by J. T. Edson
Jesse scowled, but gave the orders and the others went to work. Betty watched them, almost forgetting she was a prisoner as she prodded them with a biting tongue. She knew how to handle young men from her experience at the OD Connected. By the time Ben arrived the place was much cleaner and Betty was about to, start cooking the meal. None of the outlaws gave any thought to her wearing her short jacket even while cooking. They were licking their lips at the aroma of decently cooked food. But they were not going to be left in peace for their meal.
‘I won’t sit at a table with you bunch dripping trail dust all over it,’ she stated firmly. ‘Wash up and make yourselves look respectable.’
There was some grumbling, but the food looked good and they obeyed Betty. There were long faces and the five were beginning to wish they’d never thought of kidnapping a determined young lady like Miss Betty Hardin.
It was near daylight when the meal was finished. The gang tired from their long day and night in the saddle, wanted to get to sleep but Betty insisted that everything be tidied up again, the cups and plates washed and the food cleared away. There was grumbling, especially from Ben, but Jesse insisted that they maintained their pose as gentlemen outlaws.
‘How about sleeping, ma’am?’ Jesse asked when everything was done to her satisfaction. ‘Ain’t but the one bed in the next room. You can have it and we’ll lock you inside.’
Betty did not argue. She knew just how far she could risk pushing the young outlaw and there was a chance she could escape while the men were asleep. The idea was dispelled as soon as she entered the bedroom. There was only the one door, and the window was boarded up firmly. She could see no chance of breaking through the boards without a whole lot of noise. Betty did not even mean to try. Already the search for her would be starting and, with luck, nightfall should see her safe in the company of her friends.
So Betty lay on the bed. There was a knock and the door opened. Her right hand slid under her coat towards her left armpit and stayed there as Jesse came in, carrying several blankets.
‘Hope you’ll be comfortable, ma’am,’ he said politely, and laid the blankets on the end of the bed. ‘We’ll send off that letter as soon as the boys have got some sleep in.’
‘Why thank you, sir,’ Betty replied. ‘It’s surely pleasant to be caught by a gentlemanly bunch of owlhoots like you.’
Jesse was almost bursting with pride as he left the room. Betty heard the lock click and lay back smiling. There was no danger, so she went to sleep.
A knocking on the door woke Betty. It took her a few seconds to think where she was. Then awareness flickered and she sat up, carefully straightening her coat, particularly the left side of it. She swung down from the bed, rubbing her eyes and stretching to relieve the stiffness caused by sleeping after hours of riding.
The door opened and Jesse called: ‘Can I come in, ma’am?’
‘Come ahead,’ replied Betty.
‘The boys was wondering if you’d do them the favour of cooking up another meal, ma’am.’ Jesse said as he entered.
‘Why sure,’ Betty replied. ‘What time is it?’
‘Near to four in the afternoon, ma’am.’
‘Well, tell them to peel some potatoes ready for me,’ ordered Betty, and made another stipulation which did not meet with approval when it was passed on.
‘I’ll be damned if I’ll do it!’ Ben bellowed.
But he did. The smell of the meal brought about a change in Ben’s attitude. He grumbled about it, swearing he’d never get involved with kidnapping another woman. Then he joined the others and for the first time in his life had a second wash in a day. Worse, he was forced to shave off the stubble he proudly called a beard.
‘Looky here, Jesse,’ he growled when the meal was over. ‘Let’s get this letter sent off and shift this gal back to her kinfolk.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Sim. ‘I’m thinking we done the wrong thing in bringing her here to our hide-out. I’m for going into town and catching the stage that goes through to Bent’s Ford. Sooner they get to know where the gal is and how much we want for her the happier I’ll feel.’
Jesse was beginning to think the same thing. He used the inside of a coffee packet for his letter, writing with the stub of a pencil. The gist of the letter was that he was holding Betty Hardin for ransom and wanted ten thousand dollars for her release. He explained the arrangements he’d thought out the previous day and did not sign the letter. He was proud of the note and wished he could show it to Jesse James, Sam Bass and the other great outlaws.
