by J. T. Edson
Coming to a halt, the gamblers stared across the room. After making sure that they had seen her state of undress, Libby let out an embarrassed screech and jerked the blankets up to her chin.
‘Well I’ll be—!’ Ben Thompson ejaculated, letting his revolver’s barrel sag towards the floor. ‘Air that you, Mark?’
‘Yeah,’ the blond giant confirmed. ‘What’s the game, Ben, Billy?’
‘It’s a mistake,’ the older of the Thompson brothers replied and looked over his shoulder. ‘This here’s Mark Counter, Arnaud. I know him real well. It couldn’t’ve been him’s tried to lay hands on your missus.’
‘It sure couldn’t,’ grinned Billy Thompson.
‘What’s up, Ben?’ Mark demanded, figuring that the question would be expected of him.
‘The Count here’s missus had some feller get into her room and try to ra—jum—well, you-all know what I mean,’ Ben Thompson answered. ‘Allowed it was the big jasper’s has this room. We didn’t know it was you in here, Mark.’
‘You’re big all right,’ the gambling gun fighter’s younger brother chuckled. ‘Only you sure as hell wouldn’t be chasing no oth—’
‘Shut your fool mouth, Billy!’ Ben snapped. ‘’Scuse him, Mark, he’s a fool kid who don’t mean nothing—’
‘Get out of here!’ Libby shrieked.
‘Has Mr. Counter been with you all night, Mrs. Schell?’ Lansing inquired as the Thompson brothers turned to leave.
‘He’s been in here ever since we got back from the Posada del Mesteneros,’ Libby replied, telling the truth if not answering the question. ‘Now will you-all get the hell out of here and leave us have some sleep?’
‘Come on, we’ve got the wrong man,’ Ben Thompson said, making for the door and holstering his Colt. He looked back and went on, ‘Right sorry to have bust in on you like this, ma’am. Damn it, Arnaud, that missus of your’n could’ve got us killed, saying what she did.’
‘I will speak to her about it,’ de Brioude promised, throwing a calculating glance into the room. His eyes rested on Mark for a moment. ‘I’m sorry if my wife has caused you inconvenience, m’sieur.’
Leaving the bed, Mark turned the key of the ‘sprung’ lock. He closed the door after the intruders and locked it. Instead of rejoining Libby, he stayed and listened to the men talking in the passage.
‘I never thought Libby Schell’d do nothing like that,’ Lansing commented.
‘Was I you, I’d not go talking too much about it neither,’ advised Ben Thompson. ‘Mark Counter might not go for that and, mister, he’s a man it’s best not to have riled at you.’
Which was not a bad tribute, coming from one of the fastest and most dangerous men in Texas. At that moment, though, Mark felt more grateful to Thompson for the warning he had given to the sheriff. If Lansing took it to heart, he might not spread the story of Libby Schell’s indiscretion. Mark hoped that the affair would be finished, but his hope failed to materialize.
‘You stop out here and keep watch on the Countess’s room, Billy,’ Ben Thompson suggested. ‘The rest of us’ll take a look around outside. Could be that feller’s still around.’
‘He wants catching, whoever he is,’ declared one of the poker players, ‘abusing a for-real lady that ways.’
‘Maybe you’d best have one of your deputies come over and stand guard for the rest of the night, sheriff,’ Thompson continued.
‘I will,’ Lansing agreed, always willing to oblige, or ingratiate himself, when dealing with influential visitors.
‘If that feller was big enough for Arnaud’s missus to mistake him for Mark Counter,’ Billy drawled, ‘I should have your man tote along a ten-gauge scattergun.’
‘It’d be best,’ Ben agreed. ‘Come on. Let’s go look around.’
‘They’ve gone,’ Mark said, walking slowly back to the bed. ‘I don’t know how you got in on the deal, Libby, but I’m surely grateful for what you’ve done.’
‘There wasn’t any other way,’ the blonde replied. ‘I heard you and her fussing and figured to cut in. Time I’d got to my door, you’d thrown her out. Way she acted, I guessed what she aimed to do—’
‘She said she’d go tell her husband I’d tried to make love to her, only I figured she was bluffing.’
