by J. T. Edson
Tort up is the name for it!’ Humboldt declared, glancing at the rack holding Winchester rifles and shotguns. Thinking of how sturdily the jailhouse had been constructed, he nodded and went on, ‘You have food, water, ammunition?’
‘All we’ll need,’ Dickson agreed. ‘Plenty to last us until the Kid gets back. Or to last out until those yahoos with Scanlan figure the game’s gone sour and quit.’
‘I sent a telegraph message to a friend in Austin,’ the banker announced. ‘It got out before the wires went dead. He knows Stewart and will have it delivered.’
‘What did it say?’ Dickson wanted to know.
‘“If you want to stay out of jail, return immediately and control Scanlan”,’ Humboldt explained. ‘I took the liberty of adding your name, sheriff and yours, Captain Fog.’
‘That’s fine with me,’ the peace officer asserted and the small Texan gave his concurrence. ‘So, happen the push comes to a shove, all we need do is fort up here and wait for Stewart to come running. He’ll know what to expect should Scanlan be let play it through and soon enough call them off.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ the banker admitted.
‘Then you’ll have everybody do as I ask?’
‘You can count upon me to do my best to have them stay off the streets, sheriff!’
‘Thanks, Mr. Humboldt,’ Dickson said with sincerity. ‘It’s the least I can do for Mr. Lewis,’ the banker replied. ‘After all, to a degree, I helped cause all this to happen. You have my apologies, sir.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the rancher replied and held out his right hand.
‘Mr. Humboldt,’ Dusty drawled, after the two men had shaken hands and the banker was turning to leave. ‘Should it be needed, send this off to the General.’
‘I will,’ Humboldt promised, after holding the envelope he had been given for a couple of seconds and reading the address, “General J.B. Hardin, OD Connected, Rio Hondo County, Texas” in silence. ‘But I hope the need doesn’t arise. And now, gentlemen, I’ll bid you good night.’
‘You haven’t had chance to see, or even talk about this scheme of his,’ Dickson remarked, after the banker had left and the door was secured.
‘I don’t need to,’ Dusty replied. ‘Uncle Devil’s satisfied it will work and’s worth investing in. It was Mr. Humboldt himself I’d been sent to see and talk to. There’s some might say you’d talked a mite too much about our intentions, though. The word’s sure to get back to Scanlan.’
‘That’s what I’m counting on,’ the sheriff claimed, although he felt sure the explanation was unnecessary. ‘It’ll give those yahoos backing him time to think on what they’ll be facing when they come in tomorrow and, happen I know hired guns, some of them might even get to thinking the game’s nowheres near stacked well enough in their favor, then pull out and look for safer work.’
‘Now might be a good time for Annie and me to get going,’ Mort remarked. ‘Or I could stay on and let her see what she can do for the Kid.’
‘You’re both going,’ Dickson stated. ‘Should it be needed, the three of you coming in from back of them could turn things our way.’
‘Why sure,’ Dusty seconded. ‘Go do it, amigo!’
‘I’ll come let you out,’ the sheriff offered.
Going into the rear section with Mort, Dickson was grateful for the way in which it was laid out. Instead of being in the center, facing the main entrance, the back door was at the end of the row of cells. Therefore, it was left partially in shadows when the lamp hanging from the roof was turned down. While not entirely in darkness, it was sufficiently dim for their purpose.
‘I’ll go first,’ Annie offered as the men and the big dog joined her.
‘Why you?’ the rancher challenged.
‘I’ll be what you could call a “surprise factor”,’ the girl asserted. ‘Should they have somebody watching and I come up on him, I’ll have a better chance of shutting his mouth than you would seeing’s he won’t know I’m in the game.’
‘Damned if I like to admit it, Is-A-Man,’ Mort declared. ‘But, just once in a while, you Pahuraix make good sense. Go get her done.’
