by J. T. Edson
‘Hey, Jacko,’ Dawn greeted. ‘Say, Cap’n Dusty wants to see you.’
‘What for?’
‘I dunno. He said for me to tell you if I saw you.’
‘Reckon I’d best go and see what he wants,’ Jacko muttered in a disappointed voice. ‘If you see Miss Barbe, ask her to come back to help her brother take some pictures.’
‘I’ll do just that,’ Dawn promised.
Watching the cowhand stalk indignantly back to the camp, Dawn shook her head and let out a long breath. If her actions should be questioned later, she would claim that she had delivered the false message as part of a joke. One thing was certain to her way of thinking. For a smart big-city feller, de Martin sure showed a bad judgment of human nature in picking Jacko to fetch his sister. If Barbe was still either bathing or dressing, Dawn could not see the cowhand acting polite and warning the unsuspecting girl of his presence.
‘I’m damned if I know why I’m bothering,’ Dawn mused. ‘Only it don’t seem right for him to be watching her.’
Finding a path, Dawn followed it. She made no attempt to walk quietly, not wanting to startle the other girl by an unannounced appearance. Hearing a frightened feminine cry, she sprang between two bushes and skidded to a halt at the sight that confronted her.
Barbe stood on the other side of a sandy clearing, clad in a flimsy silk shift over the briefest, most daring underclothing Dawn had ever seen. Not that the shift offered anything but the scantiest concealment. Its hem had become spiked on the branches of a bush and was drawn high enough to expose her bare, very shapely legs to the tops of the thighs.
‘I—I’m caught. Can you help m—?’ Barbe began, making ineffectual attempts to free herself. Then she looked up at Dawn and puzzled annoyance creased her beautiful face. ‘It’s you!’
Maybe Dawn was a country-raised girl, with no more formal schooling than her mother had been able to supply, but she possessed her fair share of natural intelligence. Taking in the scene, she drew some rapid conclusions and did not care for them. Everything about Barbe’s attitude hinted that she had been expecting some other person to come on to the scene.
‘Just who the hell did you think it’d be?’ Dawn demanded, dropping her clean clothes and crossing the clearing to drape her gunbelt over the top of the bush which trapped the other girl. ‘Let me help you get loose.’
Gripping the hem of the shift, Dawn tugged it free from the bush and ripped the material. With an angry hiss, Barbe started to pull away from the other girl and added further damage to her garment. Staggering back a few paces, Barbe’s face twisted into an expression of rage which shocked Dawn.
‘You did this on purpose!’ Barbe spat out, moving forward and holding out the torn edge of the shift. ‘You cheap little—’
‘Don’t start mean-mouthing me, you man-chasing bitch!’ Dawn flared back. ‘Pulling a play like this, you could have—Hey though! How the hell did you know your brother wouldn’t be coming out to fetch you? That fancy skirt didn’t hang itself on the branch by accident.’
‘You mind your own business!’ Barbe yelled. ‘I’ve had enough of you, the whole stinking bunch of you!’
‘Which I can’t say I reckon a whole heap on you,’ Dawn replied and started to turn away. ‘Get dressed. None of the men’ll be coming.’
Barbe spat out something in a language which Dawn did not understand, but figured it to be anything except complimentary. Then the dark-haired girl caught the blonde by the arm and jerked her around. Up drove Barbe’s right knee, aimed at Dawn’s groin. Giving the angry oath had been a mistake on Barbe’s part. Always a tomboy and with experience gained in childhood scuffles, Dawn turned half-expecting such an attack. So she continued to swing her body and the knee struck her hip instead of its intended target. The force of its arrival sent the slim girl staggering away and with an effort she retained her balance.
‘All right!’ Dawn hissed. ‘If that’s how you want it—’
Clearly that was just how Barbe wanted it. Letting out another string of what Dawn assumed to be French profanity, the dark-haired girl flung herself forward. Caught by a stinging slap across the face, Dawn cut loose with both hands to retaliate in kind. Then their fingers sank into hair, tugging and jerking while their feet or knees flailed at the other girl’s legs and body.
For a few seconds the girls staggered backwards and forwards clinging to hair. Gasps, squeals and curses broke from them as each tried to throw the other to the ground but retain her own footing. In the matter of hair-pulling Dawn had the advantage. Her short-cropped locks offered a less secure gripping area than the long black tresses of her rival.