‘I didn’t. After she went into her room, I grabbed my clothes to make it look right and came here. Way you kept arguing, I was thinking she’d come out and see me. Boy, you’re sure hard to get in to see.’
‘You called the play right, though,’ Mark said, wondering how to break the news of what he had heard in the passage.
‘Sure,’ answered Libby. ‘They found us in bed, everything looking like we’d been there since we came in tonight. When they find the key in the alley, they’ll reckon the “feller” dropped it as he lit out.’
‘Likely,’ Mark replied.
Going to the window, the big blond looked out. After a short time, the lamp’s light glowed and the men came into the alley. He saw one of them bend and pick up the key. Behind him, the bed’s springs creaked. Turning, he saw Libby leaning over and reaching beneath it in an attempt to locate her discarded nightdress. Finding the garment, she sat up.
‘What’s happening?’ Libby inquired, for Mark had swung back to the window.
‘They’ve found the key and’re looking around,’ Mark told her. ‘Libby, Billy Thompson’s out in the passage right now and the sheriff’s sending along one of his deputies to keep watch outside her door for the rest of the night.’
‘Which means I’ll have to stay put,’ the woman said calmly. ‘If I go, they just might start figuring I only came in to save your hide.’
‘That’d be Lansing’s kind of figuring, for sure,’ admitted Mark. ‘I’ll bed down on the floor.’
Libby did not comment straight away. Coming to Mark’s rescue in such a manner had not been easy. Yet she had not been unaware of his rugged masculinity during the short time she had nestled against him. Never a promiscuous woman, she had been faithful to her husband through their years of marriage. However Trader had been dead for many months and she felt an urge to make love. Trader had always told her that she must live her life if anything happened to him and not tie herself to his memory. Sucking in a deep breath, she looked at the big Texan. Maybe a youngster like him would not wish to share a bed with a woman of her age.
‘That’s up to you,’ she said in a challenging manner.
‘I figured you’d want it that way,’ Mark drawled.
‘If word of this gets out,’ Libby remarked, ‘my name’ll be ruined around town no matter where you sleep.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Mark agreed. ‘Which it’d be a real shame for that to happen.’
‘Hell, I don’t care about it happening,’ Libby stated. ‘Not as long as I’ve done something to deserve it.’
‘In that case, ma’am,’ Mark said, taking the nightdress from her hands and placing it on the chair, ‘I’m right honored to be of service.’
Chapter Four
Raising the chanter of a set of bagpipes to his lips, Colin Farquharson glanced to his right at the Ysabel Kid then left to Dusty Fog. They nodded their agreement and all turned their eyes towards the range ahead of them. Some thirty horses grazed on the grama grass about half a mile from the trio’s place of concealment amongst a grove of post oaks. It was not Mogollon’s band.
Much as Colin had hoped to commence his quest to catch the manadero, the band of mustangs located by the Kid had taken priority. It was a manada de hermanos, a band of brothers. In other words, a number of young stallions—not necessarily from the same sire—that had been driven from their original family groups by the jealous manaderos and had collected together for companionship or mutual protection. A manada de hermanos offered a larger return for effort than a mestena, a family band of mares and young horses. With luck, the majority of the stallions would be suitable for Army remounts, or to swell the number required by the OD Connected.
Knowing that Jeanie would
go along with his wishes, the Scot had not mentioned his intentions regarding Mogollon. Instead, he had accompanied his companions to their base camp and spent the rest of the day preparing for the capture of the manada de hermanos.
After discussion with her mesteneros, Jeanie had decided that the stallions would be in the vicinity of the Caracol de Santa Barbara. So the men had ridden to that enclosure—every major trap had a name—and made preparations for the corrida which, they hoped, would drive the manada into the figure-eight formation of the sturdy log walls.
Experience had taught mustangers that the ordinary circular type of corral did not meet their requirements when gathering in a large bunch of horses. So the gourd or caracol, snail-shaped, enclosure had come into being. Either of them prevented the horses from doubling back out of the gate as frequently happened when a round or lane pen was used.
