by J. T. Edson
The game was taken out of Mark’s hands. A man darted from the saloon, arms clamping around the big Texan from behind. At the same moment the rest jumped into the fray.
While still held from behind by a man who had some strength in his arms, Mark brought up his feet, rammed them into the chests of the deputies who came at him from the front. He thrust out the legs and reeled them backwards. The man holding him staggered, but still retained his grip. To one side Morg Summers proved that he could handle his end in a rough-house even against odds.
A face appeared before Mark, a snarling face surrounded with pomaded hair. Elben moved forward snarling, ‘You lousy cow-nurses’re going to learn not to play rough in my town.’
He moved his fist brutally into Mark’s stomach, bringing a gasp of pain for Mark could do nothing to escape the blow. Even as Elben drew back his fist to hit again, Mark’s boot lashed up. Fortunately for Elben the kick did not land full force. Had it landed with all Mark’s strength the town marshal would not have risen for a long time. Even with the limited power behind it Elben jack-knifed over and collapsed holding his middle and croaking in pain.
With a surge of his muscles Mark flung the man who held him first to one side then the other. The man lost his hold and went to one side. Mark shot out a fist which sprawled an attacker backwards, backhanded another into the hitching rail. Then they were at him from all sides. He fought back like a devil-possessed fury. This was Mark’s element, in a fight against odds, tangling with hard-cases.
By the time Morg Summers went down four of the deputies lay stretched on the ground, one with a nose spread over most of his face and and all carrying marks from two pairs of hard cowhand fists. Sheer weight of numbers got them down in the end. Mark saw Morg go down, staggered one of his attackers and leapt to try and prevent the young cowhand taking a stomping. A man behind Mark drew his revolver and swung it. Mark heard the hiss of the blow and started to try to avoid it. The barrel of the weapon caught him a glancing blow, but one hard enough to drop him to his hands and knees. He stayed there, head spinning, brain unable to send any instructions to his body or coordinate protective movements.
‘Get away from him!’ Elben snarled, making his feet and looking down at Mark with an expression of almost maniacal rage. He waved back the remaining deputies who were preparing to attack the fallen Mark. ‘He’s mine and I want to see his blood.’
Mark heard the voice. It seemed to come from a long way off. The fight had been rough and not all the blows handed out by himself or Morg. He could not shake the pain from him, clear his head enough to protect himself. He did not see Elben coming at him, nor was the marshal more observant. Only one thing mattered to Elben, that he might take revenge on the blond giant who humiliated him before the town. Snarling in fury he drew back his foot for a kick, looking down at Mark. When he got through the big Texan wouldn’t look so handsome, nor so high and mighty. Mark knew none of this. He shook his head to try and clear it and wondered why no more blows landed on him as he tried to get up.
In Roylan’s store, Dusty heard the girl’s excited words. So did the hired gunman, heard them and read their true meaning. He came up with a hand fanning his side, reaching for his gun. ‘You’re not—!’ he began.
Dusty wasted no time. Nor did he rely on his guns to stop the man. He came forward and left the floor in a bound, right, foot lashing out into the gunman’s face. The man’s body slammed backwards into the counter and clung there. Dusty landed on his feet and threw a punch the moment he hit the floor. His right fist shot out, the gunman’s head snapped to one side. He went clear over the cracker barrel, landed flat on his back and did not make another move.
Before Roylan could catch his breath, long before he could get over this unexpected turn of events. Dusty faced him, a Colt lined on his chest.
‘You go help your pard, mister,’ Roylan said quickly. ‘I’ll take care of this here unfortunate feller as was supposed to be protecting me. I’ve got the note from Mallick to cover me.’
Without a word Dusty hurled himself from the building, holstering his Colt as he went. He saw the crowd along the street and headed towards it on the run. Roylan caught Freda by the arm as she started to go after Dusty.
‘Who is he?’ he asked, sounding real puzzled. ‘What happened and what’s coming off, Freda, gal. How the hell did he make that kick and down the gunny. Where’d you get the note from?’
