by J. T. Edson
‘Nobody lays hands on me and lives to boast about it.’
They faced each other, hands over the butts of their guns. The other three rode away, not knowing what went on behind them for their attention rested on the cattle.
Just what started the stampede they never discovered. It could have been any of a number of things, or none of them. It most likely stemmed from the ornery nature of the Texas Longhorn steer, a breed of cattle never noted for the stability or gentleness of its behaviour.
Whatever the cause, one moment the herd moved along in its normal manner. The next saw every steer bellowing and leaping forward, galloping into wild stampede which swept aside the hands, made them draw clear or be run down.
‘Stampede!’ roared Clay Allison. ‘All hands and the cook!’
The old range cry brought every man forward at a gallop. Now they must try to reach the point of the herd, turn it, make the leaders swing around until they joined on the rear of the column, then keep them running in a circle until they tired and came to a halt. Only it would not be as easy as all that. Those wild-eyed racing steers would not willingly turn.
Clay’s shout and the noise of the stampede reached Mark and Waco’s ears. To give him credit Waco dropped his aggressive pose even before Mark relaxed and the youngster made his horse’s saddle before Mark reached the bloodbay. Their difference of opinion was forgotten. Only one thing mattered now. To ride and help turn the herd.
Racing his horse at a tangent Waco came boiling down on the herd’s point ahead of the other men. He urged the horse on, cutting down so as to try and slam into the lead steer and make it swing. The horse he rode knew its business, had been trained for cattle work. It ran well, then put its foot in a gopher hole and went down. Waco heard the terrified scream of the horse as he flew over its head. His instincts as a horseman saved him, allowed him to land on his feet, running. Then he stopped and turned, the herd headed straight at him now, the leaders seeing a hated man-thing on his feet and at their mercy instead of on a horse where he was their master.
The youngster turned, he saw his horse struggling to rise, terror and pain in its rolling eyes for its leg had broken. His right hand dipped and brought out the Army Colt to throw a bullet into the horse’s head and end its terror and misery. Then he turned and tried to run but high heeled cowhand boots were never meant for running on and a longhorn steer could keep a horse hard-pressed to catch it.
Nearer came the steers, their horns, which could go to a six foot spread, lowered and ready to rip into him. Waco knew it would be no use turning and trying to shoot his way clear. He found a situation where his skill with a gun stood for nothing and all he could do was run.
‘Waco!’
A single shout reached his ears, ringing above the noise of the herd. He twisted his head and saw a paint stallion bearing down on him. He saw the small man who he dismissed as nobody, and nothing and who he tried to draw on, cutting in ahead of the cattle, coming across the widening front of horns. Waco knew that if Dusty slowed down the herd would be on them before they could make a move to escape the rush.
Dusty knew the danger also. He measured the distance between the running youngster and the onrushing herd. This would be tricky, one false move, a wrong step on the part of the seventeen hand paint and they would all be under the hooves of the stampeding herd.
Bending low in the saddle Dusty prepared to grab Waco’s waist band. He gave quick, tense instructions.
‘Get set, boy. When I grab you, make a jump. I’ll sling you across the back of the saddle. Then hang on with all you’ve got.’
Waco heard the words, felt the presence of the big paint at his side. Then a hand grabbed him by the pant’s belt and he felt himself heaved up. He had not expected such strength, his feet left the ground and he felt himself dragged towards the paint’s back. Then he grabbed the cantle of the saddle to help out, hauling himself to hang across the horse’s rump. The double girths of the rig took the strain and stood it. Waco writhed, he felt a horn brush his leg, then the paint ran the gauntlet of the herd, cutting to one side of them. The leaders did not aim to be so easily cheated of their prey. They swung after the paint, with its near helpless bundle hanging over the rump and slowing it.
Racing his big bloodbay stallion ahead of any of the others, Mark brought it full at the lead steer. Seeing the huge horse tearing at him, the steer started to swing slightly. Mark gave it no chance to reverse towards Dusty but crowded in once more. Clay Allison came up, followed by his brothers Ben and Jack. Between them the four men started to swing the stampede around, away from where Dusty brought his horse to a halt and lowered Waco to the ground. He did not leave the youngster for there was still the danger of a stray longhorn coming up and the longhorn did not fear a man afoot.
