by J. T. Edson
‘Y—Yes!’ the banker confirmed hurriedly, the employment of the Spanish word for “understand” having been accompanied by another dig from the muzzle of the Colt 1860 Army revolver against his double chin.
‘Bueno!’ the young rancher declared, glancing at the key which Sheriff Jerome Dickson had tossed into the center of the floor after locking the barred door to the cells. Raising his gaze to the men beyond it, he went on, ‘Now I know there’s another way out back there. But anybody who uses it, or starts yelling afore Mr. Humboldt here comes back to turn you loose, you’ll get him killed. Sabe?’
‘Do—Do just as he tells you!’ the banker demanded, although the words came closer to sounding as if he was pleading.
‘We will,’ the peace officer promised.
‘Send word by one of my boys, sheriff,’ Mort instructed, returning the Colt to its holster and removing the other hand to be used for opening the front door. ‘’Cause I won’t come back for anybody else.’
‘I’ll do just that,’ Dickson promised. ‘I hope you’re doing the right thing!’
‘I roped the son-of-a-bitch, now I’ll just have to ride her out,’ the rancher answered. ‘Hasta la vista!’
‘Vaya con Dios,’ the sheriff responded, knowing the last words meant, “until the next time” in the Spanish spoken along the Rio Grande.
Although he had been released and the revolver was no longer held to his neck, Humboldt did not attempt to resist or escape when he was ordered to go outside. He remembered the speed with which it had been drawn to cover him and knew this had not come about by chance, but could be repeated with an equal rapidity should it become necessary. Nor, he was convinced, would the weapon merely be used to threaten if it was pulled on him again.
Recollecting what his captor had said regarding the possibility and consequences of interference on leaving the jailhouse, as He was stepping over the threshold, the banker ran the tip of his tongue across lips which had suddenly become very dry. Clearly believing something could happen, he noticed the young rancher was keeping concealed behind his bulky body, and he sensed a similar scrutiny of their surroundings was taking place to his rear.
A sigh of relief escaped from Humboldt as he saw there was nobody upon the street or its sidewalks who might possibly put his life at risk. He had realized there were men in town who could have done so. Although they usually frequented the more ancient and less luxurious Old Holbrock Cantina, some of the ruffians hired by David Masefield Stewart—as the rancher preferred to be known—were at the Golden Hind Saloon, including the trio who had supplied the information about the killing of Dexter Chass and his son, but fortunately none were in sight. He found their absence from view reassuring. When he had left to interview the sheriff, they had been making threats against the ‘half-breed’ they claimed must be responsible for the double murder.
‘This’s as far as you need come.’ Mort announced quietly, having taken the banker across the sidewalk and along the street to where his big claybank gelding was standing with its reins dangling over but not fastened to the hitching rail. Extracting the Spencer carbine from the saddleboot, he removed the medicine pouch and returned it. Tossing the buckskin container over the rail, he went on, ‘Give this to the sheriff for whoever he sends after me, and stay put right there until I’ve got well on my way.’
Without waiting for verbal acceptance of his instructions, the rancher scooped up the reins and swung swiftly on to the saddle. Turning the horse, he set it moving at a fast trot. Despite having failed to locate anybody who might wish to prevent him from leaving, he kept a careful watch on both sides as he was riding through the town. He also listened in case Humboldt should disregard what he had said, but this did not happen and he passed beyond the last buildings without his departure being impeded in any way.
Watching the young man going away, the banker snatched out a handkerchief to wipe perspiration from his face. He was quivering with mingled fright, anger and outraged dignity. For all that, he had no intention of disobeying the orders he had received. Waiting until he considered it would be safe for him to do so, he swung on his heel and stalked rapidly back into the jailhouse.
‘Well, Dickson!’ Humboldt barked, collecting the key and, throwing the medicine pouch on to the desk in passing as he went to unlock the barred door. ‘What do you think of your innocent friend now?’
‘The same as I did before,’ the sheriff replied, stepping into his office. ‘That things need more looking into and I aim to find out just what is going on.’
