by J. T. Edson
To Tiburcio’s left rode Vicente. Youngest of the brothers, he dressed as stylishly as any rich haciendero’s favorite son. Lines of dissipation and evil already marred his handsome features, hinting at the true, merciless nature underneath. Silver sparkled on his clothing, horse’s rig and traced patterns on the ivory handles of the two Navy Colts riding butt forward in the holsters of his gunbelt. His bayo naranjadov gelding moved gracefully, if nervously, for he used spurs, quirt and ring bit impartially to enforce his will.
If his brothers might have passed for high-born Spanish Mexicans, the same did not apply to Matteo. Middle-sized, thickset, he had a face which even a mother would find hard to love. A jagged knife-scar down the left cheek did nothing to improve the effect of a receding forehead, sunken eyes, a crooked nose and thick, surly lips. He had a scarlet bandana bound about his head and his sombrero trailed by its storm-strap on his back. A filthy white shirt hung open to show a hair-matted chest. Dirty white pantaloons covered his lower regions and bare feet rested in the stirrups of an Indian saddle. Only the Dragoon Colt in an open-bottomed half-breed holster and heavy, long-bladed machete hanging from the other side of his weapon belt showed any sign of care or cleaning. He slouched afork a runty buckskin that looked like it was waiting for the turkey vultures to feed on it and could out-run any horse in the gang.
‘It looks as if Brother Adàn tried to rob a stagecoach,’ Vicente commented. ‘And did as well at it as at every—’
‘Shut your mouth and use your eyes!’ Tiburcio barked, head turning from side to side as he searched for any hint of danger. ‘What do you think, Matteo?’
Before answering, Matteo looked up at the vultures and then examined the land around the bodies. Knowing his brother’s thoroughness and ability in such matters, Tiburcio was content to wait for an answer.
‘There’s nobody around,’ Matteo decided.
‘The birds haven’t come down to feed yet,’ Tiburcio pointed out, although willing to accept the verdict.
‘Maybe whoever he tried to rob have only just gone,’ Matteo answered. ‘Indians might be able to hide around there without me seeing them, but no white man could.’
Satisfied that there was no danger of them riding into an ambush, Tiburcio kept moving. However, he did not go straight to the bodies, but led his party on to the trail some distance from where they lay. He wanted to learn how Adàn came to be killed. So he kept the horses away from where they might trample over tracks or other signs that would tell so much to trained eyes. Although there was no immediate threat, he did not forget to take the basic precautions against being surprised.
‘Two of you go each way and watch the trail,’ he barked, halting the tobiano and dismounting.
While two of the gang rode off in each direction, Matteo and Vicente swung from their saddles. Leaving their horses standing ‘ground hitched’ with trailing reins, the brothers walked forward. Without as much as glancing at the other bodies, they approached Adàn. Matteo’s eyes raked across the ground, noticing every bent-over blade of grass and reading its message. So did Tiburcio and a puzzled frown crept on to his face.
Going to the body, Matteo knelt by it and turned the head to look at the wound. A perplexed expression creased his face and he made the sign of the cross as he studied the burning caused by the muzzle-blast.
‘How could it happen?’ Matteo breathed.
‘Adàn was always stupid—’ Vicente answered.
‘Not stupid enough to let a man walk up and put a gun against the side of his head,’ Matteo interrupted.
‘His gun’s been fired,’ Tiburcio went on, having picked up the Starr and checked its condition. ‘There’s no sign that he hit anything.’
While the brothers devoted their attention to Adàn, the rest of the gang fanned out to examine the other bodies. Enough of them could read-sign and tell roughly what had happened. However, their main concern was to search the corpses, not to worry over why the robbery had gone wrong. One of the men reached the side of Temple’s victim and made a discovery.
‘¡Patron!’ he yelled. ‘Arturo’s alive!’
Thrusting the Starr into his waistband, Tiburcio strode rapidly towards the speaker. His haste sprang from a desire for information rather than interest in the wounded man’s welfare.