‘I’ll take it, Jesse,’ Ben said with surprising eagerness, for he was never one to go in for doing any kind of work. ‘I’ll get me some supplies in town, now we all got our share of the loot.’
‘Reckon I’ll come with you, Ben,’ Sim put in quickly. ‘Feel like taking a ride.’
‘I’ll come in as well,’ Jube spoke up. He was shy around any female company and sidled past Betty as if he thought she was going to explode any minute. ‘I reckon you’n Joe can handle things here, Jesse.’
Jesse did not like the idea, but could see there was mutiny in the air. He was wise enough not to push his gang too hard. He and his brother could take care of Betty and the other three would not get into any trouble in town.
Ben, Sim and Jube mounted their horses, the bay, the washy sorrel and the roan. Then Ben noticed Betty’s overnight bag was still fastened to his saddle horn. He was about to throw it on to the porch but snorted, fingering his smooth cheeks. The hell with her, let her do without it for a spell. He stuffed the small bag firmly between the cantle and his bedroll, then sent his horse running for town.
Betty spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening listening to Jesse’s stories of the hold-ups he’d done and the ones he planned to do. She felt sorry for him; he was so sure he was the greatest outlaw the West had ever known and she guessed he would very soon get dissuaded in his belief.
Night came and the lamp was lit. They sat around the table, playing poker with a greasy old deck of cards Joe produced. Time was passing and there was no sign of the other three outlaws.
Jesse lowered his cards, listening intently; then came to his feet. The others could hear the sound of horses approaching and Betty’s eyes gleamed. Jesse looked worried, he rose and went to the window, looking out into the night. When he turned there was a hint of panic in his eyes that worried Betty.
‘What’s wrong, Jesse?’ asked Joe, also standing.
‘I don’t know. If it’s the boys they haven’t given the whistle.’ Betty thrust back her chair and came to her feet. Even as she did so she knew she’d done the wrong thing. Jesse leapt forward, gripping her arm and turning her. He threw his left hand around her shoulders, dragging her to his body. There was a low click as he flipped open the knife he pulled from his pocket and held the sharp blade near her cheek.
‘Keep your mouth shut!’ he hissed, and there was fear in his voice. ‘See who it is, Joe!’
Joe went towards the door and from outside came the sound of singing. Drink-loaded, whisky-primed, drunken singing.
* * *
Bent’s Ford was something of a mystery to strangers seeing it for the first time. True, there was a lake of clear blue water near the three buildings which formed the metropolis, stage relay point, cattle watering stop, saloon, dancehall and gambling house. Yet nowhere was there anything which needed fording: the only stream was barely wide enough for a Texas longhorn to wade.
The name came about from the cowhands’ sense of humour. A Texas trail hand in Abilene was being pestered and questioned by a dude in search of knowledge. On being asked how they moved cattle over a river he told of Bent’s Ford, on the mighty Bent River in the Indian Nations. The story got around and grew until now there were dudes who believed that Bent’s Ford was the only crossing of a river so deep that three stern-wheelers sunk bow down, one on top of the other, couldn’t be reached with a hundred-foot sounding cord. The river was so wide that it could barely be seen across,
except on a very clear day, and in it were brook trout as big, fierce and dangerous as Everglade alligators. They were so ravenous that a man trying to swim the Bent River was likely to be pulled under and eaten alive. These and other stories were built on the narrow stream and Bent’s triple business of stage station agent, saloon keeper and store owner became known along the length of the cattle trails as Bent’s Ford.
Duke Bent did not protest at the legends and windies about his place. He’d even helped to build a few of them himself, for they were good for business. The Wells Fargo Company found it a useful place for a relay station. The trail drives came to the lake for the purpose of watering their cattle. The trail boss could buy fresh supplies in Bent’s store and spend a pleasant evening in the saloon, dancing with Bent’s hostesses, or gambling at one of the games. Here it was fair gambling: the stakes at the poker games often ran sky high but there was never a hint of cooked play. Duke Bent began his life on a Mississippi sternwheeler and knew almost all there was to know about the detection of crooked gamblers. Once detected, he could handle trouble any way it came, for he was a big, powerful man and fast with a gun.