Feeling her fingers slipping from Dawn’s hair, Barbe raked her nails down the other’s cheeks and closed her hands on the other’s throat. Pure instinct made Dawn release her hold and transfer her fingers to Barbe’s neck. Reddish blotches formed where their fingers gouged into flesh, yet neither showed signs of releasing her hold. Guttural, croaking sounds broke from their mouths as the choking grips grew tighter.
Dawn had been surprised at Barbe’s unexpected strength, but was still the stronger of the two. Slowly she forced Barbe back, digging her thumbs into the other’s throat and bending her rearwards. Desperately Barbe released Dawn’s neck and clawed wildly at Dawn’s wrists. Pain brought a screech from Dawn’s lips and she hurled the other girl from her.
For a moment Dawn thought Barbe had had enough. Then the beautiful-faced girl attacked again. Launching themselves at each other, they collided with a sickening force. Without any form of planned attack, they grappled wildly for a grip to bring the other girl down. Locking her wiry arms around Barbe’s waist, Dawn tried to crush her. Struggling wildly, the black-haired girl encircled the blonde’s neck with her right arm and twisted until she held Dawn in a headlock. With her own arms around Barbe’s middle, Dawn could do nothing to prevent herself being trapped. Once again Dawn found herself being choked, but with less chance of reprisal. Nor could she use Barbe’s method of effecting an escape. Riding with the trail herd did not allow her to grow long fingernails.
Croaking and gasping, Dawn broke off her bear hug. Her hands roved wildly in an attempt to break the hold. Reaching Barbe’s head, Dawn’s left hand buried into the hair. Taking a firm hold, she jerked Barbe’s head backwards and at the same moment kicked the other hard behind her right knee. Braced on stiff legs, Barbe was thrown off balance when her leg suddenly bent forward. Before she could recover, Dawn had jerked free and they both sprawled in a heap on the sand.
With barely a pause the girls began to roll over and over. It was a wild, mindless tangle in which fists, flat palms, knees, feet, heads and teeth were used indiscriminately. Dawn’s shirt ripped down the back and flapped free of her levis, while Barbe’s scanty clothing—even less suitable for such treatment —suffered even greater damage. The shift hung in tatters, while the bodice of her underclothes had ripped to bare her torso.
Exhaustion rather than modesty or shame at her behavior made Barbe try to end the fight. How it happened was impossible to decide, but in some way they had each obtained a head scissors on the other. With legs locked about the other’s head, they rolled four times and then came apart. Sobbing for breath, Barbe tried to crawl away. Dawn lurched to her feet and flung herself forward. Taking a double handful of the black hair, she dragged Barbe upright. Then she released the girl and swung a punch. Hard knuckles crashed into Barbe’s nose and she stumbled backwards with hands going to the source of the pain.
‘My face!’ Barbe screamed, going to her knees. Through the tears of pain which misted her vision, she saw Dawn approaching. ‘No! No! Don’t hit me again!’
Slowly a feeling of revulsion filled the blonde, bringing her to a halt. Yet she wanted to give Barbe a warning to prevent a further recurrence of the flirting which had caused Vern and Willock’s deaths.
‘All right!’ Dawn said, breathing hard and standing over the crouching girl. ‘What the hell kind of game are you playing at?’
> ‘Do-don’t hit me again!’ Barbe whined. ‘Don’t hit me and I’ll tell you everyth—’
The flat crack of a light-caliber revolver chopped off her words. Struck in the head by a bullet, Barbe pitched sideways. Exhausted by the fight, Dawn reacted sluggishly. For a moment she stood and stared with unbelieving eyes at the other girl’s spasmodically jerking body. A soft thud nearby brought Dawn’s head around and she saw her Cooper revolver lying on the sand, smoke curling from its muzzle. Faintly she heard shouts and the sound of running feet coming her way. Without thinking, she bent over and picked up the revolver.
Still too dazed to realize fully what she was doing, Dawn turned with the smoking Cooper in her hand. She stood holding the gun, looking in exhausted incomprehension at Barbe’s body when the first of the men from the camp burst into the clearing. Everything seemed to be whirling around before Dawn’s eyes. Then as her legs buckled under her, she heard a voice from what seemed a long way off.
‘My God! She’s murdered my sister!’
