by J. T. Edson
‘You’d best tell me about it, Carney,’ he suggested.
‘Ain’t much to tell,’ replied the other man. ‘It happened on us all of a sudden at the end of the spring round-up. We’d lost nearly three thousand head over the last year.’
The Kid gave a low whistle. That was rustling on a grand scale; three thousand head of cattle would take a fair amount of handling. To take so many in a bunch would need at least eighteen men. A full scale round-up would be necessary to gather them in. Even on the vast open ranges of Texas such a thing could not be done in secret.
‘Must have been a steady going on for some time,’ remarked the Kid. ‘How about your crew, they all saints?’
‘The regular boys are,’ Carney answered, a saint meant a cowhand who would not work in with the rustlers. ‘But you know how it is, a man can’t keep a full crew these days, has to use regulars in the trail drives and take on what he can. I’d trust Noisy, Joe and maybe three of the others and the rest never gave me no call not to trust them.’
‘Don Miguel been losing much?’
‘Not according to Alarez, I went over to hold a foreman’s jawing session with him a couple of days backs Alarez allows they turned up a couple of our steers which’d been hairbranded.’
‘Which same means that some of your round-up crew were working in with the rustlers,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘The branders’d have to be, and your tally man might have something to do with it.’
‘Brander might. I was using Noisy and a new man, real good man with an iron. Not the tally man. It was Judge Hurley’s nephew.’
‘I never knew he had one,’ the Kid remarked. He knew that it was possible for a man who was really skilled, to hair-brand a steer while the round-up was in progress. Burning the brand on the animal’s hair without touching the hide, so that when the hair grew out the brand would go with it. It would be no use doing so unless the tally man, recording the amount of cattle handled, worked with him.
‘How long’s this nephew been with the Judge?’
‘Come out just afore the round-up. You know the Judge war’n much of a hand at paper work. Had him that young dude, Jeff Dawson, to handle that sort of work for him most of the time. Then he heard from the nephew, a sister the Judge’d near on forgot about’s son. Was satisfied the boy really was kin and, having none of his own, sent for the boy to come,’ replied Lee, knowing the Kid needed to know the local set up. ‘Jeff didn’t cotton none to the idea, not when the Judge told him that young Hughie, him being the nephew, would be taking over the book wrangling. Judge was fair enough about it, told Jeff he could stay on as a hand at the same pay as he was pulling down as book-keeper.’
‘It’d have been this Dawson who’d be tally man, happen the Judge’s nephew hadn’t come out,’ remarked the Kid thoughtfully. ‘How about the Judge saying there was a try at killing him?’
‘Sure, was at that. Somebody took a shot at him as he was working in his office. Must have come through the window, the bullet. He was in the room on his own. Would have been killed but he dropped something and bent to pick it up just as the shot came. We made us a search all round, but couldn’t find nothing. I checked all the hands’ guns but warn’t none of them just been fired.’
‘The bullet come through the window? Bust it?’
‘Nope, you know how the Judge liked to have the windows open, allowed the scent of the mesquite helped him think.’
‘What was the Judge doing?’
‘Writing a letter to his nephew, telling him to come on out. When Hughie come he showed he was smart as a whip, for a dude. He’d been learning about book-keeping at this fancy Eastern college and took to tally-taking like the devil takes after a yearling. Only had Jeff help him out for half a day.’
‘There’s been any hard talk about Mig not losing stock?’ asked the Kid, his eyes going to the still form on the ground.
‘Some, you know what these hot-heads are.’
‘Where’d the Judge been; where was he coming back from?’
‘Tasselton. He went in last night, never said a word to any of us about what he was fixing to do.’
‘Strange looking knife that,’ the Kid drawled, stubbing his cigarette butt out. ‘I never saw one quite like it.’
With that he walked across the sand towards the body and Carney Lee followed him. They halted by the body and stood looking at it. The Kid’s attention was on the knife hilt. For the first time he noticed it was a dull black colour with the end charred as if it had been lying near a fire. Dropping his hand the Kid touched the hilt with his finger, and saw a small black smudge on the tip. Then he studied the angle at which the knife had entered the back, rose and stepped carefully astride the tracks of the Judge’s horse and looked back over his shoulder.
