by J. T. Edson
Two men stood on the porch, illuminated by the light from the open door. One was at least six foot three in height, a golden blond giant with an almost classically handsome face. In his right hand, he held a white Stetson, its band decorated by silver conchas. All his clothes, although functional and cowhand style, had been made to measure. A green silk bandana trailed over his tan-colored shirt, the latter cut to set off his great spread of shoulders and tapering waist. Everything about him hinted at enormous strength. Around his middle hung a wide leather gunbelt, two ivory handled Army Colts in carefully designed holsters rode on it. Such a rig would allow very fast withdrawal of the guns.
Compared with his companion, the other man seemed hardly worth a second glance. From his curly dusty blond hair to the high-heeled boots on his feet he stood no more than five foot six. Good looking, it was not in the eye-catching way of the blond giant. Although his calfskin vest, blue shirt and levis pants were of the best quality, he contrived to make them look like somebody’s cast-offs. Not even the excellently made gun-belt and twin bone-handled Army Colts riding butt forward in its holsters made the small man more noticeable. Yet, if one chose to look closely, there was a strength, intelligence and power in his face. The clothes concealed rather than revealed the small man’s well-developed physique.
It was to the second man, the insignificant-seeming young cowhand, that Jeanie addressed her welcome.
‘Come in, Cap’n Dusty. And you, friend.’
‘Howdy, Jeanie, Ma,’ Dusty Fog greeted, entering the cabin followed by his companion. This’s Mark Counter.’
In the near future Mark Counter became known for his enormous strength and ability as a rough-house fighter. His taste in clothes dictated what the well-dressed Texas cowhand would wear. However, that evening in Fort Sawyer neither Jeanie nor Ma had heard of him.
Son of a Big Bend rancher, Mark had joined Dusty and the Kid during the former’s mission into Mexico. Instead of returning to his home when the mission ended, he decided to become a member of the OD Connected. Not just a ranch hand, but as one of the floating outfit; a small select group who travelled the back ranges, or handled work away from the spread.
‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ Mark said with old-time courtesy.
‘We were real sorry to hear about Trader, Ma,’ Dusty went on. ‘Uncle Devil sends his respects.’
‘Thank you, Dusty,’ Ma replied. ‘Rest your feet. Have you fed?’
‘Colonel at the post gave us supper,’ Dusty told her. ‘We’d brought in a herd of beef he needed to feed the Tejas.’
‘They need feeding,’ Ma commented, watching the men sit at the table.
‘I was right pleased when Lon told me you were on the stage, Jeanie,’ Dusty remarked. ‘Figured you could take us to Ma. It got better when I found out you’re staying in town. We need fifty horses for the OD Connected and Double B remudas. Can you get them for us, Ma?’
‘I reckon so. How soon do you want them?’
‘As quick as you can,’ Dusty told her. ‘Spreads’re going to need more horses if this idea of Uncle Charlie Goodnight’s comes off.’
‘What idea’s that?’ Jeanie asked, for Colonel Charles Goodnight stood at the peak of the cattle industry.
‘Him and Oliver Loving’s been driving cattle to Fort Sumner, over to New Mexico,’ Dusty explained. ‘Well, he figures to take three thousand head later this year—’
‘Three thousand!’ Jeanie gasped.
‘The Army’ll buy them to feed the Apaches on the reservations,’ Mark told her. ‘But that’s only part of it.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘If that many can be handled, we figure to try driving them to the railroad in Kansas.’
‘If it can be done, it’ll be the answer to where we can sell our beef,’ Mark went on soberly. ‘Sure it’ll be hard, but a herd that size’ll pay for the taking.’
‘Handling the herd’s going to call for four to six horses a man,’ Dusty said. ‘So we’ll need more of them.’
‘We’ll get them for you,’ Ma promised. ‘The Kid allows he’s working for you, Dusty.’
‘He is,’ the small Texan grinned. ‘He met up with us at the post. Was coming here, but he saw Arnie Hogan riding out of town with a Mexican and figured to look around. Where’s Kenny at?’
‘He went to the hotel,’ Ma replied. ‘I allowed he’d best go side that Scotch feller who was on the stage if the Flores boys come calling.’
