by J. T. Edson
Caught under the jaw with considerable force, the Kid’s head snapped back and he pitched over with bright lights erupting in his skull.
However, as the Texan was going down, his forefinger instinctively tightened on the trigger of the Dragoon and it went off thunderously.
“And I know what Betty Hardin ’n’ Belle Boyd can do with their feet!” was the Kid’s last conscious thought as he sprawled supine on the ground. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”
Although the bullet flew harmlessly across the open range, the reddish-brunette knew the noise of the detonation would be heard in the main building and was certain to bring men to investigate the cause. Even as the thought came, she heard shouts and saw some of them coming through the front entrance. She realized she would stand a good chance of being caught, or perhaps even shot, before she could reach where she had left her horse. However, she remembered there was another and better means of escape closer at hand. It was one, moreover, she had intended to take in any case. With that thought in mind, she ran toward the small corral and ducked between two of its rails.
For all the skill she had acquired in riding, the reddish-brunette now failed to take two things into account. Every horse she had worked with was either a mare or a gelding that had been broken to accept handling by strangers. Even worse from her point of view was that the big white stallion would allow only a very few people other than its master to even approach in safety. The knowledge came too late. As she was walking forward, the huge animal gave vent to a fighting scream and presented a sight so terrifying as it rushed toward her that she was numbed into immobility. Nor was she granted even a moment to recover from the shock before she was sent sprawling and the metal-shod hooves of her attacker began to smash home with all the terrible force of a powerful body behind them.
“Don’t you do that, not for no lousy hoss thief, Chris!” Pizen Joe Leatherhead warned, as the deputy marshal was about to enter into the corral. “There’s only the Kid could stop Thunder right now!”
“And he’s in no shape to do it!” Eph Tenor went on, hurrying to where the black-dressed Texan was starting to show signs of regaining consciousness.
“I don’t know who she was, nor what she was after in the store there,” the Kid said after he had been revived by a drink of whiskey and calmed down his stallion sufficiently to allow the gory remains of the dead woman to be removed. He spoke with some discomfort, but was thankful to have escaped without sustaining a broken jaw. “But she paid a hell of a price for doing it.”
“Yeah,” drawled the unsentimental old driver. “And she’s surely stopped there being any more quartet singing tonight, less’n you fellers want me to take over from young Lon here.”
Sixteen – Trouble Being, I Won’t Be There
“Howdy, Win,” United States Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen greeted as he and the Ysabel Kid walked up to the bar of the fat woman’s place of business. He swung a gaze around the room, noticing that several of the men present were trying to look as if unconcerned by his arrival. “Lordy Lord, happen the Devil dropped his net in here, he’d come up with a swell catch.”
After the body of Libby Craddock had been removed from the corral, a task performed by Pizen Joe Leatherhead and another grizzled old-timer because none of the younger men were willing to handle such a gruesome object as what remained of her, a search had been instigated for the means by which she had arrived. Her horse was located without too much difficulty and was brought back to Bent’s Ford. While the bedroll strapped to the saddle contained a number of items that the peace officer found of considerable interest, there was nothing to inform him of her identity. However, he concluded that she might have been the woman whom the gang who kidnapped Betty Hardin had suggested they believed was Belle Starr. The Kid and Duke Bent had stated that the corpse definitely was not that of the lady outlaw, nor had the deputy marshal—tactfully refraining from asking the latter where he had made her acquaintance—believed it would be.
At dawn that morning, while Leatherhead and Flint Major took a fresh team of horses to collect the stagecoach and the means to remove the felled tree from the trail, the search for Betty and her captors was commenced. Madsen took the Kid, and Eph Tenor agreed without argument or hesitation when he was asked by the peace officer to accompany them. Putting to use his considerable experience at reading sign, which Madsen would willingly have admitted if asked was the best to come his way, the Kid had at first found no difficulty in following the line taken by the departing gang. What was more, with the aid of pieces of hair he had found, he was able to say the color of some of the horses being used by the gang.