‘See you in a minute, Carney,’ he said.
Carney Lee did not reply, he was looking across the range and shaking his head sadly. The death of the rancher hit him badly, they’d been friends for more years than he could remember. The Judge had never been a man of letters. His name came, not from law, but from being a good judge of horses and corn liquor. Now he was dead, murdered and the old foreman swore he would get the man who had killed him.
The Ysabel Kid turned and walked back across the, sand to the woods, looking back at the body as if trying to get his bearings. Then he went through the trees his eyes on the ground. He turned and looked back, the body and the sand patch was hidden by trees and bushes. A few steps further on he found what he was looking for. A tree had fallen and there was a clear view of the Judge’s body. There was sign on the ground, sign which was plain to the Kid, even though half removed. The Kid lay on the ground behind the tree and looked over. He could see one small patch through the gaps in the trees, a clear opening of about two-foot, with no branches or anything in the way.
‘About sixty yards, I’d say,’ he remarked. ‘That’d take some practice.’
With the words he turned and began to track the sign. The man had known what he was doing, he covered his tracks well and might have deceived a less skilled trailer than the Kid. Even the Kid did not find it easy to follow the man to where he’d left his horse. There were droppings to show the horse had stood for some time, at least half an hour.
‘No point in trailing him now,’ the Kid said to himself; a habit he had picked up on the long lonely scouts he often took when riding herd or in time of trouble.
Turning, he walked back to the edge of the woods and found Carney Lee waiting for him. The foreman was clearly curious and could not restrain his curiosity any longer.
‘What you been doing?’he asked.
‘Now that ain’t a gentlemanly question,’ replied the Kid with a grin. ‘I’d’ve brought you a piece back on a leaf if I’d known?
‘Took you long enough to do that,’ grunted Lee sardonically. ‘You wants to try taking croton oil.’
‘Who gets the spread now the Judge’s dead?’ the Kid asked, disregarding the foreman’s cold eyes.
‘Hughie, I reckon.’
‘He with the herd you were working?’
‘Nope, stayed on at the spread, said he’d meet us out there but he hadn’t showed when I left to look for the Judge,’ Lee answered, and there was suspicion in his eyes. ‘You find something in there?’
‘Might be something, might be nothing,’ answered the Kid. ‘How far round do you reckon that knife hilt’d be? Bigger’n a .45, or even a .50 barrel?’
‘Sure, near on an inch. Twice as big as a .50. You reckon the Judge was shot fust, then the knife shoved in to make it look like that was how he died?’
‘Nope, I don’t reckon that at all. I’m real interested in knives. Just like the Judge and ole Mig are interested in long guns.’
The Kid stopped talking. There was a thoughtful look on his face as he looked at the edge of the trail, then towards the body and finally towards the woods. Things were beginning to tie into a pattern but there was just one small thread missing. One thing he had to tie in to make him sure h
is theory was correct. Every other thing he saw, the knife hilt, the way the Judge’s body lay and the horse tracks tied in, but there was one little thing missing.
Hooves sounded on the trail behind them; three riders were coming at a fair speed. It was almost an hour since the foreman had sent off his riders and both were returning at the same time, for, even as Noisy came into view with two more men, Joe and another rider came hurtling towards them from the other side.
The Ysabel Kid studied the two men with Noisy. One wore range clothes; he was a tanned, grey haired man belting a brace of guns and sporting a sheriff’s star on his vest. He looked a hard, but honest lawman; the Kid remembered him from the old days: Sheriff Eb Alberts. He looked at the Kid, recognizing him and nodding a greeting.
The other man was also known to the Kid. Doc Jerkin, lean, bald and amiable, good customer from the Kid’s smuggling days.
There was no time for small talk. The sheriff swung down from his horse, keeping it off the sand. He looked at the body, then nodded to the doctor who dismounted and followed him towards the body.
