by J. T. Edson
Moving as he did, Kenny saved Colin and placed himself in danger. The force of the impact knocked Colin staggering, but its impetus carried Kenny into the place where the Scot had stood. Before Vicente could correct his aim, the Colt’s hammer fell. The bullet meant for Colin ripped into Kenny’s chest. Giving a croaking cry, he started to fall. Muttering an annoyed curse, Vicente cocked the Colt on the recoil and brought its barrel around in Colin’s direction. A faint grin twisted at Vicente’s lips as he watched the Scot start to slide the pistol free. There would be little enough danger from it in the hands of a man who wore women’s clothes. Without haste, Vicente began to take his aim, little knowing he was making the biggest mistake of his life.
In Scotland, Colin’s family had for generations held the post of an gillecoise, the henchman, senior bodyguard to the chief of the clan. In attendance to the chief at all times, the henchman stood fully armed behind his leader’s chair at banquets. One of the required qualities for the post had been the ability to draw and fire a pistol with some speed. Although that particular skill was no longer needed, tradition demanded that the henchman possessed it. So Colin and his older brothers had received instruction in using the pistol along with lessons on handling the claymore and dirk.
Curling his fingers about the pistol’s butt, Colin started to slip it free from the belt-loop. Working in concert, his left hand drew back the twin hammers. By the time he came to a halt from Kenny’s shove, Colin held a fully cocked weapon in his right hand. Instinctively he saw that there would be no time to duplicate the Mexican’s method of shooting, but knew it did not matter.
With the pistol still at waist level, Colin squeezed the right-side barrel’s trigger. Giving a deep crack, the weapon discharged its load. Not a solid ball, but a cloud of Number 12 shot pellets. On the heels of the first shot, Colin cut loose from the second barrel.
The first hail of pellets arrived just as Vicente began to squeeze his Colt’s trigger. Tearing into his body, they jerked him on to his heels and caused him to flinch. Not much, but enough. Colin heard the bullet split the air by his ear. Then the second charge of shot struck the bandido, peppering his throat and face with red spots. Again Vicente jolted on his heels. Turning slowly around, he dropped the revolver, collided with the wall of the nearest building bounced from it to the ground. Snorting, the bayo naranjado pulled free its reins and began to run along the street away from the sound of the shooting.
Shock numbed Colin for a moment as he realized that he had once again been forced to shoot a man. People going about their business on the street turned and made for the young Scot. Others appeared from various buildings. A low groan drew Colin’s attention to Kenny and caused him to forget his own feelings. Clutching at his right side, the young mustanger tried to rise. Colin let the pistol fall and was dropping to his knees at Kenny’s side when he saw Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid come through the doors of the livery barn. Bounding forward, the Kid grabbed the bayo naranjado’s reins and brought it to a halt. Then he followed his companions towards Colin.
‘That’s Vicente Flores!’ the Kid ejaculated, looking down. ‘Likely the rest of ’em’re here, Dusty.’
After leaving Colin the previous night, the Kid had commented on the likelihood of the Flores gang coming into Fort Sawyer to take revenge on the man who killed Addn. Being aware of how Tiburcio and Matteo regarded Vicente, the Kid felt it highly unlikely that they would send in their younger brother to handle the task alone. That meant there was danger for everybody who had been on the stagecoach. The Flores boys would hardly be satisfied with just killing the young Scot.
Appreciating the latter point, Dusty snapped his orders. ‘Head for Ma’s place, Lon. See to Kenny, Mark.’
Even while speaking, Dusty’s eyes searched the surrounding area for signs of the rest of the gang. One of the things a Comanche learned early was that a horse could move a whole heap faster than any man on foot. So the Kid caught hold of the horn and vaulted afork the bayo naranjado’s fancy saddle. Clamping hold with his knees, he fetched the horse around in a tight turn and set it moving through the alley as the quickest way to reach the Schell’s temporary home.
‘Get the doctor here!’ Mark barked at the approaching people and one turned to obey.