However, despite the opinion of the driver and guard that they had only recently become owlhoots, Jesse Wilbran and his cohorts had soon proved to know quite a bit about concealing signs of their passage. Helped by the gloves and a handkerchief that the girl had contrived to leave at points where such an indication was most welcome, the three men kept going until a fall of rain coincided with an area of rocky terrain to render all evidence of the route being taken by the gang unfindable. Nor, if Betty had managed to leave any clues, could these be discovered despite a rigorous search.
Shortly after noon, Madsen had suggested they go to see Big Win. As Libby Craddock had been informed, her place was notorious as a gathering place for outlaws and little of a criminal nature happened in Oklahoma that she did not get to hear about sooner or later. Setting off in the required direction, they had all hoped it would prove sooner than later on this occasion. Just before they had come into sight of the big building, pointing out that he was less likely to be identified by whoever was inside, Tenor had suggested he go ahead and waited for his companions inside the barroom. This had been agreed upon, so the Kid and Madsen had given him about twenty minutes’ start on them.
The time spent in allowing Tenor his period of grace was not wasted.
Leaving their horses on the edge of the woodland, the Kid and the deputy marshal walked over to examine the animals standing hitched in front of the big wooden building.
“Could be we’ve hit pay dirt, Chris,” the black-dressed Texan stated, looking at two of the horses with some care, and to somebody who had come to know him as well as the peace officer had, there was a sense of satisfaction in his voice. “A washy bay ’n’ a blue-roan.”
“Don’t know how it is down to Texas,” Madsen answered, despite believing his companion had something specific to work on and was not merely indulging in idle or sensation-seeking guesswork. “But we’re sort of up to our assholes in washy bays ’n’ blue-roans all through the Indian Nation.”
“Likely us Texans leave off a whole slew of our culls passing through,” the Kid countered. “Only this washy bay’s favoring its off hind a mite like the one we was after until two of ’em split and took it with ’em. Anyways, I’m willing to put up money’s says they’re two of the sons of bitches we’re after. You want to take me for a ten spot, Chris?”
“Why not?” the peace officer said with a grin.
The way Madsen saw it, he could not lose on the deal. If the Kid was wrong, he would be ten dollars better off. On the other hand, should the conclusion prove correct, it would be worth the money to lay hands on two members of the gang. With this done, he felt sure they could be induced in some way to tell where the remainder were to be located.
Without another word, the black-dressed Texan went to the other side of the bay and removed something from where it had been dangling concealed. Letting out a grunt of annoyance mingled with satisfaction, the peace officer saw he was being shown a woman’s overnight bag. It was made of excellent-quality black leather and on the side were two sets of initials in silver: BH and OD, the O touching the straight side of the D.
“Damn it, Lon,” Madsen growled in mock exasperation. “I’ve been slickered. You saw this damned thing!”
“And you didn’t,” the Kid replied, holding out his right hand palm up.
“I’ll pay you as soon as we’re t
hrough here.”
“Nope, Grandpappy Long Walker allus used to tell me, ‘Keep bow strung, keep knife sharp, make everybody pay off their gambling debts right pronto.’ “
“I’m damned if I know how that Dutch jasper ever slickered you blasted redsticks out’n Manhattan Island for the price he give.”
“Or me,” the Kid admitted, returning the traveling bag to where it had come from before accepting the two five-dollar pieces he was being offered. “Only, we’re fixing on getting it back for the same’s we got, and with something else to boot. What say we go on in and get her done?”
“I thought you’d never get around to asking,” Madsen declared. “Shall I lead?”
“I wouldn’t have it no other way,” the Kid asserted cheerfully. “Happen they start shooting at you, don’t fall down and let ’em hit me accidental.”
On entering the barroom, the Kid and Madsen had found several men were either sitting around in groups or lounging by the counter. Clearly having done what he considered was making the most of his time, their companion was occupying a table against the right-side walk and appeared to be making himself pleasant to the best-looking pair of girls present.
“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Madsen,” Big Win said without any suggestion or malice. “So far’s I know, everybody here’s a honest ’n’ hardworking feller.”