‘God damn it, man!’ the banker snapped. ‘How much more “finding out” do you need to do?’
‘Running proves he’s guilty!’ one of the most sycophantic townsmen asserted.
‘That’s how I see it, too!’ Humboldt declared, directing an approving glance at his supporter. Then he swung a far less amiable glare at the peace officer and went on, ‘So what do you intend to do about Lewis?’
‘Send word for Lieutenant Thatcher and his sister to come here as soon as they can—!’ Dickson began, but was not allowed to continue.
‘That’s nowhere nearly enough!’ Humboldt interrupted. ‘Take a posse after him straight away!’
‘There’s no need for that,’ the sheriff replied. ‘I know Mort Lewis better than any of you. He’ll come back without needing to be fetched like he said he would.’
‘Not everybody has your faith in him!’ the banker snorted. ‘He has to be brought back straight away.’
‘Like I told you, I know him,’ Dickson answered, wondering whether to refer to the personal differences between Humboldt and the young rancher, but deciding this might do more harm than good. ‘Bringing him back won’t be easy!’
‘Then take enough men to make it easy!’ the banker ordered. ‘Now listen to me, Sheriff Dickson. I’m negotiating for a big investment from General Jackson Baines Hardin which will be the making of this town, but he won’t make it if he hears we’ve so little law and order a murderer is allowed to just ride away. So either you’ll take a posse after Lewis, or I want your resignation and I’ll get somebody who is ready to do his sworn duty.’
‘That’s how it goes, huh?’ the peace officer asked quietly. ‘I’ve my duty as I see it to the town,’ Humboldt claimed pompously. ‘And I’m sure the rest of the County Commissioners are behind me in doing it.’
‘We’re with you all the way, Brenton!’ the sycophant declared, hearing mutters to the same effect by the rest of the party.
‘Well, sheriff?’ Humboldt challenged.
‘Seeing as you’re so set on having a posse sent after Mort Lewis, I’ll take it,’ Dickson replied. ‘Something tells me he might not be brought back alive if I don’t.’
‘Are you implying—?’ the banker began.
‘I’m telling you how I see things,’ the sheriff put in, and something about him brought the indignant comments of the other townsmen to a halt. ‘There’s one thing you had all best bear in mind. I’m nowhere near satisfied that he killed the Chasses and I’m aiming to see nothing happens to him before I’ve found out one way or the other what the truth is. If that doesn’t suit you, then you can have my badge and I’ll be riding with your posse as my own man whether you like it or not. Whichever way it goes, I aim to see Mort Lewis is brought back alive and stays that way until we’ve found out the rights of this business.’
~*~
‘Well now,’ Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog drawled, reining £is seventeen hand uncut paint horse to a halt and gazing ahead. ‘What do you make of that, Lon?’
‘Could be they’re running in a hoss race,’ the Ysabel Kid replied, stopping his equally large and magnificent white stallion to join his companion in studying the scene which greeted them as they topped a rim and saw several miles of rolling, bush scattered country spread ahead. Some distance away, a single fast moving rider followed by several others was approaching along the trail (formed by the wheels of numerous vehicles over the years) they were using to take th
em to Holbrock in response to the uncanny “medicine” message he had received. ‘Which being, that jasper out front on the claybank’s got his-self a pretty fair head start.’
‘Could be we’re in the middle of a “blue norther”,’ the small Texan said dryly. ‘’Cepting the weather’s so nice and mild.’
‘I only said what she could be,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘That hombre way back of them’s wearing a badge of some kind and’s having trouble keeping his hoss moving.’
‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted, accepting that his companion had eyesight sufficiently superior to his own to be able to draw deductions when he was unable to do so. ‘Which means it could be a posse after a law dodger.’
‘Could mean,’ the Indian-dark Texan supported. ‘And, way that feller they’re after’s riding, I’d say he could likely out run them.’
‘I hear the sheriff of Holbrock County’s a fair-dealing peace officer,’ Dusty remarked, in what a stranger might have considered a disinterested fashion.
