by J. T. Edson
A brown hand reached forward, gripped the knife and plucked it out. A second hand lifted the rifle, stripped the bandolier from the dead man’s shoulders and moved them away. Then the hand took the Mexican’s sombrero and threw it to one side and gripped the lank black hair. The wailing howl of a buffalo wolf rang out and the knife ripped around, biting into the flesh of Salar’s forehead.
The Ysabel Kid’s eyes flickered at the two men. He glanced up at the sun and estimated the time. They would need displacing fast if he was to make it back to town. He knew he must deal with them now for he could not have them hanging on his tail much longer. They would have an easy target with the Kid riding along the trail in open country. He missed Salar down there: the man wasn’t doing much at all. Yet the Kid did not know the danger he was in.
The wailing call of a buffalo wolf came to the Kid’s ears. He turned his head to look back at the woods, then gave his attention to the men down the slope. Even as he watched, there sounded the flat bark of a rifle from the edge of the woods and the man who’d been with Salar jerked upright, staggered and went down once more.
Tonk saw the other man go down and stared for a moment, trying to see some sign of the Mexican. Panic hit him: Salar wasn’t anywhere. He’d taken a Mexican stand-off, lit out when the going got dangerous. That was all Tonk wanted to know, he wasn’t facing the Ysabel Kid alone. Turning, he backed away, then leapt to his feet and started running for the horses.
The Ysabel Kid saw what was happening; his rifle followed the man, lining on him, then spat once. Tonk felt as if someone had run a redhot iron through his thigh. He gave a yell of pain and staggered, hit into a tree and tried to force himself on.
‘Hold it!’ yelled the Kid plunging forward from behind his tree and bringing up the rifle.
Tonk saw the black dressed young Texan, saw the raised rifle and knew he was done. The range was such that the Ysabel Kid could hardly miss, or wound, again. If Tonk did not yell ‘calf rope’ fast he would get a bullet.
‘Don’t shoot, Kid!’ he screamed back, holding on to the tree for support. ‘I’m done, don’t shoot me.’
Then Tonk’s eyes bulged as he saw the dark shapes at the edge of the woods behind the Kid. He tried to yell a warning but the words would not come, so he raised a shaking finger and mouthed out vague, gurgling sounds.
‘That’s all right,’ the Kid replied, not turning to look behind. ‘I know all about them. Me’n you’s going to make us some talk.’
‘They’ll kill us, Kid!’ Tonk wailed. ‘I’m hurt bad—’
‘Sure you are,’ answered the Kid without sympathy. ‘Bind your bandana around that leg; do it tight. Toss your gun this ways while you’re about it.’ He paused and watched his orders carried out, whistling a loud note which started his horse back towards him. Then he looked down at Tonk. ‘Who killed that Chass hombre?’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Tonk replied, biting down his pain.
‘Don’t, huh?’ grunted the Kid. He kicked Tonk’s weapons well away, then turned to walk to his horse, gripping the saddlehorn. ‘Waal, adios.’
‘Kid. You can’t leave me!’ screamed Tonk, eyes on those grim shapes at the edge of the woods. ‘Kid, don’t leave me here. You can’t!’
‘You wouldn’t want to be betting on that, now, would you?’
‘I’ll talk, Kid. I’ll tell you everything. Don’t let them get at me.’
The Kid turned and walked back. Tonk babbled out the full story of how Dexter Chass died, talking fast, eagerly, spilling all he could to the interested Kid. When the story came to an end the Kid grunted his satisfaction, then asked where the man’s horse was.
‘Over the rim. Don’t leave me, Kid. They’ll kill me.’
‘They won’t,’ replied the Kid, grinning savagely. ‘You’re born to stretch a hanging rope.’
Tonk stared in terror as the Kid rode over the rim, then returned with a horse. The leg wound hurt badly but Tonk managed to mount his horse. He had to, for the Kid made no attempt to help him. In the saddle he gripped the horn with both hands, waiting for orders.
‘Me’n you, friend,’ drawled the Kid, ‘we’re going into town by the back way. You’re going to take me to the sheriff’s pound. Don’t try nothing funny. Then you’re going to tell the sheriff all you told me. Happen you don’t, me’n you’re coming out here again. I’ll be safe enough — don’t know if you will.’