Selecting the location of a catch enclosure was of considerable importance. In preference, it would be on the bank of a creek at a point where horses regularly crossed. Failing that, wood or scrub-covered hollows, or canyons with sides the horses could not climb served equally well. If possible, the entrance would face the direction from which the wind blew with the greatest regularity. Given a wind that blew towards the corral, the dust stirred up by the manada would roll ahead of them and partially obscure the entrance until it was too late to be avoided.
With the Caracol de Santa Barbara and its surroundings made ready, Jeanie had laid her plans for the corrida. All the party had known that enforcing their will upon the mustangs would be anything but easy. More than on any other corrida dealing with a manada de hermanos called for concerted action on the part of all concerned—and not a little luck.
The Kid had warned that one of the stallions was acting as manadero, which did not surprise his audience. Even after it had been driven from its position of leadership by a stronger rival, a deposed master-stallion would try to take over another band. Failing to gather mares, the ex-manadero would join a bachelor group. Like all herd-living animals, horses maintained an orderly society in which every individual knew and, unless it could improve its station by physical means, kept its place. So, as long as its strength held out, the retired manadero would often dominate its companions.
Unfortunately, the domination a manadero managed to establish over a manada de hermanos was never as strong as upon the members of a mestena. Although generally subservient to their leader’s will, once fright set them to running, the stallions would scatter more readily than the mares and offspring of a mestena.
With that in mind and being short-handed, Jeanie had utilized her small force in a manner which had brought nods of approval from the listening men. When they had ridden out at dawn on the day after seeing Mogollon, every man knew the part he must play in the work ahead of them.
No domesticated horse, burdened by a rider, could hope to run down and catch healthy, unencumbered mustangs, but they had to travel fast over a long distance. So no extra weight could be carried. Instead of using a heavy range saddle, each of the party sat on a sheepskin pad held in place by a single girth to which was attached the leathers of plain brass stirrups. The whole rig weighed a little over three pounds. To further reduce the horse’s load, a hackamore with a bosal and reins replaced the full bridle and metal bit. While light and serviceable, such an outfit demanded a high standard of horsemanship from its user.
Accompanied by Dusty and the Kid, Colin had circled the area in which the manada was grazing. The Scot had a special and important part to play in the corrida. Early in his association with the Schell family, it had been discovered that the music of a set of bagpipes—brought to Texas for a kinsman but so far undelivered—produced an adverse effect upon horses unused to the sound. That aversion had been put to good use in starting the manadas moving.
‘Go to it, amigo!’ Dusty suggested, controlling the eagerness of the small bayo-cebrunos xii gelding he had selected instead of using his paint stallion that day. ‘Start up that caterwauling and let’s see if we can get them headed the way we want them to go.’
Holding down his inclination to defend his native music, Colin started to blow into the chanter’s mouthpiece and the skirl of the pipes rose hauntingly. On hearing the alien sound, the horses in the manada swung to face it. So far they were not frightened, for it came from a sufficient distance to pose no threat. However they paced restlessly, heads tossing and ears pointing towards the trees. Letting out an explosive snort, the big black manadero advanced a few steps in an attempt to form a better impression of what was causing the droning, wailing noise. Although a fair way past its prime, the stallion still looked menacing and savage.
‘He’s a mean one,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Just look at that off ear. It’s damned near been chewed off his head.’
‘That’s one horse we’ll be lucky to take alive,’ Dusty answered, studying the tattered ear and scarred body. ‘And he’ll be damned little use if we do.’
‘They’re moving off,’ the Kid said.
While not frightened, the manada had clearly decided that they did not care for the strange noise. So they loped off without haste, going in the direction of the valley which held the Caracol de Santa Barbara concealed in a draw.
‘Just like Jeanie figured,’ Dusty drawled. ‘That gal’s a living wonder at mustanging. Let’s show ourselves.’
Curiosity compelled first one then another of the manada to swing around and look at the post-oaks. Seeing the three riders appear, they cut loose with snorts of real alarm. This was no strange, but possibly harmless sound, it was a genuine menace. More of the manada turned, studying the human beings. Then the manadero let out an ear-shattering whinny. Twirling around fast, the horses which had been looking at the approaching riders joined their companions in flight.
‘Now!’ Dusty snapped, giving the bayo-cebrunos a heel signal which changed its walk to a gallop.
‘Yeeah!’ screeched the Kid and his strawberry roan increased its pace.