‘So we’re going to bill in?’ the Kid guessed rather than asked, knowing the way his amigo thought very well.
‘Might be, whatever’s doing up this way, we’ll need his help,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Which it won’t come amiss should we have him a itty-bitty mite beholden to us. Anyways, you’ve long since stopped running contraband to cheat the Government of these good old United States of their right and lawful revenue and shouldn’t get all skittish every time anybody says you should help the law.’
‘Old habits die hard,’ the Kid countered, knowing it was useless to deny he had done such a thing in the past. However, the banter had served to let his companion and himself examine the situation. Becoming more serious, even though the timbre of his voice changed little, he continued, ‘Happen we go lay for that jasper in the bushes where the trail bends so sharp, he’s like to come on us afore he knows we’re anywheres around.’
‘Was thinking that myself,’ the small Texan admitted, then gave a snort of what seemed like disgust. ‘Hell, I’ve been around you so long, I’m getting the same kind of sneaky mind!’
‘Why sure,’ the Kid answered and set his horse—which contrived to look as wild and dangerous as any free ranging manadero, 27 despite the trappings of domestication—into motion. ‘They do say a man should allus learn from the best!’
‘I said I’d picked it up from you,’ Dusty objected, as his mount also started moving in response to the signal given by his heels.
‘It was me I meant,’ the Kid claimed, reaching down to slide the Winchester Model of 1866 rifle from its boot on the left side of his saddle. ‘Wonder what that jasper’s done to get them hunting him down?’
‘I wouldn’t even want to guess,’ Dusty stated. ‘But, going by the number who’re after him, it could be something pretty bad.’
Having made the comment, the small Texan guided the paint from the trail on the right and his companion went to the left. Keeping to concealment as much as possible, they made for the point suggested by the Kid.
Despite the banter which had passed between them, neither Texan for a moment underestimated the gravity of the situation. Nor were they allowing it to lead them into dangerous over confidence. As far as they could discern, the man on the claybank was unaware of their presence and they wanted to prevent him discovering they were in the vicinity in time to take some kind of action. At that period, they had only served as peace officers for a few weeks in Quiet Town, Montana. However, each possessed a natural sense of tactics and could appreciate the difficulties arising from achieving their purpose. As they did not know why he was being pursued, neither wanted to have to shoot the fleeing man if he could be captured without gun play. From what he had heard about Sheriff Jerome Dickson, Dusty in particular considered their intervention would be far from welcome should it result in the death of somebody who had committed a crime which did not warrant such extreme measures.
Arriving at their appointed positions, the Texans halted their horses so they could converge across the trail. Although they could not see the latest developments in the pursuit, from what they heard, they deduced they had arrived without being detected by the man being chased. He was continuing to ride at a gallop in their direction, but he certainly would have been sure to have turned aside and headed across country if he had realized they were waiting.
‘Now!’ Dusty snapped, when he concluded the moment for the appearance had come and, without drawing one of his Colt 1860 Army revolvers or the Winchester Model of 1866 carbine from its boot, he caused the paint to move forward.
~*~
Feeling the big claybank gelding flagging, Mort Lewis knew the burden of the flight from Holbrock was adding to the effects of the hard travelling to which it had been subjected since he received the message at Sanchez Riley’s trading post saying Dexter Chass was causing trouble for his ranch hands. This was the reason he had elected to travel along the more roundabout route offered by the stage trail instead of making for the safety of the Kweharehnuh territory across country. Traversing such terrain hurriedly, a hoof inadvertently finding a gopher hole could bring down his mount with a broken leg. Should that happen, he would be captured and returned to the town. Nor would Jerome Dickson allow him a second opportunity to escape. Therefore, his only hope was to keep moving as swiftly as possible and count upon the brio escondido—the Spanish term meaning hidden vigor, or stamina of a very high quality—of the claybank and his own skill as a rider to keep them ahead until the horses of the posse were played out.