* * *
There was a three-handed game of poker going on in the sheriff’s office. The players, Dusty Fog, Sheriff Dickson and Mort Lewis, were engrossed in their game and looked up with some annoyance as a man looked in through the door, and peered around at them.
‘Folks’re gathering down at the Long Glass, Jerome,’ he said. ‘Reckon it’s about time you was getting the prisoner down there.’
‘What prisoner?’ Dickson replied. ‘It’s an enquiry that was started a week back. We’ll bring the Kid down when he gets back and we can start.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ the man answered. Looking pleased to be the bearer of bad tidings, he went on. ‘Dave Stewart’s come back, got Scanlan and four more men with him. He’s been to see Humboldt about starting the trial and I reckon he’s going to get his way.’
‘All right, Tom,’ Dickson drawled easily. ‘Go back and tell them we’ll be along at twelve o’clock and not before.’
The man closed the door and left the sheriff looking at his fellow players. He met Dusty’s eyes and they looked at the wall clock. It was quarter to eleven.
In the week he’d been waiting for the Kid’s return Dusty had learned much about the town of Holbrock. He’d seen Stewart taking the two battered gunmen out of town, heading for his ranch. The rancher had not made another appearance in town, until his arrival this morning. He’d come in alone but Scanlan and the other men could quite easily have returned to town without being noticed.
Dusty’s stay gave him a chance to learn something about the people of the town. He’d spent some time with Humboldt, talking about the proposition which had brought him to the town. Dusty was satisfied the proposition would pay off for his Uncle but was not satisfied with Humboldt. The man was a shrewd business man, but he was also an arrant snob. It took Dusty only one visit to the man’s home to know this. He’d also learned about Humboldt’s dislike for Mort Lewis. The townsman hinted regularly that he didn’t think the Kid should have taken the risk of going to the Comanche country, but Dusty knew the concern was mostly to make a good impression on him.
‘Reckon Humboldt might try and make you start the hearing early?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Humboldt’s being pushed to get the money for this notion of his. I reckon he might try to please Dave Stewart, not knowing how you feel about it, Dusty,’ Dickson replied, for he knew of Dusty’s reason for being in town. ‘That’s unless you’ve given him something definite to go on.’
‘Which I haven’t yet,’ Dusty answered. ‘I wanted—’
Whatever Dusty wanted was never said. The rear door of the room was opening. Dusty came to his feet; hands crossing and the matched guns coming from his holsters, his chair flying backwards. At the same moment Dickson flung himself sideways from his chair, hand fanning to the butt of his gun and Mort went over backwards, throwing his chair and rolled towards the wall rack of weapons. None of them knew who was entering through the door, but were taking no chances.
‘Sure didn’t know I rated a civic reception,’ remarked a familiar voice.
The Ysabel Kid stepped into the room, a broad grin on his face, and pushing a limping, scared-looking man ahead of him.
‘You damned crazy Comanche,’ Dusty growled, holstering his guns and eyeing his friend grimly. ‘I near on killed you.’
‘You near on done it afore,’ replied the Kid. ‘I tell you, Dusty, it’s like to scare a man bald, living round you.’
Dickson holstered his gun as he got to his feet and rubbed his hip which had hit the floor hard. His eyes went to the Kid, then to Tonk wh
o staggered to the desk and sank into Dickson’s empty chair.
‘What happened to you?’ asked the sheriff.
‘He got his leg hurt a mite,’ the Kid answered for Tonk. Then he took the thin book from his belt, holding it out. ‘This here’s what you want. And this lobo’s got something he wants to tell you.’
‘No, I ain’t!’ Tonk yelled, then winced in pain as the Kid caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘Where you taking me, Kid?’
‘Back out’n town a piece,’ drawled the Kid, grinning meaner than the snarl of a buffalo-wolf.
Tonk tried to struggle, but he was too weak from loss of blood and pain. On his face was a look of terror far beyond the pain he was suffering, a look the other men were hard put to explain. Dickson watched, frowning; he was not a man to allow needless cruelty, or the torturing of a prisoner. Then he remembered Tonk was one of the six who’d left town after the Kid, there were many questions which needed answering.
‘I need a doctor, Jerome,’ Tonk whined. ‘I’m hurt bad.’
