by J. T. Edson
Freda also looked and felt surprise. This was not the innocent looking boy who talked and joked with her inside the house. The clothes might be the same, but the face was a mean, cold, slit-eyed Comanche Dog Soldier’s mask, alert, wolf-cautious and watching every move.
They called him Loncey Dalton Ysabel, the Ysabel Kid, Cabrito depending on how well folks knew him. Three names, but they all added up to one thing — a real dangerous man. His father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian border smuggler, his mother the daughter of Chief Long Walker of the Comanche and his French-Creole squaw. That marriage brought a mixing of bloods which produced a deadly efficient fighting man with an innocent face and a power of danger inside him. He had the sighting eye of a backwoodsman of the legendary past and the same ability to handle a rifle. He could use his Dragoon Colt well enough when needed. From his French-Creole strain he gained an inborn love of cold steel as a weapon and an ability to use that James Black bowie knife which would not have shamed old Jim Bowie himself. Tied in with that came the skill of a Comanche Dog Soldier at riding anything with hair, ability to follow tracks where a buck Apache might falter and the keen eyes which came in so useful when riding scout. He could move through thick brush as silent as a shadow, speak seven languages and fluent Spanish. All in all it made the Kid a real good friend — or right bad enemy.
From the way he stood and watched the Double K men he was no friend.
‘Don’t see how all this comes to be your concern, Cap’n Fog,’ Tring said, in a much milder tone than he usually adopted. ‘These here nesters—’
‘Stop handing us that bull-droppings, hombre!’ growled Mark Counter, moving forward to flank Dusty and face the men. ‘These folk don’t plough. They run a brand and keep cattle. That makes them ranch folks.’
The youngster in Tring’s bunch thought he was real fast with a gun. He had come through a couple of cowhand backing-down sessions and didn’t reckon this trio would prove harder to handle than the others.
He swung down from his saddle to step by Tring and face the two Texans in his toughest and most belligerent manner, even though he wasn’t showing good sense.
‘Who asked you to bill in?’ he asked in a tough voice.
‘We’re in, boy,’ Dusty answered, sparing him hardly a glance. ‘You, hombre, get afork your hoss and take your pards off with you.’
Tring wasn’t fixing to argue. He bent and took up his hat, placing it on the bald head. Tomorrow would be another day. The Texans would be riding on soon and he would return. Freda Lasalle was going to wish he had not when he came back. Or maybe Lasalle would pull out in a hurry when he heard what had happened — or what might have happened had not those three interfering Texans been on hand.
So Tring turned to collect his horse. His backers did not want trouble, he could read that on their faces. Only the fool kid wanted to make fuss, bring off a grandstand play.
Full of brash conceit and over-confident both in himself and the ability of the others to back him, the young hard-case took a pace forward.
‘Listen, you!’ he said to Dusty. ‘Our boss sent us to do a job, and we aim to do it, so you can smoke off afore you get hurt.’
Dusty did not even look at the young man, but threw a glance at Tring as the bald man mounted his horse.
‘Call him off, hombre,’ Dusty said gently, ‘or lose him.’
Tring made no reply. He watched the young gun-hand, wondering if he might be lucky and give the rest of them a chance to cut in.
‘Listen, you short-growed ru—!’ began the youngster.
He stopped faster than he started, and without finishing his speech, for a very good reason. Dusty Fog glided forward a step. His right fist drove out and sank with the power of a mule-kick into the youngster’s stomach. The young gunny’s hand started moving towards the butt of his Army Colt as Dusty stepped forward. He failed to make it. The hand which he meant to fetch out the Colt clutched instead at his middle as he doubled over croaking in agony.
Instantly Dusty threw up his fist-knotted left hand, smashing it full under the youngster’s jaw, lifting him erect and throwing him backwards into the horses. Then the gunny slid down into a sitting position. Through the spinning pain mists and bright lights which popped before his eyes he saw Dusty standing before him and again tried to get out his gun. Dusty jumped forward, foot lashing out in a kick which ripped skin from the gun-hand, brought a howl of pain from the youngster and sent the Colt flying.