All in all, Duke Bent should have been contented with life. He was rich, liked and respected, his business flourished, unhindered by the Indians, who were moved by the bountiful United States Government into Oklahoma Territory. There was no trouble in the air, the last drive had gone up trail the day before and the next was not due until the following week. He should have been happy to relax, taking trade from the men drifting down to Texas from earlier drives, the occasional farmer moving through the Territory, and the stagecoaches. The fact that the expected stage was not here, and it was already dark, did not worry him; stagecoaches were often delayed and late.
His discontent was explained to the two men who stood at the bar in the saloon section of his business.
‘There ain’t one in the house,’ he groaned, and the other two looked disappointed.
It was a tragedy of the first water for Bent. He cared little for wine, was married and found his attention to women seriously curtailed, so his other, and most prevailing interest — song — was all that was left. Bent had been very happy when the Ysabel Kid had rode in that afternoon, for Marshal Chris Madsen was on hand. Here was Bent with two really good tenors, all set to throw in his powerful rolling bass to some quartet harmony and there was no baritone, It was a real tragedy. What good was a session of quartet singing without a baritone.
Bent was not a man to accept defeat. He’d been around the customers without success, there was not a baritone in the house. Now he came back to the bar looking miserable.
U.S. Marshal Chris Madsen, a tall, lithe young man, leaned his shoulders against the bar. He wore range clothes and around his waist was a gunbelt which supported an ivory handled Cavalry Colt Peacemaker. His face was pleasant, his hair brown, and his moustache neatly trimmed. He was one of Oklahoma’s ‘Three Guardsmen’ and along with Marshals Billy Tillghman and Heck Thomas was trying to rid the Indian Nations of outlaws.
‘Sure is hard luck, Duke,’ he agreed, then turned to the lean, black dressed, Indian-dark young man by his side. ‘Where’s Dusty and Mark, Lon? Ole Mark’d do for the baritone part, seeing as how we can’t get a better one.’
‘They’ll be along in a couple of days,’ replied the Kid, looking a little sheepish at the question. ‘They stayed on in Mulrooney.’
The truth of the matter, and the Kid did not care to tell the others, was that he’d deserted his two friends. He’d left behind the two men who were closer to him than brothers to face an ordeal, and run out like a scared jack-rabbit. He’d not felt like singing at all, but Bent expected it and would ask too many questions if the Kid did not join in. He sighed, hoping Dusty Fog and Mark Counter would come through the ordeal he’d left them to. He should have stayed.
The message from Betty Hardin did not make things any better. She would be arriving on the late-running stage and the Kid knew he could not hide his guilty secret from her. She would read his normally inscrutable face like a book and would demand to know all. The Kid did not know if he could face her, so proposed to take the cowardly way out. No lady would enter a saloon when it was open for business so the Kid would be safe here until Betty was asleep. That would hold off the awful disclosure until the following morning, but he was not sure how Betty would take it even then.
The batwing doors of the saloon opened and a man entered. He stood just inside, allowing his eyes to become used to the light, and studied the other patrons of the bar. He was a stocky, handsome young man, his face tanned, friendly and with a black moustache. His expensive grey Stetson was shoved back to show his crinkly, curly black hair. His clothes were range style, expensive and pointed to a tophand. The gunbelt told another story, it fitted well and hung just right. The holster was cut to the shape of the gun, leaving the triggerguard and most of the chamber exposed. It was the holster of a fast gunhandler, leaving the ivory handle, hammer and triggerguard of the Civilian Model Peacemaker clear for easy gripping and lifting, and the bottom was tied down. The average cowhand did not wear such a holster, and rarely tied the tip down to hold it against a fast draw. It was the holster of a real good man and matched the one at chris Madsen’s side, or Bent’s or, to a lesser extent, the Ysabel Kid’s.
The newcomer stood by the door, looking around him. It was not the cold stare of a man hunting trouble, but caution. His eyes took in the group at the bar, and a warm, friendly smile came to his face as his eyes rested on the Kid. Recognition was mutual.