Dusty’s scrutiny had covered the buildings as far as the Black Bear Saloon without locating any more members of the Flores gang. A number of people came from the saloon, girls wearing long robes and no make-up and male employees in their shirtsleeves. Clearly they had only emerged to discover the cause of the shooting, not in flight or as cover for bandidos. On the verge of ignoring them, Dusty saw the horse standing at the hitching rail. Even from where he stood, Dusty could tell that is carried a Mexican saddle.
A Mexican’s horse being outside the saloon, even at that early hour, might be no more than coincidence. Dusty could not take a chance on it. April Hosman, another of the stagecoach’s passengers and an active participant in busting up the robbery worked there.
‘Watch things, Mark!’ Dusty ordered and started to run along the street.
Approaching the end of the building, Dusty heard the crack of a shot from inside. The employees on the sidewalk turned, milling around, chattering and looking over the batwing doors but none of them offered to enter.
Standing at the bar, Manuel waited for the appearance of the woman who had killed his brother. A protesting Arnaldo Hogan had been compelled to accompany Manuel to the saloon. Looking through a window, Hogan had stated that all the girls, except the newcomer, were at breakfast. However Hogan had insisted that the blonde woman lived in the saloon, having heard one of the girls comment on the matter previous to her arrival. So Manuel had allowed Hogan to scuttle away. Leaving his horse loose-hitched to the rail, the bandido had entered the building. He saw the bayo naranjado along the street, but ignored it. What Vicente Flores did was his own concern. Manuel cared only about avenging Jaime.
Nobody had shown surprise when the bandido entered. After serving him, the bartender rejoined the men and girls sitting taking a leisurely breakfast. Then shots cracked along the street, drawing the attention of the room’s occupants to the outside. Pushing back their chairs, the men and women made for the front doors but Manuel did not follow them. He cared little for the cause of the shooting. Maybe Vicente had met the man who dressed in a skirt. Manuel felt disinterested in the outcome. With the blonde woman dead, he intended to return to Mexico and join another bandido gang.
Hearing footsteps on the balcony, Manuel looked up. He saw a tall, shapely woman wearing a flimsy robe over a nightgown at the head of the stairs; a blonde, good-looking in the gringo fashion. Quickly Manuel studied the situation. Not far from the stairs, a door opened on to a side alley. After shooting the woman, he could go out that way. Then, when the other saloon workers entered, a quick dash along the sidewalk would take him to his horse.
With his plans made, he slipped his Colt from its holster and turned. On the point of asking Manuel what the shooting was about, April saw him swing towards her. The expression of savage hate brought her to a halt, then she saw the revolver in his hand.
‘Wha—!’ April began, still unable to believe that the man planned to shoot.
Flame sparked from the Colt and the bullet ploughed a furrow in the banister rail at her side. Taking an involuntary step to the rear, April tripped and sat down. With horrified eyes, she watched the Mexican re-cock his revolver and start moving towards her. At that moment she recalled that her Remington Double Derringer was in the drawer of her room’s dressing table. Going to breakfast in the bar room had not seemed to call for weapons. She bitterly regretted the decision as she watched Manuel’s slow advance. Throwing a glance at the batwing doors, she saw her fellow-workers looking over them but not coming in. That figured. None of them were armed either.
Looking at the crowd hovering before the saloon’s front entrance, Dusty gave up any idea of using it. Swiftly he thought over what he remembered about the layout of the
building. There was a side door along the alley he was approaching. Entering that way would be quicker and more unexpected than trying to charge through the men and women on the sidewalk.
With Dusty, to think was to act. However he always thought first. Swerving around the corner, he sprinted down the alley. So far he had not drawn his Colts and decided against doing it until after he knew whether the door was locked. Trying it would be inviting trouble, so Dusty took the more obvious step of assuming the key had been turned.
Dropping his left shoulder, he gathered himself for the effort. Then he charged forward, throwing every ounce of weight and atom of strength in his small, powerful body at the door. He struck the wood, feeling it yielding under the impact. For a moment he thought that the door would hold. With a click, the lock snapped apart and the door swung inwards. Carried by his impetus, Dusty plunged into the barroom.
Lining his gun at April, Manuel stalked closer. He guessed that he had little time to kill the woman and make good his escape, so he did not intend to miss. Just as he prepared to squeeze the trigger, he heard a crash and the side door burst open. Taking his eyes to the source of the noise, the bandido saw Dusty Fog enter. Only it was not the small, insignificant cowhand one usually saw. Somehow Dusty seemed to have taken on size and heft, becoming a big, dangerous man.