Chapter Fifteen – She Has to Stand Trial
Attracted by the sound of the shot, Dusty Fog led the rush of men to investigate its cause. Bursting through the bushes, he came to a halt and stared at the scene that met his eyes. Behind him, the trail hands also stopped and were shocked to silence by what they saw. Dusty knew the shock would not last. Even before de Martin came shoving through the rear of the party, the small Texan knew he faced a delicate and dangerous situation. Angry, startled comments rose from the other men as the photographer made his accusation. Even as Dawn collapsed alongside Barbe, Dusty swung around.
‘Back off, all of you!’ Dusty ordered and his eyes went to the big shape of the cook. ‘Rowdy, see if there’s anything you can do.’
Coming prepared to deal with any kind of trouble—although not of the type they found on arrival—all the trail hands held guns. So did Dusty. Yet it was not the threat of the long-barreled Army Colt in his left hand that caused the men to obey. At such a time they needed a leader to guide them and Dusty was that man.
Although the majority of the group obeyed, de Martin ran towards his sister and Josh Narth went to Dawn. Dusty raised no objections, knowing they showed a natural and understandable concern for the girls’ welfare. Holstering his Colt, Dusty watched the men do the same. Shock, horror, disbelief and lack of comprehension showed on the tanned faces that Dusty had come to know so well. Staring fixedly at where Rowdy bent over Barbe, Jacko muttered under his breath.
The cook’s examination of the black-haired girl did not take long. Looking at de Martin, Rowdy said gently, ‘There’s nothing I can do for her.’
‘Lord!’ the photographer moaned. ‘Why did it happen? Why? Why?’ Then he flung himself to his sister’s side and started to sob with his head buried against her naked bosom.
‘Dawn’s just swooned,’ Rowdy said after looking at the slim girl. ‘We’d best have her took back to camp, Cap’n Dusty.’
‘When I’ve looked around,’ Dusty replied. ‘Do what you can for her here.’
‘What the hell started them fighting, Dusty?’ Mark asked, moving to his amigo’s side.
‘That’s what we’re going to have to find out,’ Dusty replied. ‘It looks straight-forward enough, but—’
‘Yeah?’ Mark prompted.
Before Dusty could reply, de Martin looked up. Grief twisted at his face and his eyes were red with tears. Slowly he raised a hand to point at where Narth had propped Dawn in a sitting position against his knee.
‘What are you going to do about her, Dusty?’
‘How do you mean?’ Dusty asked, turning from the men as they holstered their revolvers.
‘She murdered my sister—’
‘Mister!’ Narth growled. ‘I’m taking it that grieving’s what made you say that—’
‘It’s true!’ de Martin answered. ‘Look at the signs. She must have attacked poor Barbe, beat her and then shot her!’
‘Why you—!’ Narth began and started to rise but was prevented from doing so by Rowdy catching his right shoulder in a paralyzing grip and holding him down.
An angry growl rose from the trail hands and Jacko moved forward, right hand grabbing at his revolver. Instantly Mark brought out his off side Colt, throwing down on the cowhand long before Jacko’s gun cleared leather.
‘Back off, friend,’ the blond giant advised. ‘All you can do is make things a damned sight worse.’
‘You would have tried Burle Willock for shooting her brother!’ de Martin went on in a loud voice. ‘Is she to be treated differently?’
‘No!’ Dusty stated firmly. ‘She’s not!’
‘Damn it, Cap’n Fog!’ Narth yelled, struggling futilely against the numbing pressure of the cook’s powerful fingers. ‘You’re not—’
‘I am!’ Dusty insisted and looked over his shoulder. ‘All of you’d best go back to camp. There’s nothing you can do here.’
‘Come on, boys!’ Mark said, dropping his Colt back into leather. ‘Do what Dusty wants. It’ll be for the best.’
‘Yeah!’ agreed old Boiler Benson. ‘There’s nothing we can do here.’
Turning, talking quietly among themselves, the men walked away. Last to go was Jacko. For a moment he stood staring at Barbe’s body. Then, with a strangled gasp, he swung on his heel and stumbled dazedly after his departing companions.
‘Josh. Help Rowdy take Dawn back to camp,’ Dusty went on, watching the cowhand go. ‘She’s to be kept in the bed-wagon until I get back.’