‘They’ve got ‘em!’ Dusty said with satisfaction. ‘Making ‘em do a merry-go-round. That’ll slow ‘em down.’
Waco did not reply. He looked at the small man, only he no longer saw Dusty as being small. He knew he owed the other man his life, not once, but twice. Dusty could have killed him back there when he tried to draw. Then at the risk of his own life Dusty came to rescue him. This was a kind of man Waco had never met before and did not know what to make of. Clearly Dusty gave no thought to the incident back under the cottonwood, his full attention being on the herd.
They watched the circle made, and the steers began to slow, being kept in a circle all the time. Slowly the movement came to an end but the hands continued to ride their circle.
Clay Allison and Mark swung from the herd, riding to where Dusty and Waco stood waiting.
‘You came close to being the late Waco, boy,’ Mark said.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Clay. ‘I never thought to see you alive when your hoss went down. Reckon you owe Dusty something.’
Slowly Waco turned, his eyes on Dusty.
‘I reckon I do. I’m sorry for what happened back there Dusty.’
A smile flickered on Dusty’s face. He knew what the apology meant to Waco. It had been torn from him for he had never felt he owed any man a thing, now he owed Dusty his life.
‘That’s all right, boy. You did the man’s thing back there when you shot that hoss rather than leave it to be stampeded under by the herd. You might have got clear with no trouble if you hadn’t.’
‘It was my hoss, never let me down. I couldn’t let it down at the end.’
Smiles came to faces of the watching men. Then Clay pointed back to the remuda which approached them.
‘You’ve got your pick of any hoss in the bunch, boy. Go take it.’
A grin came to Waco’s face, softening the sullen expression. Until this moment Clay never referred to him as anything but his own name. It looked like Dusty had stuck him with a fresh title. Somehow he did not mind. The word ‘boy’ was now spoken in a different manner. Now Dusty regarded him as a boy who would one day grow into a man.
‘I’ll lend you a hand to get your saddle out, boy,’ Mark drawled. ‘Come on.’
There were good horses in Clay Allison’s remuda. One of them caught Waco’s eye. He took up the rope from the saddle he’d laid on the ground. With a quick whirl he sent a hooleyann loop flipping out to settle on the neck of a big young paint stallion, a seventeen hand beauty as yet untrained in cattle work. This horse he led out. It had been three saddled, ridden the three times which a bronc-buster considered all that was necessary before handing the horse into the remuda and since then little ridden. Clay brought it along to test out anybody who wanted to ride it, only Waco aimed to be the only man who ever did.
‘You’ve picked a mean one there, boy,’ drawled Mark, on whom the implication of the choice was not lost. ‘He’s got a belly full of bed-springs that need taking out before he’ll be any use.’
‘Then I’m going to have to take them out,’ Waco replied.
Dusty and Clay watched the herd settle down before they offered to do anything else. Clay sat his horse and cursed the fool steers which had run off a fair a
mount of beef in the stampede.
‘Keep ‘em here and range feed for a spell,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Two, three days on this buffalo grass’ll put the meat on them again. And by that time, happen you go along with me, we’ll have this wire trouble fixed and the narrows opened again.’
‘I’ll go along.’
‘Leave the herd here, with Ben and Jack, get half a dozen or more men you can rely on not to start a shooting match unless they have to, ride to the Lasalle place, and we’ll pick Stone up on the way. Then I’ll tell all of you what I aim to do.’
It said much for Clay Allison’s faith in Dusty that he agreed to this without inquiring what Dusty’s plans might be. He felt fully satisfied that Dusty not only had a plan but could also see that same plan through given a bit of aid.
Calling his brother Ben over, Clay told of Dusty’s arrangements. Ben listened and gave his agreement. Then he jerked his thumb along to the remuda where Waco and Mark were saddling the big paint.
‘Waco sure picked the beauty this time,’ he said. ‘Told me you said he could have hand-choice of the remuda and he wanted the paint, so I told him to go ahead. Why in hell did he pick that hoss out of the rest?’