‘He’s Dusty Fog and helping us!’ the girl replied as she tore free from his grip and raced after Dusty.
She answered two of Roylan’s questions, but not the third. Freda did not know of the small Oriental man down in the Rio Hondo. A man thought to be Chinese by the unenlightened majority, but known to be Japanese by his friends. To Dusty Fog alone this man taught the secrets of karate and ju-jitsu fighting. They stood Dusty in good stead and helped him handle bigger men with considerable ease as had the karate flying high kick Dusty used to set up the deputy for a finish in a hurry.
Along the street Elben drew back his foot and made sure of his balance, the better to savour the forthcoming kicking. He heard the thunder of hooves, saw his men scatter and fell back to avoid being trampled by two horses which raced at him. He opened his mouth to bellow curses and his hands dropped towards his sides.
The taller of the riders unshipped from his saddle, landing between Mark and Elben. He stood tall and slim, almost delicate looking. His clothes were Texas cowhand except for the brown coat he wore, its right side stitched back to leave clear the ivory grips of his low tried Army Colt. His face looked pale, studious almost yet the pallor was tan resisting, not one caused by sitting indoors or through ill health. His right hand made a sight defying flicker and the Colt seemed to almost meet it in midair, muzzle lining full on Elben’s middle and ending his move almost as soon as it began.
‘Back off, hombre!’ ordered the slim man.
His pard wheeled the big horse between his knees, halting it and facing the deputies. He held a Winchester rifle in his hands, lining it full on them and ending their attempts to draw weapons. In appearance he was as much a Texas cowhand as his pard. Stocky, capable and tough looking, with rusty red coloured hair and a face made for grinning. Only he did not grin now, his eyes flashed anger and he looked like he was only waiting for any excuse to throw lead.
‘Is Mark all right, Doc?’ asked the rusty-haired cowhand.
‘He’d best be,’ replied the slim man called Doc, watching Elben’s hands stay clear of the guns as he backed away.
‘This’s law matter you’ve cut in on!’ Elben snarled, trying a bluff.
It failed by a good country mile.
‘Kicking a man when he’s down!’ Doc growled back. ‘That’s about the way of a yellow cur-dog like you, Mister, happen you’ve hurt Mark bad you’d best go dig a great big hole, climb in and pull the top on you.’
At that same moment Dusty arrived. He came on foot, but he came real fast. Halting before the gun-hung deputies he looked them over. He clearly recognized the two riders for he did not ask how they came into this affair, or even spare them more than a single glance.
‘You lousy scum!’ Dusty said quietly, his grey eyes lashing the men. ‘All of you and they whip you down, put half of you in the street.’
‘Just a minute, you!’ Elben snarled, seeing Dusty’s lack of inches and getting bolder. ‘I’m taking all of you in.’
‘You and how many regiments of Yankee cavalry, loud mouth? asked the rusty haired cowhand. ‘This here’s Dusty Fog and that’s Mark Counter you started fussing in with.’
That put a different complexion on things. Elben knew the names well enough. From the way the big Texan fought he could most likely be Mark Counter and where Mark Counter was Dusty Fog mostly could be found. He could read no sign of humour in the rusty headed cowhand’s face, only deadly serious warning.
Whatever Elben may have thought on the subject his deputies acted like they sure enough believed this small man really was Dusty Fog. They crowded to
gether, those who could, in a scared bunch. One of them indicated the two new arrivals.
‘That’s Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy of the Wedge!’ he whispered in an urgent, warning tone.
This gave the others no comfort. Not only were the two men named prominent as members of the Wedge trail crew, they also had long been known as good friends of Dusty Fog and Mark Counter. The Wedge hired hardy cowhands, men who could handle their end in any man’s fight and the names of Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy stood high on the roll of honour of the crew.
Freda arrived, dropping to her knees by Mark, trying to help him to rise. She steadied him with her arm and gasped, ‘Are you all right, Mark?’
That clinched it. The girl gave any of the bunch who might have doubted them proof that the two Texans were who Rusty Willis claimed them to be.