Bending forward Dusty took a double handful of the youngster’s shirt and hauled him erect, shook him savagely, then let him go. The youngster’s legs were buckling under him as Dusty’s right fist lashed up at his jaw. Mark Counter winced in sympathy as the blow landed. The youngster went over backwards, crashing down and made no attempt to rise.
Dusty looked at Tring, his eyes cold and hard.
‘You always let a boy do your fighting?’ he asked.
‘Boy played it on his own,’ snarled Tring, hating backing down but not having the guts to take Dusty up on it. We ain’t after fuss with you.’
‘Fussing with a gal’d be more your game,’ drawled Mark. ‘Wouldn’t it?’
Never the most amiable of men, Tring still managed to hold down his anger and resentment at Mark’s words.
‘The boss made these folks a fair offer for their place,’ he said. ‘He wants more land to build up his holding. We just figured to toss a scare into the girl and her pappy. Didn’t mean her no real harm.’
Freda watched everything, still holding Bugle’s collar. She wanted to say something, take a part in the drama being played out before her. Dusty did not give her a chance for he clearly aimed to handle the entire affair his own way. She went back to shove Bugle into the house then came towards Dusty.
‘We aren’t selling,’ she said.
‘You hear that?’ asked Dusty.
‘I heard it!’ Tring replied.
‘We’ll be going up the trail today. But we’ll be coming back this way and if these folks aren’t here and unharmed, hombre, you’d best be long gone or I’ll nail your hide to the door. Understand?’
‘I understand, Cap’n Fog.’
‘Then get that kid on his horse and ride out of here.’
A growled order from Tring brought two men from their horses to help the groaning youngster to his feet then into his saddle. Freda watched them, seeing the conspicuous way they kept their hands clear of the guns at all times. This puzzled her for, from what she had heard, Double K hired tough hard-cases.
Under the right circumstances Tring’s bunch might have been hard and tough. Yet every last one of the seven who were capable of thought knew they faced three men who were with but few peers in salty toughness and were more than capable of handling a fight with guns or bare hands.
So the Double K’s hard-case bunch got their horses turned and headed off, leaving behind an undamaged house and a Colt Army revolver lying where the youngster let it fall.
Among the other men, thinking himself either hidden from view or unsuspected of being able to do any harm, the youngster leaned forward over the saddlehorn. The way he hung forward he looked like he was still too groggy to do anything, but his left hand drew the rifle from his saddleboot. They passed through the river and rode up the slope. This was his chance. Thirty yards or more separated him from the three Texans and the girl. It was a good range for rifle work and not one at which a man might make an easy hit with a fast drawn Colt. He could turn, make a fast shot at that small bond runt who whipped him. Then he and the rest of the boys could make a stand on the rim and cut the other two down.
The horse was almost at the top of the slope when he wheeled it around in a tight, fast turn and started to throw up the rifle. The move came as a surprise to the other Double K riders. It did not appear to be so much of a surprise to the people against which the move had been directed. The youngster saw that almost as soon as he turned the horse.
Always cautious, more so at such a moment, the Kid stayed right
where he had been all the time and did not join Mark and Dusty before the house. After watching Dusty hand the hard-case youngster his needings, the Kid rested the barrels of the ten gauge on his shoulder although his right hand still gripped the butt, forefinger ready on the trigger and hammers still pulled back.
From his place the Kid saw the leaning over and might have passed it off as a dizzy spell caused by the whipping Dusty had banded out. Then the Kid noticed the stealthy withdrawal of a rifle and he waited for the next move.
‘Dusty!’ the Kid snapped, even as the youngster swung his horse around.
With men like the three Texans to see was to act. Neither Dusty nor Mark had seen the rifle drawn, but they were watching for the first treacherous move, ready to copper any bet the other men made.
At the Kid’s word Dusty went sideways, knocking Freda from her feet, bringing her to the ground. She gave a startled yell, muffled for he stayed on top of her, shielding her with his body. The girl heard that flat slap of a bullet passing overhead, but the crack of the shot was drowned by the closer at hand roar of the shotgun.