‘Damn it, Cap’n!’ Narth blazed. ‘If you reckon I’m going to stand by and see her hung—’
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ Dusty interrupted quietly. ‘But she has to stand trial, Josh. Uncle Charlie may be away with the Kid, but I’ll do everything that he would.’
‘And Colonel Charlie’d do just what Cap’n Dusty’s doing,’ the cook pointed out, sharing the small Texan’s unspoken wish that Goodnight had not ridden out with the Kid to scout the land ahead ready for continuing the drive in the morning. He lifted the girl in his arms. ‘Come on. You can stay with her.’
‘Don’t try anything loco like trying to run out with her, Josh,’ Dusty warned. ‘All that’ll do is make things even worse.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ Narth answered quietly and followed Rowdy across the clearing.
‘Stay with your sister, Edmond,’ Dusty told the photographer gently. ‘There’s not much a man can say at a time like this. I’m real sorry—’
‘Thank you, Dusty,’ de Martin replied without raising his head. ‘Dawn must have hated poor little Barbe to do this.’
‘Maybe,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’ll know more about it after I’ve talked to her.’
‘Then you don’t mean to try her?’
‘Yes I do,’ Dusty corrected, picking up the girl’s revolver and looking at how the gunbelt hung over the bush. ‘Maybe you’d best come with me—’
‘And leave her?’ de Martin moaned, indicating the body.
‘It’d be for the best. I’ll have her brought in.’
Taking the photographer by the arm, Dusty helped him rise. For a moment de Martin seemed ready to resist. Then he let out a croaking sob and walked away. Dusty was about to follow. Looking down, he decided to cover the body’s naked bust and bent to do so. Something caught his eye and he looked closer at the body, studying one of the injuries with extra care. Removing his calfskin vest, Dusty draped it across the naked torso. With that done, he followed and caught up to de Martin. Together they made their way back to the camp.
The change in the atmosphere struck Dusty immediately on his arrival. Up to the sound of the shot disturbing them, the crew had been a happy, contented whole. Now tension twanged the air like a snapped bowstring as the trail hands formed groups who sat or stood conversing in low tones. Surrounded by Willock’s cronies and others of the Mineral Wells men, Jacko scowled at the bed-wagon with savage concentration. Leaving Dusty, de Martin went slowly in the direction of his wagon. Com
ing to his feet, Jacko walked over to the photographer’s side.
‘Mark!’ Dusty said as the big blond approached him. ‘I want you to go out to the clearing and stay there.’
‘Sure.’
‘Take Pick Visscher with you. Both of you stay there until I send somebody to relieve you. You’re to let nobody—and I mean nobody—touch anything out there.’
‘Yo! I’ll take out a tarp and cover the body.’
‘Sure. But don’t move or touch anything.’
‘It’s done,’ Mark promised and went to the Mineral Wells men. They showed some surprise at his words, but the stocky Lazy F cowhand rose without argument and accompanied him.
Walking across to the bed-wagon, Dusty felt the uneasy stirrings that warned him of danger. Once again the trail crew faced a split in its membership, for some of the men would be sure to back up Josh Narth in Dawn’s defense. Others, especially Jacko’s bunch would remember Willock and be equally insistent that Dawn should face trial. Dusty cursed. In addition to Goodnight and the Kid being away, Ahlen was riding the herd with Sherman, Red and Billy Jack. That deprived him, as had sending Mark to guard the clearing, of possible steadying influences and of men on whom he could rely.
On entering the wagon, Dusty found Dawn recovered sufficiently to be able to talk. Sitting on her bed, she dropped a cloth into a bowl of water and turned her half-washed, frightened face in the small Texan’s direction.
‘D-Dusty!’ Dawn gasped. ‘I didn’t kill her.’
‘Best tell me what happened then,’ Dusty replied. ‘All of it from why you went at each other on.’
After listening to the girl’s story, from her decision to deliver de Martin’s message instead of allowing Jacko to do so up to Barbe’s death, Dusty stood up.
Narth looked at the small Texan in a challenging manner and asked, ‘You believe her, don’t you, Cap’n?’
‘Can you be ready to face a hearing in half an hour, Dawn?’ Dusty said, ignoring the question.
‘Damn it—’ Narth started to growl.
‘We’re only a week at most to Fort Sumner, Cap’n Dusty,’ Rowdy put in. ‘Can’t it wait until we get there and let the legal law handle it?’