A quick thrust turned the bagpipes to hang by their cord behind Colin’s back. Knowing what would be required of it, the wolf-gray bayo-lobo horse between his legs sprang forward to keep level with the Texans’ mounts.
Forming a wide, crescent-shaped line, Dusty, Colin and the Kid followed the departing manada. Each of them kept up his whooping, to urge the mustangs onwards and alert the other members of their party that the corrida had begun. Striding out at speed, none of the stallions showed signs of separating from the remainder of the band. The black manadero brought up the rear, snaking its neck around occasionally to look at the pursuing men.
On reaching the edge of the valley, the horses plunged unhesitatingly down its gentle side. Laying flat along the neck of her quivering, impatient brown gelding, so as to remain hidden amongst a clump of mesquite, Jeanie watched them. When the leaders started across the level ground, she sent the horse bounding from cover.
‘Cam na cuimhne!’ the girl shrieked, giving the rallying call of the Clan Farquharson, ‘Cairn of Remembrance’, in honor of her fiancé, once more producing a satisfactory start to a corrida.
Gripping a saddle blanket in her left hand, Jeanie waved and flapped it over her head. The girl’s sudden and noisy appearance caused the leading stallions to swerve hurriedly in the required direction along the valley. Some of the following horses showed signs of breaking away and heading up the opposite slope. Placed there to circumvent such tactics, a mestenero called Bernardo appeared on the rim and rode in the deserters’ direction. Turning back, the would-be bunch-quitters rejoined the manada to obtain mutual protection from its numbers.
Hooves rumbled and drummed in a growing crescendo, punctuated by the wild yells of the riders. Turned along the valley in the direction of the fatal draw, the manada was kept on the move by the girl and her companions. While the Kid rode parallel to the rim down which the mustangs had entered the valley, Bernardo remained on the other ridge. Dusty and Colin joined Jeanie on the bottom, urging their horses onwards in an at
tempt to keep pace with the girl. Being smaller and lighter, Jeanie had the advantage over both of them. Knowing the dangers involved in making a corrida on a manada de hermanos, the girl tried to restrain the brown gelding’s eagerness. Despite all her efforts, she drew ahead as the chase continued. Nor could Colin stay level with Dusty, and the three riders formed an angular line across the valley.
Almost half a mile fell behind the pursued and the pursuers. Underfoot, the springy grama grass grew in such profusion that it prevented the dust from rising beneath the pounding hooves. Still in the lead of the trio, Jeanie regarded that as a mixed blessing. While it allowed her an almost unrestricted view of what lay ahead, the same also applied to the members of the manada. Holding her gelding to its racing gait, Jeanie could see the mouth of the draw which held the caracol. Beyond the opening, the yard-wide furrow dug by the mesteneros stretched across the valley and up the opposite slope.
Jeanie knew that the new few seconds would be of vital importance. The result of the corrida depended on what happened during them. While wild horses for some reason fought shy of crossing a naked strip of earth like the furrow, the response of a manada de hermanos to such a sight was far less predictable than that of a mestena. When they reached the furrow, the stallions might decided to scatter instead of turning as a band. If so, they would burst apart like an exploding canister shell spraying out its load of cast-iron balls. Then the whole band might be lost, or only a fraction of it fall into the mesteneros’ hands.
At the sight of the furrow, the leading stallions of the manada started to swing aside—but not towards the entrance of the trap. Positioned to counter such an eventuality, Jeanie’s segundo, Felix Machado and another mestenero made a sudden and rowdy appearance on top of the slope up which the stallions were heading. Yelling and waving blankets, they charged towards the manada.
Watching the whooping, hard-riding pair approach the stallions, Jeanie caught her breath in anxiety. Knowing what must be done, she directed her fast-moving mount towards the edge of the incline down which Felix and Carlos were making their reckless descent. Equally aware of the danger, Dusty continued to hold his bayo-cebrunos in the center of the valley and about thirty feet to the girl’s rear. Approximately the same distance behind Dusty, Colin steered his bayo-lobo along the foot of the other slope. Confronted by Felix and Carlos, the stallions skidded into rump-scraping, hoof-churning turns. At that moment, everything swung on a very delicate balance.