Accepting the rancher and girl knew what was best for their escape, Dickson unbolted and eased the back door open cautiously. As soon as it was wide enough for her to leave, Annie slipped through and faded as silently as a shadow into the darkness. However, before many seconds elapsed, there was a startled exclamation followed by a scuffling sound and the gasp of a human being in mortal pain.
‘What the h—!’ Dickson snapped, starting to open the door again. He had pushed it back nearly shut after the girl had left.
‘Hold hard, Dicks!’ Mort commanded, as the call of a whip-poor-will sounded from the same point that the brief and far from loud disturbance had originated. ‘Annie’s all right and the way’s cleared for us to get going.’
~*~
‘Now the Yankee rode down to the border,
Where he met an old pal, Bandy Parr,
Who run with the carpetbaggers,
And a meeting they held in a bar. ‘
‘He sure sings right pretty for a half-breed,’ commented one of the Standing DMS ranch’s hired guns, glancing to where Jose Salar was crouching at the other side of a bush. Then he turned his gaze to the bend in the trail through an area of fairly dense woodland where they and their companions were waiting to ambush the singer who was still out of sight. ‘I hope’s he don’t come ’round here too quick, seeing’s how I’ve never heard that ole song all the way through.’ Despite it appearing fortune was favoring him, the Mexican was less at ease than the man who had addressed him!
Ranging ahead of the ‘warriors’ he had been given, Salar had seen a rider who he had identified as the Ysabel Kid!
While Cabrito had not changed into his all black clothing, the powder used to disguise his big white stallion had been cleaned away since the night of the abortive attempt to stop him at Sanchez Riley’s trading post. Even as he had been seen over a rim, he had turned aside and made for the stage trail along which Mort Lewis had ridden after escaping from the jailhouse at Holbrock. By doing so, it had seemed he was playing into the hands of the men sent to get him.
There had been no discernible reason for the alteration in route!
As Salar had had barely more than his head and shoulders above the rim when he caught sight of Cabrito, stopping instantly he saw the other, he felt sure his presence had not caused the change. Nor had the Kid given even any slight indication of behaving in a more wary fashion. Instead, without even removing the buckskin pouch from the rifle across his bent left arm, he continued to hold the stallion to its leisurely seeming walk—which, nevertheless, covered a lot of ground at a fair speed—and remained slouching comfortably in the saddle to reduce the burden placed upon it.
Appreciating the chance he was being offered, the Mexican had hurried to rejoin his companions. He had also become aware of the difficulty of the task which lay ahead. To keep going was out of the question. Out in the open, so large a party could not hope to avoid being detected no matter how relaxed the Kid might be. When that happened, he would turn the stallion and make for a place of his own choosing to await their coming. Approaching him on such terms would be too perilous to be contemplated. With that in mind, Salar had decided they would return to the woodland and select a place from which to launch an ambush offering him no chance of escape.
Selecting the site had not been hard!
Choosing a straight length of the trail which would offer a good ‘killing ground’, being hidden by a bend, the Mexican had divided the party. Leaving their horses some distance away and in concealment, they had taken up their positions on either side of the straight section. Nor had they been kept waiting for too long. Although he was still hidden from their view by the woodland, the Kid had been heard singing an old cowboy tune as he was riding towards them.
Regardless of the pleasant tenor voice implying their intended victim was in no way suspicious
or expecting danger, Salar could not hold down the thought that such incautious behavior was not in keeping with all he had heard of the Ysabel Kid.
‘Rosemary-Jo got word to her pappy,
He straddled his strawberry roan,
And said, “From that ornery critter,
I’ll save Rosemary-Jo, she’s my own.’
The next to last verse was coming from only a short way beyond the corner!
Seventeen
This We Didn’t Count On
‘Now the Yankee lit out for Dallas,
Met the Texan out on the square,
His draw was too slow and as far as I know,
That Yankee’s still laying out—!’
Listening to the final verse of the song, the hired gun crouching next to Jose Salar began to rise and bring the butt of his Henry rifle to his shoulder. Taking sight to where their intended victim would appear, he decided he was going to be fortunate enough to hear the ‘Rosemary-Jo Lament’ all the way through and hoped none of the other hired guns covering the trail would open fire before he was given the opportunity.