Pain from the hoof-graze had combined with the two buckshot wounds to render Arturo unconscious. In his hurry to leave before the rest of the gang arrived, the Kid had not made a close examination of the shot bandidos. So the fact that Arturo lived had gone undiscovered. During the time Arturo had lain insensible, the wounds continued to bleed. So he regained consciousness too weak to do more than lie and make feeble movements which prevented the cautious vultures from landing. Shortly before the gang appeared, he had fainted again.
‘Bring water and tequila,’ Tiburcio called to the men by the trail, looking down at Arturo’s haggard features. ‘Move your—’
‘Si, patron,’ the bandido answered. ‘And when I come back, I will have the woman who killed him.’
‘We’ll know where to find her by then,’ Tiburcio promised. ‘When we get to the Creek, Matteo, we’ll send a man into town to fetch Arnaldo Hogan out to us.’
‘He’ll know all there is to know,’ Matteo agreed. ‘Let’s ride.’
‘¡Patron!’ Arturo gasped, watching the brothers turn away. ‘What about my wounds?’
‘See to them for him Vicente,’ Tiburcio ordered.
For once the youngest brother accepted an order without question or hesitation. Drawing and cocking his right-hand Colt, he swung back towards the wounded man. Neither Tiburcio nor Matteo looked back as the shot cracked out. Walking over to the waiting men, Tiburcio told them what he wanted done. Vicente joined his brothers, holstering the smoking Colt.
‘His wounds don’t trouble him now,’ the youngster said.
‘Let’s ride.’ His eyes met those of Manuel and he went on. ‘The sooner we’ve done this, the sooner we can get our revenge.’
Chapter Four
Colin Farquharson was a worried, puzzled man as he left his room at the Grand Hotel to go downstairs for a meal. Born and raised in the Scottish highlands, he found difficulty in understanding the casual manner in which the law enforcement officer in Fort Sawyer reacted to hearing of the attempted armed robbery and killing of five men.
Once the stagecoach had started moving with its depleted team, Colin found himself with time to think. He began to wonder what would happen when the local police, or whatever they might be, learned that he had killed a man.
Seeing that he was concerned, April had set about diverting him. With the deft ease of a professional hostess, she got him talking. Remarking that she had left Galveston to take a better job in a Fort Sawyer saloon, she inquired what brought Colin to Texas. Only too pleased to have his thoughts taken from the killing, he told her how his uncle had been a major in the Confederate States cavalry and had spoken in such glowing terms on his return to Scotland that Colin had decided to see the Lone Star State for himself. A cousin lived in Fort Sawyer, so Colin planned to visit him before starting on a hunting expedition.
For her part, Jeanie had made it plain that she did not want to join in the conversation. Nursing the dead guard’s shotgun, she had answered the few questions directed at her in monosyllables and showed that she wished to be left alone. Colin had put the girl’s reticence down to annoyance at how he had treated her, while April regarded it as no more than a ‘good’ woman’s snobbish objections to travelling with a saloon-worker. As long as daylight lasted, Jeanie had repeatedly leaned out of the window and looked back along the trail. She showed considerable relief when the Ysabel Kid called from the roof that the lights of the town were in sight.
Night had fallen as the coach passed through the Mexican section, went along the main street and came to a halt before the stage depot. Although Colin’s appearance had attracted some comment among the crowd awaiting the coach’s arrival, news of what had delayed it took their attentio
n from him.
On his arrival the county sheriff had asked questions, most of which the Kid and Temple answered. Much to Colin’s surprise, the paunchy, miserable-looking peace officer accepted all he was told and did not offer to take down written statements. He had expressed satisfaction on hearing of Adàn Flores’ death and stated that Colin did not need to worry about the other brothers seeking revenge while staying in Fort Sawyer; a comment which brought a low grunt of disapproval from the Kid. Promising that he would take out a posse to collect the bodies in the morning, the sheriff told the passengers that they could go about their business.
After repeating his warning that Colin should watch out for the remaining Flores brothers, the Kid collected his saddle and disappeared along the street in the direction of the army post. For a moment Jeanie had stood staring at Colin, seeming on the verge of speaking. Then she turned and walked away in the opposite direction to that taken by the Kid. After reminding Colin to come over for a drink later, April had crossed the street and entered the Black Bear Saloon.