Slowly Mark forced himself up towards his feet, the girl helping him. He pointed towards where Morg lay groaning. The young cowhand had taken a worse beating than Mark, due mainly to his being less skilled in the fistic arts than the big Texan.
‘See to him, gal,’ he ordered.
Turning Mark walked towards Elben, fists clenched. Dusty caught his arm, held him back as Elben drew away.
‘Leave it lie, Mark,’ he said. ‘Rusty, fetch that buckboard from down there by the store. Bring the hosses with it. And watch the door, there’s one inside who might be on his feet again.
Rusty turned his horse without wondering at Dusty’s right to give him orders. On the way to the store he substituted the rifle for his Dance Bros. copy of a Colt Dragoon revolver. He guessed that more than a dispute with the local law enforcement officers caused the trouble here. This town did not need all the number of deputies who had been in the fight.
‘I’ll take that loud-mouthed fighting pimp now, Dusty,’ Mark said, loosening his gun as he gave Elben the Texans’ most polite name for a Kansas lawman.
‘You’ll get on your hoss when it comes and ride out,’ Dusty answered, then turned his attention to Elben’s men. ‘And you bunch’ll go down the jail and stay there. If I see one of you between now and leaving town I’ll shoot him on sight. Not you though, marshal. You’re staying here. Happen any of them have smart ideas you’ll be the first one to go.’
Kneeling by the groaning cowhand Freda looked down at his bruised and bloody face. She felt helpless, scared, wondering if the young man might be seriously injured. The cowhand called Doc Leroy dropped to his knees by her side and reached out a hand. She watched the slim, boneless looking hands moving gently, touching and gently feeling. Doc Leroy looked up towards Dusty, showing relief.
‘Nothing that won’t heal in a few days,’ he said. ‘Have to ride the wagon for a spell.’
By this time Rusty was returning with the buckboard and horses. He had seen the man he took to be owner of the store calmly club down a groaning deputy who tried to rise from by the counter.
Bringing the buckboard to a halt by the party Rusty leapt down, helping Doc get the groaning Morg on to the seat by Freda’s side. Morg clung on, then pointing to a pair of dun horses which stood hip-shot at the hitching rail, gasped they were his string.
‘Rest easy, amigo,’ drawled Rusty. ‘I’ll hitch them on behind.’ Dusty and the others mounted their horses. The small Texan jerked his carbine from the saddleboot and looked down at Elben. ‘We’re leaving, marshal,’ he said. ‘You shout and tell those boys of your’n that the first shot which comes our way brings you a lead backbone. See, you’ll be walking ahead of us until we reach the city limits.’
‘And then we’ll go back and tear your lousy lil town apart board by board,’ Rusty warned.
Freda needed no telling what to do. She started the buckboard moving forward with Mark, gripping his saddlehorn, kept by her side. Elben shouted louder than he had ever managed before, warning his men not to interfere. He spent the walk to the edge of the town sweating and hoping that none of the others wanted his post as town marshal for they would never have a better chance of getting it. All they would need to do was to pull a trigger and he’d be deader than cold pork.
All in all Elben felt relieved when he reached the edge of town and obeyed Dusty’s order to toss away his matched guns. He prided himself in those expensive Remingtons, but they could be recovered and cleaned later, whereas he possessed but one life which could not be recovered if lead caught him in the right place.
Not until Dusty’s party had passed out of sight did Elben return to the town. He found the owner of the saloon, Jackieboy Disraeli, nursing a swollen jaw and in a fit of rage.
‘What happened out there?’ Disraeli screamed, sounding more like a hysterical woman than a dangerous man. ‘Why didn’t you smash those men to a pulp for what they did to Knuckles and me?’
‘That was Dusty Fog and Mark Counter, boss,’ Elben replied, hating having to call the saloonkeeper by such a name, but knowing better than to fail while Knuckles still lived. ‘They had that Lasalle gal with them and two of the Wedge crew. The girl was in to buy supplies.’
Elben’s voice shook. On the way back to town an awful thought struck him. He suddenly realized just what a risk he had taken. If his kick had landed on Mark Counter he likely wouldn’t be alive now to think about it.