‘Sure,’ grunted the Kid unfeelingly. ‘That leg’ll likely have to come off, happen it don’t get seen to, and fast. But you aren’t going no place until you tell the sheriff all you told me out there.’
So Tonk talked, the words flooding out of him. What he said confirmed Dusty Fog’s theory and threw a lot of light on the murder of Dexter Chass. Dickson looked at Mort Lewis for a long moment and opened his mouth to say something.
From the street came an ominous rumbling and tramping of feet. Dickson went to a window and looked out. Practically every man in town was coming along the street. In the lead was Humboldt, Stewart and three or four of the leading citizens of the town. Behind them, at the forefront of the crowd came Scanlan and Milton, with two other hard-faced men.
‘We could have trouble, Dusty,’ he warned. ‘Stewart’s been using his time to get them bunch all stirred up.’
Dusty went to the window. He’d handled crowds in tough towns and knew the signs of a mob as well as did Dickson. This was one coming, orderly yet, but a mob for all of that. They were here to e!lforce their will on Dickson and did not aim to be stopped by words this time.
‘Let’s just you and me out first, Jerome. Learn what they want. You and Mort stay on inside, Lon. Keep this hombre quiet,’ Dusty snapped, then stepped up close to Tonk, dropping his voice to a grim, urgent note. ‘Mister, you need a doctor real fast. Just remember one thing. The longer we are the less chance you’ve got of keeping both legs. So when I call for you, come out and tell the truth.’
Dickson went to the cupboard and lifted Mort Lewis’ gun-belt out, passing it to the man, then he opened the desk drawer and lifted out an Army Colt. ‘She’s all loaded and capped ready, Mort.’
Quickly Lewis strapped on his gunbelt, settled it down on his lean waist, then dropped the Colt into the holsters, making sure it was loose enough for a fast draw. There was grim determination in his eyes as he looked at the others. One thing Lewis was sure, if it came to shooting he’d something to settle with Scanlan.
‘We don’t want any shooting if we can help it,’ Dusty said, glancing at the neat handwriting in the diary and reading what he wanted to know. ‘Remember, you two stop in here until I give the sign. Bring this diary with you when you come out, Lon.’
With that, Dusty and Dickson went to the door. Dusty drew it open and they stepped on to the sidewalk, closing it again before any of the advancing crowd could see into the office.
The mob slowed down uncertainly as they saw the two standing before them. Dusty was well enough known n the town to pause any man who meant to force trouble with the sheriff. But Stewart came on; his face held a vicious smile. Humboldt looked distinctively uncomfortable as he stepped forward with the rancher, while the rest of the leading citizens halted in confusion, allowing Scanlan and the other four men to move by them and fan out around their boss.
Humboldt stopped at the foot of the sidewalk, licked his lips and looked at Stewart who nodded in encouragement. The pompous-looking townsman coughed then began to speak, his voice wavering, and far from its usual booming note.
‘Sheriff Dickson, as Holbrock’s justice of the peace I demand you bring your prisoner, Mort Lewis, for trial.’
‘Right now?’ Dickson gently enquired.
‘Right now!’ Humboldt agreed; and there was a rumble of agreement from the rest of the crowd.
‘Before the Ysabel Kid gets back?’
‘The Kid said seven days and he’s not back yet,’ put in Stewart. ‘I don’t reckon he’ll be coming back again.’
Dickson watched the crowd, they all appeared to have been drinking, maybe not much, but enough to make them willing to go along with a strong leader. All too well the sheriff knew how persuasive Stewart could be when he started talking. He could easily bring this crowd to believe they were being fooled by the law and that a plot to allow a murdering half-breed escape justice was afoot. Some in the crowd would believe it, others would go along just for the pleasure of raising hell.
‘You said we’d hold off until noon today, when the Kid should be back,’ Dickson reminded them. ‘And Mort doesn’t come for the hearing until the Kid shows.’
Stewart nudged Humboldt, causing the townsman to start nervously, and lick his lips. Then Humboldt gave a warning:
‘Sheriff, the County Commissioners have held a meeting on your conduct and actions in this affair. We find them most unsatisfactory and are obliged to serve notice on you that unless you hand Lewis over for trial, we will be compelled to remove you from office and appoint a man who will do so.’
‘Just like that?’ asked Dickson softly.