‘Yahoo!’ the Kid whooped. We done got our baritone.’ Chris Madsen’s eyes were on the newcomer, the smile still playing on his lips as the Kid advanced towards the man with an outstretched hand. Madsen did not move from the bar, but he stiffened slightly as he watched the newcomer.
Letting out a wild cowhand yip the new arrival gripped the Kid’s hand in a hearty shake. ‘Ain’t see you all in a coon’s-age, Lon,’ he whooped. ‘How you been keeping? Where’s Dusty and Mark?’
‘Feel as fit as a flea,’ the Kid replied, flushing slightly as his conscience pricked him. ‘You couldn’t have come at a better time, S—’
‘You’re surely right, boy,’ interrupted the other man, drowning the Kid’s voice. ‘I called in for a game of poker. Yes, sir, as sure as my name’s Eph Tenor, I feel lucky tonight.’
‘Sorry we can’t oblige you none, S—, Eph,’ Bent replied, advancing. He’d caught the slight emphasis on the name and read it correctly. ‘We’ve just been fixing to raise us a quartet. You want in on it?’
‘Why sure,’ agreed Eph, his tone showing that he was another devotee to the art of quartet harmony. ‘Who all’s singing second tenor?’
There was a grin on Bent’s face as he led the newcomer to the bar. ‘Allow you two never met afore,’ he said. ‘This here’s Chris Madsen, Eph. Chris, get acquainted with Eph Tenor, from Texas.’
Eph’s grin never wavered as he held out his hand to the United States Marshal. Nor did Madsen’s face lose the smile as he eyed the other man. ‘Pleased to meet you — Eph. You up this way on business?’
‘Me?’ grinned Eph. ‘Shucks no. Just came along to see if I could do a mite of hoss racing. I’ve got me a little mare out there that can run a quarter faster’n most hoss’s can cover a hundred yards.’
There was a pause, then Madsen chuckled. ‘Any particular town in mind?’
‘Nope, just juning around, looking for some place that’ll be worth it.’
Bent snorted. Time was passing; his quartet was complete and he wanted to start, ‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘Pour out a drink for Eph, then let’s give her a whirl.’
With the dust washed from Eph’s throat, Bent got them ready to move off with the first song. He waved his hand to the Kid and suggested that he started with ‘Little Joe The Wrangler’.
For an impromptu group the quartet got on well. There was not a sound through the room as the few customers and the girls from the dancehall listened.
The, four voices worked in well; Madsen’s second tenor, Eph’s baritone and Bent’s bass giving able backing.
There was some applause from the listening crowd when the song came to an end, and Madsen took over with the sad ballad of ‘My Darling Clementine.’ Then Eph’s baritone gave the lead in the lament of a dying cowhand,
The song was just at the crucial point when the doors of the bar opened and a party of weary, footsore men entered.
Eph’s song died as Bent lunged forward from the bar towards the men at the door. He recognized the driver and guard of the late stagecoach. Recognized them, and knew they were in trouble, for he’d not heard the coach arrive.
‘What’s happened, Scatty?’ he snapped.
‘Been held up,’ replied the guard. ‘They took off with that young gal who was travelling with us.’
The Ysabel Kid left the bar and crossed the room fast, his face no longer young and innocent looking. The guard gulped and took a pace aback. He was a brave man, good with his weapons and used to taking care of himself in times of trouble, but that black-dressed boy looked meaner and more dangerous than a cow moose defending her new-born calf. ‘What gal was that?’ he growled.
‘Miss Hardin,’ the driver replied for the guard. ‘Ole Devil Hardin’s grand-daughter. She — hell fire, Ole Devil’s gall There’ll be hell on over this.’
‘Mister,’ growled the Kid, his voice sounding like a Comanche taking a lodge oath of vengeance. ‘That hell’s going to break loose a damned sight sooner than you expect. What happened?’
The businessman pushed forward glaring wildly around the room. His eyes lit on Chris Madsen, but, despite his earlier remarks, he did not appear to recognize the United States Marshal.
‘It was the James gang!’ the businessman yelled.
‘The James gang?’ Madsen remarked. He’d been eyeing Eph with some interest but turned and crossed the room, digging his badge from his pocket. ‘Are you sure of that?’