‘We saw that feller’s name on the register at the hotel when we went for rooms,’ Mark said, ‘Happen he’s kin to Major Angus Farquharson who ran my company in Sheldon’s Cavalry, I’d say he can look after himself.’
~*~
In the Black Bear Saloon, Colin Farquharson looked like he was to be given a chance to prove Mark’s words.
Every instinct Colin possessed warned him of danger. He felt sure that the incident had gone farther than a quarrel following a senseless, tasteless and unfunny piece of horseplay. A sideways glance at Kenny’s set, grim face, taken with the menacing behavior of the four men facing them and the attitude of the watching crowd confirmed his suspicions. Angus Farquharson had often mentioned the quick tempers of the Texans and commented on their way of settling arguments with roaring guns.
‘Let’s go, Colin,’ Kenny said quietly after delivering his warning.
For all the even manner in which he spoke, Kenny knew the danger. While competent with his Colt, he lacked the flashing, deadly speed of a top gun fighter. Maybe he stood a chance of taking one of the four with him, but he was sure to be killed. Guessing what Branch had in mind, Kenny knew that backing down offered no answer. Branch’s bunch would continue to goad Colin until the Scot resisted. When that happened, Kenny would again be drawn into conflict. So Kenny figured that the affair had best be settled straight away.
‘You know how it is, Kenny boy,’ Branch said mockingly. ‘If we let him go without showing us now, we’d be laughed out of town. So we can’t let him go.’
A double clicking sound reached Branch’s ears. While not as famous as it would become, he recognized it as the noise made by a Henry rifle’s loading mechanism at work. Branch and his companions looked into the bar mirror and discovered that another player sat in the game. Or stood in on it. A tall, slim, baby-faced youngster, dressed all in black, propped open the batwing doors, handling a short repeating rifle with casual competence.
‘You want to bet you can’t?’ asked the Ysabel Kid.
With that, he strolled across the room. He carried the Winchester in his right hand, with his forefinger inside the trigger guard and the other three curled through the lever, the barrel resting on his right shoulder.
Watching the Kid come towards him, Colin was reminded of a caged leopard he had once seen. There was the same latent, controlled deadly ease of movement, the warning that he could explode into blindingly fast movement. From the Kid, Colin turned his eyes to his tormentors. All but Branch showed uneasiness as the black-dressed youngster came to a halt at Colin’s left side.
‘Who asked you to bill in?’ Branch demanded belligerently.
‘Easy, Spring!’ Moore whispered urgently. ‘That’s the Ysabel Kid.’
Instantly a change came over Branch. While he had not recognized the Kid, he was fully aware of the other’s reputation. Stacking up against Kenny Schell and the unarmed Scot suddenly lost all its attraction, when to do so also meant taking on the Ysabel Kid. So a weak grin twisted at his lips.
‘Hell, we were only kidding,’ Branch declared. The boys just wanted to know what the feller wears under his skirt.’
‘He killed Adàn Flores for trying to find out,’ the Kid replied. ‘So if you bunch’ve a mind to see, come ahead.’
Having flung down his challenge, the Kid stood in relaxed readiness to meet any attempt to take it up. So did Kenny, his hand hovering to scoop the Army Colt from its holster at the first hostile move.
None came. Instead Branch shrugged and said, ‘We’ll forget it if he feels that st
rong about it. Come on, boys. Let’s go drink someplace where they ain’t so all-fired touchy.’
‘Mister,’ the Kid put in, stopping Branch in mid-turn. ‘Should anything happen to these two gents, accidental-like, I’ll come looking for you—and I fight real dirty.’
‘We’ll mind it,’ Branch promised and stamped from the saloon followed by his men. None of them offered to as much as look back, for fear that the Kid might regard doing so as a hostile act.
On the street, the Trimbles and Moore took turns in describing the Kid’s ancestry and possible fate using the most lurid terms they could lay tongue to. All the time, however, they walked at a fair clip away from the Black Bear Saloon.
‘What’re we going to do now, Sprig?’ Moore inquired.
‘What can we do?’ Branch replied. ‘You boys want to lay for ’em as they come out?’
‘Naw!’ Eric Trimble stated emphatically.