‘That’s right, Dickson,’ agreed Stewart. ‘Just like that.’
‘Didn’t know you were one of the County Commissioners, Dave,’ remarked Dickson. ‘You must have been elected real recent.’
‘You might say that. So how about it, Dickson. We may as well call off all this foolishness. The Ysabel Kid’s dead . . .’
The office door opened and a mocking voice said, ‘Lordy, they don’t tell a body anything these days.’
The Kid stepped through the door, leaving it open. He leaned his left shoulder against the jamb, the diary hanging in his left hand; his right hand hung negligently near the walnut grips of his old Dragoon gun.
Humboldt looked down and gulped as he saw the thin booklet. ‘Is that the diary, Kid?’
‘Surely is, Judge.’
‘And you went to Long Walker’s camp in the Comanche country to get it?’ Stewart jeered, his disbelief plain.
‘You reckon I didn’t?’
Stewart’s sneer grew broader, but the triumph was gone from his eyes. ‘You, one lone white man, went to the Comanche camp and brought it back with you?’
‘Where else would I have got it from?’
‘Could have been out at the breed’s place.’
‘All right,’ drawled the Kid mildly, but there was nothing mild about the wolf-savage way his lips twisted in a grin. ‘What’d you want to show I’d been to Long Walker’s village?’ The grin was more twisted and savage than ever. ‘You mebbee want to see Long Walker his-self?’
‘Yeah,’ sneered Stewart sarcastically. ‘We want to see old Long Walker.’
The Kid threw back his head and from his throat came the wild, ringing imitation of a buffalo-wolf’s howl. From the rim which overlooked the town came an answering howl. There were startled yells as the crowd turned and saw that the rim was lined with Comanches, fifty or more of them, looking down at the town with cold, impassive eyes.
A grey haired man rode his horse slightly ahead of the others, then halted without movement. Across his arm lay a Buffalo Sharps rifle which, even at that distance, Stewart recognized. The rancher licked his lips, that was Salar’s rifle and he wouldn’t have traded it off to the Comanche. That meant one thing and one thing only; Salar was dead and so were the other five men who had rode with him. On the whole Stewart hoped they were dead, for it was trite
but true to say dead men told no tales.
‘That’s Long Walker,’ an old-timer in the crowd shouted, pointing to the grey haired Indian. ‘I saw him when he signed the treaty four years back.’
‘And like I said, I brought back that there diary,’ the Kid drawled. ‘It was in Mort’s lodge, like he said it was.’
‘And it shows that Mort was at the Comanche camp on the eleventh,’ Dusty went on. ‘So he wasn’t anyplace near where Chass was killed with the bullet from a combustible cartridge.’
A cowhand in the crowd yelled, ‘Mort never used them sort. He used to laugh at us and say we couldn’t handle a man-sized load, like he used.’
‘Don’t listen to all this claptrap, Humboldt!’ Stewart bellowed. ‘If you and your bunch want me to back that idea of your’n.’
Humboldt gulped. He was in a real tight spot and didn’t know how to get out of it. Dusty had not given him anything definite. He needed money urgently and had listened to Stewart’s offer to finance them. They’d been warned that the trial of Mort Lewis was the condition for the money, so Humboldt had come along with the demand for the trial to commence. Now there was no need to try Mort and he could sue the town for false arrest if they tried it.
‘You’re in a hell of a spot, Judge, aren’t you?’ asked the Kid, mockingly.
‘Yes, I am,’ Humboldt replied, speaking before he realized what the Kid had said. His face turned redder and he spluttered, ‘I mean — er — that is—’
‘Hold it, all of you!’ Stewart yelled. ‘That don’t mean Lewis didn’t kill old Dexter Chass. Harvey might have been mistaken about how long Chass’d been dead. Mort Lewis could’ve sneaked around to the Chass cabin the day he come . . .’
‘Chass wasn’t killed in the cabin, Stewart,’ Dusty. interrupted. ‘He was killed when he found a bunch of men pushing some of his stock on to the Lewis range.’
‘Yeah?’ Stewart replied, hand falling to his side. ‘Now who’d do a thing like that, and why?’
‘To stir up trouble between Lewis and Chass is why,’ drawled Dusty, watching the rancher all the time. ‘As for who, the way I heard it, Tonk, Salar, Milton and Scanlan.’