Across flashed Dusty’s right hand, closing on the bone handle of the left-side Colt. All in one incredibly swift move, he slid the weapon from its holster, cocked it, placed his finger on the trigger and touched off a shot. Three-quarters of a second after the hand’s first movement, a bullet spun through the seven-and-a-half inch barrel of the Army Colt and punctured a hole between Manuel’s eyes.
Dusty shot fast, without hesitation, for an instant kill. There could be no reasoning with a vengeance-crazed Mexican bandido and any delay might have proved fatal for the woman on the stairs. For all Dusty’s speed, there was little margin to spare.
Even as the bullet shattered into his brain, Manuel got off another shot. If Dusty had delayed, it would have buried itself into April’s body. However the .44 ball made the bandido stagger at the moment when the hammer began to fall. Splinters flew from the stairs less than an inch to her left. Then Manuel’s fingers opened and he crumpled to the floor.
Slowly April drew herself erect. Sucking in a deep breath, she tore her eyes from Manuel and turned them in Dusty’s direction.
‘Why’d he want to kill me?’ she asked.
‘He’s one of the Flores gang,’ the small Texan explained. ‘You’d best come with me, ma’am.’
‘Where to?’ she gulped, glancing to where the other employees were coming through the front doors.
‘Jeanie Schell’s house,’ Dusty replied. ‘If the rest of the gang’s around, I reckon you’ll be safer there.’
‘Bu—But I’m not dressed!’ April squealed, indicating the nightgown under her robe.
‘This’s no time to worry about female vanity, ma’am!’ Dusty growled. ‘Let’s go.’
Chapter Seven
Following April Hosman into the front room of the Schell house, Dusty found Mark and Colin already there. The young Scot slumped in a chair at the table, his head resting on his hands. Despite the urgency of the situation, April had insisted on dressing before she accompanied Dusty. Knowing how ‘good’ women usually regarded saloon-workers, she figured being accepted by Ma Schell would prove hard enough without rolling up in her revealing nightclothes.
‘Where’s Lon, Mark?’ Dusty asked.
‘He went down to the stage depot to warn Lou Temple,’ the blond giant answered. ‘We got Kenny back here. The doctor’s with him now.’
‘He pushed me aside,’ Colin put in, his voice hoarse. ‘If he hadn’t, he would still be all right.’
‘Take is easy, Colin,’ Dusty said gently. ‘I don’t reckon anybody blames you for what happened.’
‘But it w—’
A knock on the door caused Colin to chop off his words. At another time he might have been interested in, or marveled at, the speed with which Mark and Dusty each drew a revolver. Slowly the Scot turned his eyes towards the door, watching the cautious manner in which Dusty went towards it.
‘Who is it?’ the small Texan called.
‘Sheriff Lansing.’
Still holding his Colt in the left hand, Dusty drew open the door. Strain showed on Lansing’s fat face as he looked around the room. Holstering his Colt, Dusty closed the door.
‘How’s Kenny?’ Lansing inquired.
‘The doctor’s working on him,’ Mark answered, dropping his revolver into leather.
‘It’s the Flores gang, ain’t it?’ the sheriff went on.
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘They tried for Colin and Miss Hosman here. Colin dropped one of ’em and I downed the other.’
Which, as Lansing knew, still left fifteen or more of the gang to be accounted for. Sucking in a nervous breath, he glanced at April then studied the two Texans’ air of alert readiness.
‘Reckon the rest of ’em’re in town, Cap’n Fog?’
‘Could be, sheriff. I don’t see Tiburcio sending in just two men. Happen you’re going to make the rounds, Mark, the Kid and I’ll come with you.’
Such a thought had not entered the sheriff’s head. In fact he had considered only the possible danger to himself when hearing who was involved in the shooting. Before Lansing could decide on an answer, one of the bedroom doors opened and Ma came out. Her eyes went first to April, then to Dusty.
‘How is it, Ma?’ Dusty asked.
‘He’ll live, but he’ll not be riding for a fair spell.’