Even as he yelled his warning the Kid brought the shotgun from his shoulder. Its foregrip slapped into his waiting left hand, the butt settled against his shoulder and he aimed, then touched off first the right, then left barrel. He expected the charge to spread at thirty yards and was not disappointed in it. He did feel disappointed when the men let out howls, including the youngster who jerked up in his saddle, screamed in pain, turned the horse and headed after his bunch as they shot over the bank top and went from sight, although their horses could be heard galloping off beyond the rim.
Freda managed to lift her face from the dirt and peer out by Dusty. She saw Mark kneeling at one side, holding his right hand Colt at arm’s length, resting his wrist on his left palm and his left elbow on his raised left knee. Her eyes went to the other side of the stream. She could see no bodies, nor any sign of Tring and his men.
Holstering his gun Mark walked to her side, she saw him towering above her. He bent down, gripped Dusty by the waist-belt and with no more apparent effort than if lifting a baby hoisted him clear of the girl. Then in the same casual manner Mark turned and tossed Dusty at the Kid who came forward muttering something under his breath and too low for Freda to catch — which in all probability was just as well. Ignoring the choice and lurid remarks made about himself, his morals, descendants and ancestors by his friends, Mark bent and held a hand toward Freda.
‘If you throw me I’ll scream,’ she warned.
‘Ma’am,’ Mark replied, gallantly taking the hand and helping her rise. ‘I never throw a real good looking young lady away.’
By the time Freda stood up again she found the Kid and Dusty had untangled themselves and the Kid came forward bearing the ten gauge and showing a look of prime disgust at such an ineffective weapon.
‘What the hell have you got in this fool gun?’ he growled. ‘I reckon to be bettern’t that with a scatter.’
‘I charged it with birdshot. There’s been a chicken-hawk after the hens and so I—’
‘BIRDSHOT!’ the Kid’s voice rose a few shades. ‘No wonder I didn’t bust their hides. Landsakes, gal, whyn’t you pour in nine buckshot?’
‘Because I didn’t think I’d need it!’ she answered hotly, the reaction at her narrow escape almost bringing tears.
‘Easy gal, easy,’ said Dusty gently. ‘Lon’s only joshing you. It’s just his mean old Comanche way. They’ve gone and they won’t be back.’
‘Not today,’ she agreed bitterly, thinking of the morrow and the visit it would surely bring.
‘Nor any other day,’ Dusty promised. We’ll call in at the Double K and lay it plain before the new boss. If he makes fuss for you we’ll make it for him on our way down trail.’
oooOooo
1. Told in TRAIL BOSS
2. Told in QUIET TOWN
CHAPTER THREE
WIRE ACROSS THE TRAIL
IT took Freda a couple of minutes to catch control of her nerves again. She made it in the end, helped by the thought of how lucky she had been. Tring and his men might have done much worse than wreck the buildings and rip down the corral on finding her alone at the house. She thought thankfully of the unfastened dress, it caused her to request the three Texans take their horses around back and then come in for a meal. That gave her a chance to fasten the dress. It also kept the horses out of sight. Had Tring and his men seen three fine looking animals such as Dusty, Mark and the Kid’s mounts out front they might have waited in the background until the visitors departed.
‘Whyn’t you call in the local law?’ Mark asked.
‘In Barlock?’ she replied. ‘There’d be more chance of help in a ghost town.’
‘Well,’ Dusty drawled, ‘We’ll ride in and see their boss. It might do some good for you.’
‘Riders coming in, Dusty,’ remarked the Kid, walking towards the side of the house with his hand hanging by the butt of the old Dragoon and the despised shotgun trailing at the other side. ‘Three of them, coming from back there a piece.’
Freda ran towards the Kid, sudden fear in her heart. She reached the corner of the house at the same time he did, staring across the range to where three men rode towards them, following the wagon trail into town. She clutched at the Kid’s right arm, holding it tight.