“Aren’t all your customers honest ’n’ hardworking fellers?” the deputy marshal said dryly, resuming his scrutiny of the room’s occupants.
Even as Madsen did so, much to his amazement, he saw Tenor suddenly rise from the table. Showing he could utilize the potential of his holster to its full advantage, the stocky Texan brought out his Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker and seemed to be aiming its four-and-three-quarter-inches barrel toward the peace officer. Even as Madsen commenced his own draw, he knew he could not complete it swiftly enough to prevent the shorter revolver from being fired.
The calculation proved correct. However, Madsen discovered he was not the target selected. Swinging a short distance onward, the gun held by Tenor roared. Hearing the sound of the close-passing bullet striking what could only be human flesh and almost certainly in the chest, followed by something metallic falling to the floor and the crash of another shot, the peace officer allowed his Colt to slide back into leather and turned his gaze in the appropriate direction. Feeling grateful that he had not completed his draw and fired, Madsen’s gaze came to rest on a burly and unshaven man in unclean range clothes who had obviously just come in. Clasping both hands to his left breast, he stumbled back and crashed supine.
“I’ll ‘tend to it, Chris,” the Kid offered, drawing his old Dragoon Colt as a basic precaution and walking across to look at the victim of Tenor’s marksmanship. One glance told him all he needed to know. Replacing the heavy old revolver, he stepped back and, spreading his hands palms outward at waist level in a gesture everybody present recognized for what it meant, he announced, “He’s cashed, dead as a six-day stunk-up skunk.”
“Sorry I didn’t get a chance to say what I was aiming to do, Marshal,” Tenor said, spinning the revolver deftly on his trigger finger before returning it to the holster. “Only me ’n’ him’s never been what you might call close amigos. Fact, you might even say we was enemies and I concluded he was looking for evens.”
“I’d say you got ’em,” Madsen answered, hiding his amusement over the way in which the stocky Texan had prevented their association from being deduced. Turning his gaze to the massive woman beyond the counter, he went on, “Looks like one of your fellers isn’t so honest ’n’ hardworking’s he likely told you he was, Win.”
Far from being after Tenor, the peace officer knew the dead man had been known only as Dutch Charlie and had been kicked out of Bill Doolin’s gang for being too brutal and was wanted for two cold-blooded murders he was known to have committed. He had sworn he would kill all the Three Guardsmen for making him one of their prime targets, and, having seen Madsen, was clearly intending to make a start at it. What was more, as his presence had not been detected by the peace officer—who was concentrating upon Big Win—he might easily have succeeded but for the intervention of the stocky Texan.
“I don’t know everybody as comes in, Mr. Madsen, how could I?” the woman answered. “Fact being, I’ve never even saw him afore.”
“Would you know anything about whoever it was robbed the stagecoach to Bent’s yesterday?” the peace officer inquired, having signaled for the woman to move to the end of the counter and held down his voice to a level only she and the black-dressed Texan who had accompanied them could hear.
“They did more’n just rob it,” the Kid supplemented, his face suddenly taking on the appearance of an annoyed Pehnane dog soldier. “They lit off with General Hardin’s granddaughter, Betty.”
“Gen—!” Big Win began, and it was clearly taking all her willpower to avoid speaking louder than the two men had. “Ok Devil Hardin?”
“That’s just who he is,” the black-dressed Texan confirmed. “Which I threw my bedroll in the OD Connected’s chuck wagon way back.”
“I know who you are,” the woman declared, and she looked uneasy. “But honest to God, Kid, Marshal, I didn’t know nothing about that.”
“I’d be willing to bet you could make a right good stab at saying who does,” Madsen stated. “Just have a try, please.”
“I’ll make it pretty please,” the Kid went on, but the seemingly polite words came out as a threat.
“Try that pair of young’n’s over there,” Big Win suggested, jerking a thumb to where Simcock Wilbran and Jack Cunningham were sitting at a table holding glasses of beer. ‘They was in with four more day afore yesterday and got talking some with a fancy eastern gal who was making out to be a saloon floozy looking for work. Don’t know what was said, having been away all afternoon, but Wilf, my bardog, allows they might’ve been talking about doing a holdup. Gal’s not here anymore.”