Asking the depot agent about his cousin, Colin had learned that Tam Breda was away on business and not expected back for some weeks. Further questioning brought the information that the Grand Hotel was the best hotel in town. A small, sly-looking, dirty man called Arnie had offered to help carry his baggage to the hotel. On the way, Arnie had asked many questions about the hold-up which Colin put down to idle morbid curiosity.
Despite its grandiloquent title, the Grand Hotel proved to be a two-floor wooden building of no great size. If lacking in many of the facilities Colin expected in a hotel, it was clean and he had decided it would suit his purpose until Breda returned.
Walking down the stairs, Colin saw a tall, lean young man studying him from the reception desk. Straightening up, the young man ambled across the room. He had reddish-brown hair and a cheery, freckled face. A battered Confederate Army forage cap perched on his head and he wore a buckskin shirt, levis pants and riding boots. Although his face had an amiable grin, he kept his right hand thumb-hooked into his gunbelt close to the butt of a long-barreled Army Colt.
‘Howdy,’ the man greeted, freeing his thumb and extending the hand in Colin’s direction. ‘Name’s Kenny Schell. My lil sister, Jeanie, told me what happened on the trail. So I figured least I could do was come around and thank you for saving her hide.’
‘I didn’t save her,’ Colin objected, shaking hands.
‘That’s how she tells it,’ Kenny replied. ‘If that greaser’d laid hands on her, she’d be dead—or wishing she was—right now.’
‘The cowboy shot the man,’ Colin insisted. ‘All I did was stop your sister catching one of the horses.’
‘She told me how you stopped her,’ Kenny chuckled, ‘I’d vote Republican to’ve seed her face when you hauled her down. Happen you’re not ag’in it. I’d sure admire to buy you a drink.’
Suddenly Colin felt the need for company. He also decided that a second meeting with Jeanie Schell might be interesting, especially as she appeared to have lost her animosity towards him. There was something friendly and appealing about Kenny which suggested he might be worth cultivating as a companion. So Colin smiled and indicated the dining room.
‘I’m just going in to eat. Will you join me?’
‘Be right pleased to,’ Kenny grinned. ‘We could go home for some victuals, but Ma ‘n’ Jeanie’s out visiting.’
If Colin had been more experienced in western ways, he might have read significance in the way Kenny acted. After shaking hands, the young Texan returned his thumb to the belt. While walking towards the dining room, Kenny’s eyes darted from side to side. He was tense, watchful and, to anyone who knew of such things, ready for trouble. Leading the way into the room, Kenny gave its few occupants a quick scrutiny. Then he walked by the empty tables in the center of the room, selecting one against the wall and not in direct line with either door or windows.
Hanging his hat on the back of the chair, Kenny sat down and looked his companion over. Colin was still bare-headed, and had left off his plaid and the dirk.
‘Don’t you have a gun, Colin?’ Kenny inquired, after the Scot introduced himself.
‘I’ve a Henry, a shotgun and a double-barreled rifle.’
‘No handgun?’
‘No. I’ve a brace of pistols—’
‘Why aren’t you packing ’em?’ Kenny asked bluntly.
‘I didn’t see any need to go armed in town,’ Colin replied.
The young Texan let out his breath in a long hiss. ‘That was Adàn Flores you killed on the trail. Didn’t the Kid warn you that his kin’d be gunning for you?’
‘Yes. But the sheriff said I’d have nothing to worry about in town.’
‘Henny Lansing don’t know a greaser from a Tejas Injun,’ Kenny scoffed. ‘You should’ve listened to the Kid. Now there’s a feller who knows Mexicans. Will you be staying around for long?’
‘Until Tam Breda comes back,’ Colin answered.
‘That long, huh?’ Kenny said. ‘I can’t sti—’
At that moment the waiter arrived, a gnarled old-timer who rattled off a string of unintelligible names instead of offering a printed menu. So Colin took the easy way out.
‘What do you suggest, Kenny?’
‘Son-of-a-bitch stew, followed by apple pie,’ the Texan answered.
‘I respect your judgment,’ Colin said as the waiter hobbled away. ‘But what was that you ordered?’