A grin twisted Clay’s lips and he glanced at Dusty’s big horse which stood grazing to one side.
‘I wonder why?’ he said.
Three times the paint threw Waco, but each time he got up and mounted again. He showed he could really handle a horse and the fourth time on he stuck there until the horse gave in. Not until then did he join the other men at the fire and took the mug of coffee offered by the cook. His eyes were on Dusty all the time, his ears working to catch every word Dusty said. Not until then did he fully realize who Dusty was for nobody had introduced him.
After the meal Clay selected six men, including Waco, to ride with them and see about moving the wire.
We’re r’aring to go, Cap’n Fog,’ said one of the men.
‘Then un-rear!’ Dusty snapped. ‘There’s a time to talk and a time to fight. We’ll try talk first.’
‘Hell they ain’t but a bunch of hired guns, way you told us, Dusty,’ Waco objected.
‘You’re just as dead no matter who puts the lead into you, boy,’ Dusty answered. ‘And a lot of innocent folks might get hurt at the same time.’
Usually Waco would have scoffed at the idea of worrying about other people. This time he did not. He sat back and waited to hear what the others said on the subject.
‘We’ll do whatever you say, Dusty,’ Clay stated firmly. ‘Then if talk don’t work we can always try making war.’
The Lasalle house had a crowd in it after dark that evening, not counting the Allison hands who lounged around outside, letting their boss make the talk while they ate some good fixings.
In the dining-room Dusty, Mark, Clay Allison, Stone Hart and Waco sat with Lasalle and Morg. The girl came in and joined her father after serving a meal from the supplies the CA crew brought along. They had barely got down to business when Johnny Raybold arrived, bringing word that although visited by the Double K men the Jones’ and Gibbs’ houses were fine and without a worry in the world.
‘Never seed ole Peaceful looking so miserable,’ he concluded, to show that all really was well.
‘I thought I’d send him visiting to earn his pay,’ Stone remarked.
‘I sure earned it,’ Johnny grinned. ‘Mrs. Gibbs done made a pie for the boys, had it all a-cooling on the window. Only it’s not there any more.’ Here Johnny rolled his eyes in ecstasy and rubbed his stomach. ‘Man, that Mrs. Gibbs sure is one good cook. Not that you-all ain’t, Miss Freda.’
This latter came as he caught an accusing gleam in Freda’s eyes and remembered visiting the house and praising her cooking.
‘I bet you say that to all the cooks,’ she replied.
‘I do, I do. But I sure don’t want to meet up with Rusty, Doc’n Billy for a spell, not ‘til they get over losing their pie.’
‘Now that’s a shame. That sure is a shame,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Because you’re headed over there right now, then on to Jones’. I want them here with their wagons in the morning so we can take them into town for supplies.’
‘Sure,’ Johnny replied, secure in the knowledge that no reprisals could be taken on him while he rode on urgent business. ‘I’ll tell them.’
‘Just one man with each wagon,’ Dusty went on. ‘The other two stay on and guard the house.’
‘Yo!’ Johnny replied and left the room.
‘What’s your plan, Dusty?’ Clay asked.
‘Easy enough. We’re going into town tomorrow in force. And we’re serving notice on the Double K bunch that they get out of town. After that I’m getting some questions answered by Mr. Mallick, the Land Agent, whether he wants to answer or not.’
‘And after that?’ Stone put in.
‘I want to get this fence business ended one way or the other. I aim to run Elben out of Barlock so the Double K doesn’t have the backing of the law. Then, if I have to I’m going to see Keller and show him the error of his ways.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE FREEING OF BARLOCK
THE town of Barlock lay sleepily under the early morning sun. Few people walked the streets. In the office of the Land Agent an emergency meeting had been called. Mallick sat at his desk, sullen and scowling. Jackieboy Disraeli sat in a chair with a pout like a petulant schoolgirl on his face. To one side, by the door, stood Knuckles, leaning against the wall and looking about as intelligent as the wooden planks behind him. Before the desk stood Elben, and a man from the Double K, a hired gun who had slipped away early in order to have a chance at making some money at the expense of his friends.