“We know,” the Kid drawled. “She’d got real taking ways. Trouble being, she tried to take ole Thunder.”
“May the Good Lord have mercy on her soul,” Win intoned, and crossed herself. “Anyways, that pair was close to the blanket last time, ‘cording to Wilf. Only, they’re not today. Each of ’em bought their beers with a ten-dollar bill ’n’ pulled it off a roll.”
“Let’s go have a word with “em, Lon,” Madsen suggested, then looked hard at the Indian-dark Texan. “And a word’s all I mean. We need them alive to do some talking.”
“I’ll mind it,” the Kid said with a grin that held no mirth. “But happen any one of ’em’s laid hands on Betty, I’ll—!”
“And I’ll help you,” the peace officer asserted grimly. “Let’s get her done.”
Walking toward where Wilbran and Cunningham sat staring at them in the fascinated way of a rabbit faced by a weasel, the Kid studied them. He formed an accurate if far-from-flattering assessment of their abilities. Unless he was sadly wrong, taking them would prove easy enough. Once that was done, should he be given the cooperation promised by the peace officer—which he did not doubt would prove the case—he was confident they could be induced to tell him all he needed to know.
Every eye in the room was focused on the Kid and Madsen as they walked slowly across the room. That particularly applied to Wilbran and, although made of somewhat sterner material, Cunningham. Both were staring most at the silver badge of officer on the deputy marshal’s vest, and the beer they had consumed seemed to have turned to ice in their stomach. For his part, Madsen was studying them with an equal care. His instincts as a peace officer suggested that, even if not the pair he and the Kid hoped they would be, they had guilty knowledge about something else. Therefore, he was alert and kept his right hand hanging close to the butt of his Colt, ready to fetch it out at the first indication that it might be needed.
“You boys done much riding?” Madsen asked as he came to a halt with the Kid to his left side.
“Who wants to know?” Cunningham as
ked, making a far-from-successful attempt to sound tougher than he was feeling.
“I do, for one,” the Kid asserted in his most mean tone, which meant he was very frightening to the pair of young outlaws. “So don’t hand us any bull droppings, you sons of bitches. That gal you thought was Belle Starr told us all we need to know about you.”
“She sold us out, Jack!” Wilbran screeched.
“You stupid bast—!” Cunningham began, starting to thrust back his chair.
The movement ended half completed as the Kid, moving with the speed of the Pehnane dog soldier he had been so well trained to be, lunged forward. However, it was not the Dragoon Colt he brought out. Coming from its sheath, the massive blade of the bowie knife went so its point was pricking Cunningham’s chin. Acting with a similar speed, Madsen brought out his Colt. Although its ostensible purpose was to cover Wilbran, he was ready to use it to quell any opposition that might come from elsewhere in the room.
“These two stinking, no-account sons of bitches’ve helped take off with Ole Devil Hardin’s granddaughter, gents,” the black-dressed Texan announced as Cunningham sank back onto the chair and sat as if turned to stone. “Which, in case some of you don’t know it already, I’m the Ysabel Kid.”
“You do what you want with them, Mr. Madsen, Kid!” Big Win boomed. “Nobody’s wants to stay my friend’ll stop you.”
“Where at’s your hideout?” the Kid asked, keeping his knife in position and knowing that—in addition to his having made it plain where he stood on the issue—there would be no intervention from the other men in the room, even though they were almost certainly all outlaws after the warning that had been given.
“What’s in it for us, happen we talk?” Cunningham croaked.
“I’ll tell you what’s in it for you, happen you don’t,” the Kid replied, and the clip joint of the bowie sank in just deep enough to start a trickle of blood flowing down the outlaw’s neck. “I’m going to take you out ’n’ see if some of the things I learned from my grandpappy, Chief Long Walker of the Comanche, can make you change your minds.”