‘Son-of-a-bitch stew?’ Kenny grinned. ‘It’s made out of most of a calf, ’cepting the hide, hooves and bellow, potatoes, stuff like that, cut up small and stewed up until you can’t tell which son-of-a-bitching part’s which.’
Despite the description, Colin found the stew very appetizing. While eating, he turned the conversation to the Schell family. From what Kenny said, they lived a nomadic life, catching wild horses, and had come to Fort Sawyer hoping to obtain a contract to supply remounts for the Army.
‘We should get it,’ Kenny continued as they finished the meal. ‘Pappy taught us all he knew about mustanging and we’ve a good crew of men.’
‘I wish you every success then,’ Colin stated, shoving back his chair. ‘And now for that drink. Miss Hosman, she was on the coach with us, invited me to the Black Bear Saloon. Shall we try there?’
‘It’s the best place in town,’ Kenny replied.
‘Your sister didn’t mention why she was travelling,’ Colin remarked as they walked out of the dining room.
‘Went to Brownsville to see some of our kin,’ Kenny answered, and for a moment a cold, worried expression flickered across his face. ‘Do you want to go up and fetch your gun?’
‘Surely not just to walk along the street,’ Colin protested.
‘Have it your way,’ Kenny drawled. ‘Only don’t count on getting up close to any more of the Flores boys. They’ll shoot you on sight.’
Although Colin thought that Kenny was exaggerating the danger, he kept quiet. To a man reared in the British Isles, it seemed improbable that known outlaws would dare to come into a town on a mission of revenge. So he declined to fetch the pistols from his room. Giving a resigned shrug, Kenny took the lead as they left the hotel.
Once the train of thought had been started, Colin could not help noticing the caution Kenny displayed. Before letting Colin through the door, Kenny swept the street in each direction with a cautious gaze. The young Texan spoke little and remained alert as they crossed the street and approached the Black Bear Saloon. Even as Colin began to wonder why the other had chosen to stay in his company, they reached the batwing doors at the front entrance.
Before offering to open the doors, Kenny looked the room’s occupants over. He saw only the usual sort of crowd, a few soldiers, townsmen, a sprinkling of range-country dwellers, waiters and half-a-dozen garishly-dressed girls. There were no Mexicans present in the bar or on the balcony leading to the upstairs rooms.
Colin became the target for every eye as he entered. Although he saw va
rious customers clearly talking about him, none of them came over or addressed him.
‘They’re telling each other about you killing Adàn Flores,’ Kenny remarked as he and Colin approached the bar.
‘Do they know about it?’ the Scot asked.
‘Everybody in town will by now,’ Kenny replied. ‘Likely they’re wondering how soon it’ll be afore Tiburcio Flores comes after you. What’ll you have?’
‘Whiskey,’ Colin answered, looking around the room then turning to the bartender who came their way. ‘Is Miss Hosman here?’
‘You’re the feller who killed Adàn Flores, huh?’ the man asked, looking nervously around the room. ‘Sure, she’s here.’ He nodded towards the stairs at the side of the room. ‘I’ll send word up to her that you’ve come.’
Following the direction of the bartender’s gaze, Colin saw a sharp-featured, middle-sized, scrawny man on the stairs. Dressed in dirty range clothes, with a Navy Colt holstered on his hip, the man stared towards the bar. Yet Colin got the idea that, for once, he was not the object of interest. Seeing Colin and Kenny looking his way, the man turned and slouched back to disappear on to the balcony.
‘How long’s Sprig Branch been in town, bar-keep?’ Kenny asked.
‘Who?’ the bartender grunted as he took up a bottle of whiskey.
‘That feller on the stairs didn’t come in on his lonesome,’ Kenny stated.
‘Him and three pards come in just after sundown,’ the bartender explained, pouring drinks into glasses. ‘Miss Hosman said for you to have the first one on her, mister.’
‘I’m getting to like her afore I meet her,’ Kenny grinned, finding himself included in the gift. ‘Here’s long life to you and her, Colin.’
‘And to you,’ Colin answered, raising his glass. The drink had a raw bite to it and did not taste like the whiskey distilled in his native Highlands, but was better than he expected. ‘I take it you knew yon wee feller who was looking us over from the stairs.’