Guiding the laboring gelding around a corner which had prevented him from seeing what lay beyond, the rancher was startled by the sight of two men emerging from the bushes. Judging from the way they came together and halted so as to block the trail, he knew they had not appeared by accident and he must take some action. Trying to crash between them was no use. Each sat a horse as large and powerful as his own. Nor did attempting to fight his way through offer a more acceptable solution. If he was successful, despite the black clad young man holding a Winchester ready for more immediate use than was offered by his holstered Colt, he would ruin whatever chance he had of coming out of his troubles a free man. The evidence which the Thatchers could present would clear him of the double murder, but he would still have to face the consequences for shooting down one or both of the cowhands—as their attire suggested they were—while fleeing to escape arrest.
Having drawn his conclusions, Mort tried to turn the claybank aside. With its reflexes impaired by being so tired, it was travelling too fast for the sudden change in direction. Feeling it starting to lose its balance and footing, he tried to help it recover. His efforts were to no avail and, as it was going down, he began to kick free his feet preparatory to quitting the saddle. He was just a fraction of a second too late. Although he escaped being trapped beneath it, the falling horse struck his left foot and ruined his equilibrium. Thrown aside, his instincts as a rider took over. While these helped him to avoid worse injury as he landed rolling, he was winded and partially dazed. Not sufficiently so, however, to be unaware of his Army Colt being dislodged from its holster. Gasping for breath, he tried to reach the butt as the claybank—relieved of his weight—contrived to recover and kept on its feet.
‘Leave it be, hombre!’ the Ysabel Kid commanded, springing from the back of the big white stallion to alight with his Winchester pointing at the rancher.
Looking around as he attained a posture something similar to that of a sprinter awaiting the signal to start a race, Mort realized the futility of disobeying. Although they had never met, he deduced from the all black clothing, magnificent horse and easy competence by which the rifle was handled with whom he was in contention.
‘Grandpappy Wolf Runner and Chief Long Walker are blood brothers from way back, Cuchilo,’ the rancher said in Comanche. ‘Will you let me go on account of that?’
Td admire to,’ the Kid replied, employing the slower tongued dialect of the Pehnane with an equal facility. ‘Only I’ll have to know why
you’re being chased before I say, “yes” on it.’
Before Mort could offer his explanation, the first of the posse came on the scene. They were three in number, riding in a loose arrowhead formation. He recognized them as prominent among the ‘warriors’ hired by David Masefield Stewart. In the lead, Jacob ‘Slats’ Scanlan was a big, burly man, a cousin of the Standing DMS’s segundo, but a brutal hard case in his own right. To the left, tall, lean, swarthily handsome, Jose Salar was a Mexican dressed to the height of charro fashion yet showed no suggestion of the affinity many of his race had for cold steel. He was armed with a fancy nickel plated Army Colt in a fast draw holster, with a Sharps rifle in his saddleboot, but he had no knife visible upon his person. On the right, lanky and cadaverous in appearance, Homer ‘Bury ’em’ Milton looked and dressed like a not over prosperous undertaker, but was deadly when it came to throwing a handgun. They were followed by more of Stewart’s men.
‘Stopped the son-of-a-bitch for us, did you?’ Scanlan greeted, a vicious grin creasing his bristle-covered, scarred and unprepossessing face, as he reached for and unstrapped the rope from the horn of his saddle. ‘Good, the boss’ll likely want to give you something for doing it. Should have killed him, though, but we’ll soon enough ’tend to that.’
Listening to the chilling words, Mort remembered what he had been told by Healing Hands and guessed who was behind his misfortunes.
‘God damn it!’ the rancher thought. ‘I know we’ve allus got on well enough, but I never figured Dave Stewart for a friend!’
Ten
He Knows He’s Dusty Fog
‘Just what do you reckon you’re going to do?’ Dusty Fog asked.
‘Us boys’s allus had the notion to see how a half-breed’d look decorating a cottonwood,’ Jacob “Slats” Scanlan replied and grinned at the laugh elicited from the men around him by the comment. ‘So now’ll be as good a time as any to find out.’