‘Folks might call it murder,’ Sam went on. ‘We could get Kenny on his lonesome—’
‘You figure the Kid didn’t mean what he said?’ Moore inquired derisively. ‘If you do, lay for Kenny. But don’t ask me to go along.’
‘Huh!’ Branch snorted. ‘What’re we worrying over? The Army’ll not be so eager to give them the contract with Trader dead.’
With which consolation, he led the way into another saloon.
After the quartet had left, Kenny gave a long sigh and turned towards the bar. ‘Let’s have three drinks, bar-keep,’ he said. ‘Kid, you were as welcome as rain in a dry summer.’
‘Likely,’ the Kid answered dryly and looked at Colin. ‘Friend, if you’re going to keep on wearing that kilt, you’d best start to pack a gun.’
Chapter Six
Carefully Colin Farquharson poured a measure of powder into the left-hand barrel of the pistol he held. Its mate lay in the open box on the bed at his side, along with the cased pair’s accessories. Working with smooth precision, he rammed the charge and its wad down the barrel then followed it with the rest of the load. He had already attended to the other barrel, so he fitted the percussion caps in place and set the hammers at half-cock. For a moment he sat looking at the second pistol, then decided not to bother with it.
Hearing a knock on the door, he crossed the room and opened it.
‘Howdy,’ greeted Kenny Schell, entering. ‘Ma says for you to come over and have breakfast with us.’
‘That’s kind of her,’ Colin said, and meant it. ‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘Met the Kid going out,’ Kenny explained. ‘He told me that he’d changed rooms with you last night.’
‘So he did, although I’d never have thought a man like him would be superstitious.’
With the departure of Branch and his men from the Black Bear, Colin had spent a pleasant evening at the saloon. April Hosman joined them, then later Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and a couple of the OD Connected cowhands arrived. There had been four Scots among the soldiers, all highly delighted to see their native dress again. Nor did their delight lessen when Colin admitted to having a set of bagpipes in his baggage. Encouraged by the Scottish soldiers and his companions, he had collected the bagpipes and entertained the customers of the saloon to a selection of Highland tunes.
On their return to the hotel, the Kid had asked Colin to change rooms with him explaining that seven was a bad luck number for the Comanche, whereas room twelve, which Colin rented, was guaranteed to give a member of the Pehnane good fortune. Although slightly amused at such primitive superstition, Colin had agreed to the exchange. He did not realize that the Kid had really made the request in case of a visit by the Flores brothers.
‘Where’re Dusty, Mark and the Kid?’ Colin inquired as he buckled on his belt.
‘Over to the livery barn, tending to their hosses,’ Kenny replied and indicated the pistol case. ‘That’s a right fancy pair of hand-guns you’ve got. Don’t you have a revolver?’
‘No.’
‘It’ll likely be best for you to stick with the kind of guns you know,’ Kenny admitted. ‘Let’s go. Ma’s waiting breakfast for us and don’t take to being kept from her victuals in the morning.’
The weather being mild, Colin dispensed with jacket, vest and plaid. Appearing in one’s shirt appeared to be socially acceptable, so he went along with the local custom. After sliding the pistol in the loop on the left side of his belt, with the dirk still in place at the right, he put on his bonnet.
Grinning, Kenny watched Colin set the hat at its usual jaunty angle. On first being told to go and guard the Scot, he had felt a touch resentful, figuring a feller who wore a skirt could not be masculine. From the first meeting, though, he had revised his opinion. While he figured that Colin needed educating in some matters, he now regarded the Scot as a man to ride the river with.
On leaving the hotel, Colin received his first day-light view of Fort Sawyer. It was not an impressive sight. The town’s main business premises, stores, saloons and such, shared the main street with the Overland Stage line’s depot and the building which housed the local law. Behind the street lay the homes of the citizens, scattered without any worry about civic planning. Although the front of the livery barn opened on to the street, its corral was at the rear.
‘We’ll go collect Dusty, Mark and the Kid,’ Kenny remarked as he and Colin stood on the sidewalk. The corral’s on the way to our house.’
‘Lead on,’ Colin answered, looking along the street. ‘The Black Bear opens early.’