‘Keep off the sign, Eb!’ said the Kid and the urgent note, in his voice made the sheriff look down at the horse tracks, then step clear of them.
The doctor bent over the body, glanced at the knife, then knelt and took a closer look. He straightened up and shrugged. ‘Can’t do a thing here. If I can, I’d like to take the Judge over to his place.’
The other two riders came up; Joe and a good looking young man. His clothes were those of a working cowhand but his Stetson did not sit at the correct ‘jack-deuce angle over his off-eye’. It showed him as a dude, a newcomer to the cattle country for such rarely managed to wear a Stetson in the cowhand manner. His face was pallid under the sun-reddening; he was obviously badly shaken, or so it appeared.
He came across the sand fast, halting by the body and swaying. The sheriff shot out a hand to support the young man, gripping his right shoulder and bringing a wince of pain.
‘Shoulder hurt?’ asked the Kid mildly.
‘A little,’ the young man replied, his tones not Western. ‘I bruised it using a Buffalo Sharps.’
‘Telled you it’d be too much for you,’ grunted Lee. ‘You would listen to Jeff Dawson. You don’t need a .50 Sharps for shooting mule deer.’
The young man stood staring at the body. Joe was still waiting, he’d a horse fastened to his saddlehorn to take the body back to the ranch. None of the men spoke for a moment then the young dude asked:
‘Who did it?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ answered the sheriff. ‘Were you with the herd, Hughie?’
‘No. I got lost on my way out to them. I only just found them,’ Hughie Hurley replied. ‘And I thought I was getting to know my way round the range. That’s a knife in Uncle Sam’s back.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the sheriff.
‘Then you’d better arrest the Mexican. The man who owns the next ranch.’
‘Why?’ asked the Kid.
‘Everybody knows he and my Uncle weren’t friends.’
‘We’ll go and tell Mig, anyways,’ said the sheriff. ‘You’d best come, Hughie. And you too, Carney, Lon. The boys can help Doc take the Judge back to the spread.’
‘Jeff Dawson told me there was bad blood between my Uncle and that Mexican!’ Hughie raised his voice. ‘Are you going to make an arrest?’
‘Sure I am,’ the sheriff replied. ‘Just as soon as I find out who done it.’
The men loaded the body across a saddle, covering it with a trap. Then Carney Lee gave orders to the two cowhands.
‘Don’t you pair start talking about how the Judge was killed, or anything,’ he snapped. ‘We don’t want some fool yelling for war with the Mexicans over it.’
‘We know ole Mig wouldn’t do nothing like this,’ Joe answered. ‘We won’t say nothing at all.’
‘I’ll see they don’t,’ grunted the doctor.
The rest of the men, the sheriff, Lee, Hurley and the Kid got their horses and rode across the range. Dropping to Alberts’ side the Kid remarked, ‘That sign back there read a mite strange, Eb.’
‘What’s strange about it?’ grunted Alberts. ‘The Judge rode out there easy enough. He allus come back from that ways and—’
Alberts stopped speaking. His eyes had unconsciously studied the sign as he went to the body but it had only just struck him how strange it was. His eyes went to the Kid, trying to read something in the Indian-dark, almost babyishly innocent face. He failed and wondered how much the dark youngster knew, how much the sign told him. There was no chance to ask, for Lee and Hurley caught up with them.
‘Any idea where the Judge went in town, Carney?’ asked the Kid.
‘Nope, he usually tells me, didn’t this time.’
‘He went into the telegraph office,’ the sheriff remarked. ‘Funny, I saw him coming out of it just afore sundown last night. He stopped at the hotel overnight and never came down to the Lone Star for a drink or a game of poker. Was aiming to ask him about it but he come stomping out of the telegraph office and on to his hoss without giving me a chance.’
The Kid lounged in his saddle, thinking fast. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, yet there was something vital missing. He wondered who the Judge was telegraphing. It could not be Ole Devil for Judge Hurley knew a man would be riding as soon as Ole Devil received the letter but could not possibly reach Tasselton County earlier than this morning. The Kid wished Dusty, Mark or even young Waco was here to help him. There were things he wanted to talk over and nobody here he could trust.