‘Flores’ bunch’re after Miss Hosman as well as Colin,’ the small Texan explained as Ma again looked at the blonde. ‘One of them tried to kill her at the Black Bear, I figured she’d be safer here.’
‘You could be right,’ Ma admitted. ‘Make yourself to home, girlie. It’s likely not what you’re used to, but it’ll beat getting killed.’
‘Reckon you can tend to things here, Ma?’ Dusty asked.
‘I reckon I can. Why?’
‘Could be the rest of the gang’re around town. Sheriff here’ll need company when he goes to take a look.’
Knowing Lansing, Ma figured that the suggestion to search the town had not originated from him. However she wasted no time in debating the matter. Backed by Dusty Fog, the Ysabel Kid and that big, handsome Mark Counter, the sheriff should be able to chase the Flores gang out of town. So she nodded her agreement.
‘It’ll be best. Can you handle a gun, girlie?’
‘You load it, put it in my hands, set a bandido up not too far in front of it and I’ll give it a whirl. And the name’s “April”, “Girlie’s” the fat red head.’
A grin twisted at Ma’s lips. ‘I allus wondered about that. Make yourself to home while I get the scatter from my bedroom.’
‘Mrs. Schell,’ Colin put in, lifting his head and turned a worried face to Ma. ‘I—I don’t know what to say to you. It was all my fault. Kenny pushed me aside and—’
‘He allus was one for acting reckless,’ Ma replied, walking to the Scot’s side and laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘Now don’t go fretting boy. None of us blame you for what happened. Back on the stage, they’d’ve killed all of you happen you hadn’t give the Kid a chance to start fighting. And today Vicente Flores wouldn’t’ve stopped just by shooting you, he’d’ve killed Kenny and anybody else who got in his way.’
‘Ma’s right on that,’ Mark put in, checking his Colts. ‘Are you set to go, sheriff?’
‘Do you have a gun I can borrow, Mrs. Schell?’ Colin asked before Lansing answered the question. ‘I want to go with Dusty and Mark.’
‘Take that one,’ Ma replied, waving a hand in the direction of the fireplace and crossing to enter her bedroom.
Rising, Colin walked over to the fireplace. Although Ma had meant for him to take the Sharps carbine, Colin misunderstood her. Instead, he lifted the ivory-handled Dragoon Colt from the wall. After sho
oting Vicente, Colin had suddenly realized that he held an empty pistol, a weapon which required considerable time to reload. So he felt that, if he must be involved in further fighting, he needed a firearm carrying more than two shots. The big Dragoon Colt was not unknown to him. Its maker, Colonel Sam Colt, was a salesman of note and did not overlook the British Isles as a market for his products. Several of Colin’s uncles were army officers and had bought the big revolvers to carry as a side arm. The young Scot had done enough shooting with one to figure he could handle the Dragoon from above the fireplace.
Just as Colin took down the gun, Jeanie walked from Kenny’s bedroom where she had been helping the doctor. Letting out an indignant yell, she stamped across in Colin’s direction.
‘What in hell’re you doing?’ she hissed.
‘Ma said Colin could take a gun, Jeanie,’ Dusty said, for Colin just stood and stared at the girl’s furious face.
‘Not that gun!’ Jeanie hissed.
‘I thought it would be a better weapon—’ Colin began.
‘What do you know about weapons?’ Jeanie interrupted hotly. ‘That was my pappy’s gun. He was a forty-four caliber man. He never needed anybody to—’
‘That’s enough!’
Having heard Jeanie’s comments from the bedroom, Ma burst into her daughter’s presence and snapped out a command that halted further comment. The last thing Ma wanted was to increase Colin’s concern at causing Kenny to be wounded. If Jeanie finished her words, Colin would know why Kenny happened to be along with him. Ma could imagine how the young Scot would feel then.
To be fair to her, Jeanie was not acting out of spite or petty meanness. Still smarting under the memory of her Uncle Jabez’s behavior, she was extra touchy about her father’s memory and property. That, combined with worry and anger at Kenny’s injury brought on her outburst. She was already regretting her words when Ma appeared, but the intervention only gave the girl’s contrary streak an added stiffness.
‘He’s no right to use pappy’s gun!’ Jeanie insisted.