‘So you came here with a warning?’ asked Mallick, in a mocking tone as he watched the man’s face.
‘Yeah.’
‘Why?’
‘I reckoned it’d be worth something for you to know what Tring’s fixing to do,’ replied the gunman.
Mallick looked at the man, and his voice still stayed mocking. ‘I see. So Tring and the rest are coming here to make us pay them for work they botched and couldn’t complete.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And you thought you would warn us out of the goodness of your heart?’ piped Disraeli, also watching the man.
‘I reckoned it’d be worth at least a hundred dollars for you to know,’ answered the man, throwing a contemptuous look at the fancy dressed Jew.
The sudden anger which came to Disraeli’s face should have warned the man of his danger, but he was more interested in talking himself into money, then getting away from town before the others arrived. Disraeli snapped his fingers and pointed at the man.
With a slow, almost beast-like snarl Knuckles left his place.
He moved faster than one might have thought possible for so bulky a man. The gunman heard Knuckles and started to turn, his hand dropping towards the butt of his gun. Knuckles drove out a big fist, throwing it with all his power. Like the arrival of a thunderbolt it smashed into the side of the man’s head as he turned. He flew across the room, his head snapped over and hanging at an unnatural angle. The others watched him hurl into the wall, hit it and slide down.
Crossing the room, Elben bent over and looked down at the man. Then he lifted scared eyes to Disraeli and Mallick. The Land Agent stood staring, but Disraeli remained in his seat, sadistic pleasure etched on his face.
‘He’s dead!’ Elben said. ‘His neck’s broke.’
‘So?’
There was challenge in Disraeli’s one-word reply, mockery too, for Disraeli liked nothing better than to see stronger men who might have treated him with derision and mockery but cowered before the awful might of Knuckles. He watched Elben, seeing the marshal’s eyes flicker to Knuckles who ignored the man he had struck down and killed and was now leaning against the wall again.
‘I only told you,’ Elben answered. What do you want us to do with him?’
‘That’s for you to decide,’ Mallick answered.
‘It was self defence on Knuckles’ part. Now get down to your office and come back in a couple of hours with some of your men and clear that carrion out of here.’
After the door closed on Elben’s departing back, Mallick and Disraeli exchanged glances.
‘I think we’re finished here, don’t you?’ Disraeli asked.
Mallick nodded. ‘I think we are. What next?’
‘We run. I have a friend in New York who can get us on a boat for Europe and we can disappear into some big city if we find that the law is after us. That is one advantage to being of my race, Mallick, the brotherhood of my people will shield us from the Gentiles.’
‘And what about me?’ asked Mallick.
‘You too, old friend. A little more money might help us though.’
They exchanged glances. Both had money from their scheme, although not as much as at first expected. The hiring of gunmen took much of the cream from their profits but the same men had been a necessity.
‘Keller has the money to complete the purchase,’ Mallick remarked. ‘And for his running costs as he calls them. And he had a collection of jewellery, as you told me when you first put this idea to me. He’ll be at the ranch, alone except for his daughter and with that bad ankle won’t be any a problem. He’ll never suspect anything, until too late.’
An evil gleam came to Disraeli’s eyes. ‘Yes that’s the idea!’ he said, slapping his hands together like an excited girl. ‘I’ll have revenge for my brother and see that accursed Sir James Keller suffer.’
‘Let’s destroy all the papers on the Lindon Land Grant, and do a thorough job this time!’ Mallick said. ‘Then we’ll get the wagon, the money, and go to the Double K.’
Half an hour later only the ashes of burned paper lay in the waste-paper basket, the body of the gunman sprawled by the wall. The doors were locked, that at the front bolted also for Mallick’s party left by the rear.
They called at the saloon where Disraeli emptied his office safe, took all the money and the deeds to the business from it. Then, after making sure that no incriminating papers remained the two men went to where Knuckles had a fast two horse carriage awaiting them. They left town and took cover in a wood while Tring and his men rode by, then they headed across the range in the direction of the Double K.