Following the direction of the Scot’s gaze, Kenny nodded. A horse stood tethered in front of the saloon and its main doors were open.
‘Harve Jute’s the owner,’ Kenny commented. ‘He don’t take to missing the chance of trade. Has the place opened soon after sun-up. A feller can go in, buy a drink and watch the gals eating breakfast has he a mind to.’ He grinned. ‘We’ll go there if you like.’
‘Not if your mother is waiting breakfast, for us,’ Colin decided.
‘I do admire a man with good sense,’ Kenny chuckled. ‘Come on, afore that lil sister of mine eats everything off the table.’
‘That’s a fine-looking horse,’ Colin remarked as they walked across the street in the direction of the livery barn, indicating an animal hitched to the rail before the end of a general store next to the barn.
‘The bayo naranjado?’ Kenny replied. ‘It’s not bad. I like mine a touch less flashy.’
As he spoke, Kenny’s eyes automatically took in certain details about the horse. First he noticed the single-girthed saddle with a horn the size of a dinner-plate. No Texan normally rode such a rig; and few Mexican vaqueros owned such an expensive outfit. Then Kenny became aware that the reins hung over the hitching rail instead of being tied around it. Putting the two facts together, Kenny drew a conclusion which rang out a warning for him—an instant too late.
Standing in the alley, looking along the street, Vicente Flores sucked in a breath of excitement. The man who had killed his brother Adàn left the hotel and came in his direction. There could be no doubt about it. No other man in Fort Sawyer wore such outlandish clothes. It seemed that the wounded Arturo and later Arnaldo Hogan had spoke the truth about the man’s appearance. He really did wear a skirt.
With cold, calculating eyes, Vicente studied his intended victim. It was a pity that the man in the skirt was walking with a companion, but not too great an obstacle. Neither of them appeared to suspect his presence and would be unprepared when he made his appearance. While the Texan wore a Colt, he did not have the indefinable air of being fast with it. As for the man who killed Adàn, he had nothing better than on old-fashioned, muzzle-loading pistol thrust into his belt. Vicente nodded with satisfaction. A quick step from behind concealment, two shots fired and he would be on his horse, heading out of town, leaving Adàn’s killer dead or dying on the ground. Then Vicente would see what Tiburcio and Matteo had to say. He, Vicente, the youngest member of the family, would have avenged their dead brother while the other two waited outside
town in the hope that the man in the skirt would come to them.
Instead of taking the bodies to the mission as Tiburcio ordered, Vicente and Manuel had left the rest of the party in the dark. Thirsting for revenge on the woman who had killed his brother, Manuel went willingly along with Vicente’s scheme. They had stayed well clear of Onion Creek and arrived on the outskirts of Fort Sawyer shortly after midnight. Waiting at Arnaldo Hogan’s house until he returned, they had learned all he knew. More than that, he had explained how Tiburcio planned to wait until Adàn’s killer left town before striking. Hogan was to watch and report to Tiburcio when the man boarded a stagecoach to continue his journey.
Such a plan had small appeal to Vicente. The camp on Onion Creek offered none of the luxuries he craved. Especially as Hogan could not say when the man might be leaving. So he had decided on his course of action. Putting aside any notion of finding the man at the hotel, he had waited until morning. Then, while Manuel went to the Black Bear Saloon in search of the woman, Vicente had left his horse loose-hitched close by ready for a fast departure and waited in hiding for the man to appear.
Cold pleasure filled Vicente as he drew and cocked his right-hand Colt. For years Tiburcio and Matteo had regarded him as a stupid, headstrong boy; handy for doing casual killing but not worth including in their planning sessions. After this morning’s work, that would all be changed. While the older brothers waited outside town, Vicente had ridden in and avenged the family honor.
Better not let them come too close, Vicente decided. That Texan might prove better with his gun than appeared on the surface. No, it would be safer to step out while they were still some thirty yards away. At that distance, there was less chance of being hit at the end of a fast draw.
With that thought in mind, Vicente gripped the Navy Colt in both hands. He sprang out of the alley, raising the gun shoulder high and taking sight on the man who had killed his brother.
‘Look out!’ Kenny yelled, throwing himself sideways to crash into Colin.