With the words still continuing, the magnificent white stallion appeared, walking slowly, around the bend!
Although the pleasant tenor voice was reaching their ears, the waiting ‘warriors’ were given a shock!
The big horse was not carrying a rider!
Having evaded his pursuers at Sanchez Riley’s trading post, there had only been one untoward event before the Ysabel Kid reached the village of the Kweharehnuh Comanche. Seen by a small party of warriors, he was compelled to cope with an attack by the tuivitsi who had collected the Sharps New Model of 1866 rifle on the day of the buffalo hunt. Dealing with this, less violently than might have been the case, his medicine pouch had been enough to allow him to explain his business. Escorted to meet Chief Wolf Runner, he had described his meeting with Morton Lewis and what had happened subsequently. Receiving the drawing produced by Geraldine Thatcher, he had remained at the village for long enough to allow the stallion to rest and, its disguise removed as no longer necessary, he had set out on the return journey.
Under the prevailing conditions, no Pehnane Dog Soldier ever travelled in an incautious fashion no matter how he appeared externally and, white man’s clothing notwithstanding, the slender Texan came into such a category when danger threatened.
Keeping a far better watch than had appeared to be the case, a brief glint from the sun off one of the silver conchas decorating the band of the Mexican’s sombrero had given a warning to the Kid. Feeling sure Salar was not alone and might even have obtained reinforcements, he had thought quickly and decided what would be his best course of action against them. Possessing the excellent retentive memory of a Comanche, particularly with regards to the geography of any terrain he had recently traversed, he had known he must pass through the woodland to reach Holbrock. With that in mind, guessing how the Mexican would react, he had set about arranging to meet them on his own terms and at a place, if not entirely of his own choosing, somewhat suited to his purpose.
Turning towards the trail, the Kid had ridden along it into the woodland. Although prior to entering the wood he had not come across any evidence to show he was correct in his assumption, there were sufficient indications to his animal-wise senses to suggest that Salar was acting as anticipated. Therefore, as he was approaching the area which he had instinctively selected while passing through in the other direction as being an excellent point for an ambush, he had ridden along singing to lull the men he thought would be waiting into a sense of false security. Just before reaching the bend around which he believed they were waiting, he had dropped from the saddle—having removed the medicine pouch from his Winchester Model of 1866 rifle and tucked it beneath the cantle—allowing Thunder to walk onwards while he darted into the undergrowth at the side of the trail. Using his voice in the close to ventriloquial fashion he had been taught as a child, he had conveyed the impression that he was still riding.
Even as the waiting ‘warriors’ realized they had been tricked, a shrill whistle sounded from amongst the bushes. Instantly, the stallion changed its leisurely walking gait and built up to a gallop along the trail. Seeing what he considered to be such a valuable and desirable a piece of loot approaching, the last of the men on the left side put down his rifle and ran forward to acquire it. Such an action, as anybody who knew Thunder could have warned, was most ill-advised. Letting out a savage snorting squeal, the big white charged. Thrusting forward its neck, it seized him with its jaws and, a hackamore being used, there was no bit to prevent the mouth closing upon his shoulder. Grasped with such force, pain numbed his senses, he was flung backwards to the ground. An instant later, the stallion’s slashing iron shod hooves were battering the life from him. Spluttering out an alarmed profanity, another of the hired guns brought up his rifle with the intention of killing the raging animal.
‘He’s tricked u—!’ the “warrior” next to Salar began.
From the other side of the trail, a Winchester cracked. Hit in the head, the man died without having quite achieved his ambition of hearing ‘that ole song’ all the way through.
Having seen and disposed of the first of his intended killers, the Kid swiveled as he was throwing the lever through its reloading cycle. The nearest of the ‘warriors’ on the same side of the trail was rising from behind a fallen tree trunk and turning his way. Already cradled at the right shoulder, the ‘ole yellow boy’ seemed to halt and fire of its own volition when pointing in the required direction. Caught in the chest before he could attain a firing position, the man spun around and disappeared once more.