‘Don’t shoot, Lon,’ she gasped. ‘It’s my father!’
Wasn’t fixing to shoot, so let off crushing my dainty lil arm,’ he replied. ‘You-all near on as jumpy as those other pair.’
‘Something’s wrong. I’m sure something’s wrong,’ she went on.
‘Won’t get any righter until we know what it is,’ Dusty answered, coming to the girl’s side.
None of the approaching trio rode real good horses. Two were youngish, cowhands; although not such cowhands as the OD Connected would hire. The third looked in his late forties, sat his horse with something of a cavalryman’s stiff-backed grace. It showed even slumped up and dejected as he looked. His clothes were not new, but they were clean and neat — and he didn’t wear a gun. The three Texans saw this latter point even before they noticed the rest. A man without a gun was something of a rarity anywhere west of the Mississippi and east of the Pacific Ocean.
Nearer the house the three men split up, the hands making for the door which led into the room they used as living quarters. The older man rode forward, halted his horse and swung down from his saddle. His face bore a strong family resemblance to Freda, now it was lined and looked exhausted, beaten, like the face of a man who has taken all he can and wants to call it quits.
He came forward, hardly looking at the three Texans, laid his hand on his daughter’s arm and shook his head gently.
‘We’re licked, Freda,’ he said. ‘Mallick has taken over the two stores and won’t let any of us small ranchers buy supplies unless we pay cash.’
‘But Matt Roylan has always known our credit is good,’ she answered.
‘Yes, but the Double K has taken over Mart and Pop Billings’ notes at the bank and will foreclose if they sell. I saw Mallick, he said we could have all the supplies needed and he’d take it out of the price he offered for our place.’
‘He can’t pull a game like that!’ Dusty said quietly stepping forward.
‘He’s done it,’ George Lasalle answered.
‘And the local law stands for it?’ Mark asked.
‘Elben, he’s town marshal, takes orders from the Double K and has men supplied to back him.’
Never had Freda felt so completely helpless and so near to tears. They must have supplies, food at least, to tide them over until the first drive came up trail and they could sell cattle to the trail boss. Then they would have enough money to straighten their account, as they had in previous years.
‘Sloane sold out,’ her father went on. ‘I saw his wagon before Billings’ store, taking on supplies. Mrs. Sloane was crying something awful.’
Then for the first time he seemed to become
aware that there were strangers, guests most likely, present. Instantly he shook the lethargy from him and became a courteous host.
‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be troubling you with our worries. Have you fed our guests, Freda?’
‘We had a good meal, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘Your daughter’s a fine cook.’
At that moment the two hired hands emerged from their room carrying what looked like all their gear. Without a word they swung afork their horses and rode away, not even giving a backwards glance. Dusty watched them, thinking how he would not take their kind as cook’s louse even, but most likely they were the best hands Lasalle could afford to hire. Now it looked like they were riding out.
‘Where’re they going, papa?’ Freda asked.
‘They quit. A couple of Double K men saw them in town and told them to get out while they could. I told them I couldn’t afford to pay them but they said they were going anyway.’
‘But we can’t manage the place without their help,’ Freda gasped. ‘You can’t gather and hold the shipping cattle alone and we have to get a herd to sell so we can buy supplies.’
‘Never knew that ole hoss of mine so leg-weary as now, Dusty,’ Mark remarked in a casual tone.
‘Ole Nigger’s a mite settled down and ain’t willing to go no-place at all,’ drawled the Kid. ‘And it looks like this gent needs him a couple or so hands for a spell.’
Lasalle and his daughter exchanged glances. He did not know who these three young men might be, but he knew full well what they were. They looked like tophands in any man’s outfit, seventy-five-dollar-a-month men at least and he could not afford to pay for such talented workers.
‘Happen Mr. Lasalle here can let us stay on a spell we’ll have to get word up to Bent’s Ford and warn Cousin Red not to wait his herd for us,’ Dusty remarked more to himself than the others. He turned to Lasalle. ‘Take it kind if you’d let us stay on and rest our horses. We’ll work for our food and bed.’