Don Miguel Hernandez came from the door of his home. It was a big, old Spanish style building, white walled and cool. Several vaqueros were standing around the corral, looking at the approaching party with interest but not animosity.
Don Miguel Hernandez came from the front door of his home as the riders drew rein outside. He was a tall, slender man, grey haired, at least fifty years old but still ramrod straight. He was one of the finest type of Mexican hildalgo, brave, a shrewd business man and a gentleman in the strictest sense of the word. He strode forward to meet the guests, a smile of welcome on his face.
‘Saludos, Eli, Carney, Mr. Hurley,’ he said, then his eyes went to the Ysabel Kid and the smile grew even more warm; ‘Cabrito, it has been long since I last saw you. You will stay the night, all of you?’
‘Ain’t just a-visiting Mig,’ replied the sheriff. ‘We found Judge Hurley this morning.’
‘How did the old goat get himself lost?’ Hernandez answered, smiling. ‘I always said he didn’t know this country and—’
‘We found him dead, at the Dry River ford.’
The Ysabel Kid was watching Hernandez as the sheriff replied. There was no doubt that the Mexican was genuinely shocked at the news. His face showed it for a brief instant, then he got control and relapsed into the expressionless mask which gave nothing away.
‘Got a knife in his back,’ the Kid said gently.
Hernandez wiped a hand across his face, shook his head as if to clear it and gave a sigh. ‘Poor old Sam,’ he said. ‘We had our little quarrels—’
‘This wasn’t a little one,’ Hurley put in, his voice throbbing with grief and anger. ‘Everybody knows you and my Uncle were enemies. You could have been waiting for Uncle Sam at the ford and—’
‘And what?’ asked the Kid, before any of the others could say a word.
‘Everybody knows Mexicans use knives,’ Hurley finished lamely, for he was a dude and did not know how to read sign. He had not read the strange message in the sand.
‘So do other folks,’ replied the Kid. ‘This ain’t a running iron I’ve got on my belt.’
For all the Kid’s words there was tension in the air. The vaqueros were gathered around and muttered angrily at the insult to their master. Carney Lee dropped his hand to his side. He did not agree with what the young man had said, but Hughie Hurley was the Judge’s nephew and Lee’s boss, so the old ranch foreman was ready to defend the
youngster from the consequences of his rash words. It was an explosive situation and one which needed delicate handling.
The Kid’s words relieved some of the tension and Hernandez spoke gently, showing no offence at the insult.
‘Come inside, all of you. The boy is disturbed by his Uncle’s death and he means nothing by the words.’
‘Sure,’ Lee replied. ‘You’d best know one thing, Hughie. Your Uncle and Don Miguel here’ve been feuding for the past thirty years, but they’ve never stopped being friends. Remember that time Mig bought some fancy rifle that the Judge wanted, Eb?’
‘I’ll never forget it,’ answered the sheriff, grinning. ‘Judge come to town breathing fire and smoke. Told Mig that he was going to start shooting the next time they met. Wanted to step into the street and settle it like gentlemen. You’d have thought there’d be killing certain sure. Then word come that a bunch of Santanta’s Kiowa bucks were raiding Mig’s herd. Damned if Mig and the Judge didn’t get their hosses and ride out side by side to handle them Kiowas.’
‘Was another time,’ Lee went on, looking hard at young Hurley. ‘The Judge bought one of the Volcanic rifles out from under Mig’s nose. They wasn’t talking for a month after that. Mig come off a hoss, got hurt bad. Your Uncle went East to fetch back a doctor who knowed more’n Doe Jerkin about bone setting. Brought Mig a Volcanic rifle back, help get him over his fall.’
The Kid nodded in agreement. The feud between Judge Hurley and Miguel Hernandez was due to their hobby of collecting firearms. It was never so serious that it could not be put off when there was trouble and co-operative action was needed.
Hurley looked embarrassed, but held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was misled by what the hands at the ranch told me. My Uncle was most uncomplimentary about you, and I heard that you and he were enemies.’