However, despite becoming aware of the threat to his horse, a bullet from a repeating rifle closer to hand caused the Kid to give his attention to the man who had fired at him. Even as he was preventing the owner of the Henry from improving its aim, he was bitterly aware that he could not hope to do so and turn the Winchester quickly enough to save Thunder. Nor, offered so large a target, was the ‘warrior’ further along the trail likely to miss.
Lining his rifle at the stallion as it was stamping the other hired gun to death, the would-be avenger heard a rushing patter of some kind of four-footed creature approaching from his rear. Before he could turn to investigate, there was a roaring snarl and he was struck on the back with such force by a heavy and living weight he was sent sprawling, the rifle flying from his grasp. Landing face down with the animal on top of him, he gave a surging heave and rolled over. This proved a fatal error. Leaping clear, the big shaggy coated dog which felled him lunged and caught him by the throat. Powered by the jaws, the teeth sank onwards and, with the head shaking, worried at the neck with deadly efficiency.
Hooves rumbled in the woodland and two riders dashed from the same direction as the dog had appeared!
Having made good their departure from Holbrock the previous night, Annie Singing Bear and Morton Lewis, using her horses, had detected the ambush as they were following the route they hoped would take them to the Kid. Hearing him singing, they had shown greater perception than the men lying in wait. Waiting until the appropriate moment, having sent Pete to save the white stallion, they were now taking cards in the deadly game.
Showing the skill of his Comanche upbringing, the rancher was guiding his borrowed mount by knee pressure alone. Aiming his Spencer carbine and without slowing down he sent one of the hired guns tumbling lifeless to the ground. Displaying an equal ability, the girl used her Winchester to just as lethal effect against another of the Standing DMS hired guns.
‘It’s Dusty Fog and the sheriff!’ yelled a “warrior” on the same side of the trail as Salar and turned to run.
No coward, neither was the Mexican a fool. Realizing the ambush had gone terribly wrong, he did not intend to wait to discover whether the speaker was correct in identifying the newcomers. It was obvious, no matter who they might be, they had evaded Wilson ‘Leftie’ Scanlan and the rest of the crew. Which meant they were fighters of greater than average
ability. Given their backing, staying to face Cabrito would be the equivalent of committing suicide. Reaching that conclusion, Salar swung around without attempting to use his Sharps rifle. He and the ‘warrior’ who had spoken started to make for the horses.
When the Kid saw the Mexican was leaving, he set off in pursuit. Two bullets came his way as he was crossing the trail, but missed due to the speed at which he was moving. When he saw that the man who shot first was close enough to be dangerous, and appeared determined to try again, he began to fire the Winchester on the run. Making the most of its capacity for rapid operation, although not quite attaining the possible two shots per second, he sent a spray of lead which engulfed the ‘warrior’. Just as the man was sent down, he felt the lever stick on a half closed position and knew the mechanism was suffering from a flaw in its design. Even if there was time, he did not have the means with him to repair the broken toggle link. 40
Tossing the temporarily useless rifle into a bush as he passed, the Kid turned his right hand palm outwards to twist the heavy old Colt Dragoon revolver from its holster.
Following the fleeing Mexican, aware of his limitations with the weighty weapon, the Kid did not attempt to use it as a means of ending the flight. However, hearing a disturbance in the undergrowth as the horses were coming into view, he glanced to find the final pair of hired guns were approaching. Although they too had escape in mind, the sight of him provoked hostile reactions. Skidding to a turning halt facing them, he crouched and began to fire at waist level by instinctive alignment. Shot after shot left the four pounds, one ounce, thumb-busting old revolver. Smoke from the massive powder charge in each chamber of the cylinder swirled from the muzzle to make him an elusive target at which to aim in return and this was the effect he sought.
