proved I wanted to keep her."