‘So Lasalle’s girl bought supplies,’ Disraeli hissed. ‘Then she must have sold out.’
At that moment Roylan arrived with his story about how the deputy had been felled by Dusty Fog who then terrorized him and got away. The storekeeper tossed Mallick’s note before Disraeli.
‘Freda Lasalle had this and your deputy didn’t say who Dusty Fog was,’ he said. ‘So I served her.’
In this Royland cleared his name before blame could be fixed. He did not fear Disraeli and Mallick, but knew they could ruin him, so didn’t aim to give them a chance. They had no proof of what happened in his place and he doubted if the deputy could say anything that might give the lie to his story.
Disraeli headed a rush for Mallick’s office where they broke open the door and released an irate Mallick and his men. It took some time before the Land Agent could talk. He slumped in his chair, stiff and sore, glowering at Elben.
‘We bring extra men to help handle the town and four cowhands ride all over you,’ he snarled, after hearing the story. ‘Elben, you’re a— Hell-fire and damnation! They took that map I tore up and threw into the wastepaper-basket.’
‘I thought you destroyed it,’ hissed Disraeli. Only he, Mallick and Elben now stood in the office. Why didn’t you?’
‘Because I didn’t get a chance. They came before I could. Now there’s only one thing to do. Get to Lasalle’s place and kill every last one of them — and fast!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE YSABEL KID MEETS
A GENTLEMAN’S GENTLEMAN
A SMALL drifting cloud of dust on the horizon down to the south warned the Ysabel Kid he had somebody on his trail. He drew rein on top of a hill and looked along his backtrail. He saw the following rider at a distance where most folks could have made out only a tiny, indistinguishable blob. The Kid not only saw the man, but could tell he had two horses along. This in itself meant nothing for many men took their own string of horses along with them. The direction from which he appeared told a story. He came from the Double K area and the Kid knew few riders would get across without being halted by the hired guns and turned back in their tracks.
‘He’s after us, ole Nigger hoss,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Dang my fool Comanche way of telling the truth when I’m questioned polite-like. I should remember I’m a paleface, most times, and that as such I can be the biggest danged liar in the world without worrying.’
The big white snorted gently, wanting to be moving again. With a grin the Kid started Nigger on his way again.
‘Wonder what he wants?’ he mused, talking to the horse, but never relaxing his wolf cautious watching of the trail ahead of him. The man was still too far behind to cause any menace. ‘Must be one of that bunch from this morning and looking for evens. Waal, he c
an have his chance when he comes closer.’
Only the man did not seem to be pushing his horse to close up, nor riding the two mounts in rotation, travelling relay fashion. The Kid knew he could make his tracks so difficult that he could delay the man — if he happened to be following the Kid’s trail. The Kid told that pair of hired guns back on Double K where he headed and the following man would not waste time in tracking, but by riding straight for Bent’s Ford could be on hand when the Kid arrived. With that thought in mind the Kid decided to continue to Bent’s Ford, making sure he arrived before the other man and so be able to keep a wary eye on all new arrivals.
The sun was long set when the Kid saw the buildings, stream and lake known the length of the great inter-state cattle trails as Bent’s Ford. The main house showed lights and even where he sat the Kid could hear music from the bar-room so he did not need to worry about disturbing the other guests by his arrival.
Why Bent’s Ford had such a name when there appeared to be nothing of fordable nature has been told elsewhere.1 The place served as a stopping off and watering point for the trail herds headed north across the Indian Nations. On this night however no herd bedded down near at hand. There were horses in the corrals, two big Conestoga wagons standing to one side, teamless and silent, the normal kind of scene for Bent’s most any night of the week.
The Kid rode steadily down towards the buildings. He could almost swear the man following him had not managed to get ahead during the dark hours. For all that he did not leave his leg-weary white stallion in the corral. The horse stood out amongst others like a snow-drift and would easily be noticed. Also Nigger did not take to having strange horses around him and could be very forceful in his objections.
