He made his decision, confided his intentions and threw a bad scare into the wide-eyed Mex.
“The slope under this hogback isn’t so steep that we couldn’t run our animals down to the flats. I calculate we can get between the coach and those bandidos—if we move fast enough.”
“You ask me to fight bandidos?” Benito plaintively protested. “But—amigo—I too am a thief! My father was a thief—and his father before him! Would you have me betray their memory?”
“I don’t have time to argue with you, cucaracha,” growled Jim. “I’m going down. If you’re coming with me—you have to come now!”
“Bueno ...” The little Mex shrugged resignedly. “We go.”
“It’s high time you got yourself a gun of your own,” opined Jim, as he unholstered his Colt. “Here—you’d better use this. I’ll use the Winchester. You ready?”
“No!” Benito bluntly asserted.
“So ...?” grinned Jim. “What are we waiting for?”
He put the big charcoal to the slope and Benito followed. Their hectic descent began, and the hard-pressed stage guard spotted them almost immediately.
Three – Raiders of Cadiz County
The guard’s name was Orin Dutton and, when he glanced to his left and noted the two riders hustling their mounts down the slant, he figured he had more than enough troubles already. The driver was dead; of that he was certain. He had managed to gather the reins and regain full control of the team, after shoving his partner’s body over onto the coach roof. His six-shooter was empty—and how could he re-load under these circumstances?
“Six chasin’ us,” he reflected, “and now two more tryin’ to cut me off from the side.”
But this new fear was short-lived. He was again glancing toward the cliff-face when he heard the barking of Big Jim’s Winchester and saw the puff of smoke. Jim wasn’t hoping for accuracy at that time; the shot was intended as a token discouragement, a challenge to the would-be stage robbers. Dutton easily perceived that the big man on the black stallion was aiming not at the coach but at the men pursuing it. And then, in a flurry of dust, Jim and the Mex had made it to level ground and were moving their animals onto the trail. In his loudest parade-ground bellow, Jim called to Dutton, “Keep moving! We’ll catch up with you later!”
Dutton needed no second bidding. He yelled to the team. Panting, snorting, but not yet tiring, the six horses pounded onward along the north trail. In the dust billowing from behind the coach, Jim and Benito wheeled their mounts and took aim at the still-advancing sextet of masked riders, and Sarina Hale thrust her head out of the coach window just as Jim opened fire.
Within the vehicle, fear clutched at the passengers with a cold hand. The old man was huddled on the floor, unhurt—so far. Beside Sarina, the plump young matron had gathered her terrified child into a protective embrace. Directly opposite, the drummer was slumped with his pistol still gripped in his right fist, his eyes open, but glazed, his head lolling forward. He would trigger no more shots at their attackers—or at anybody else.
“There are—other riders back on the trail. I think they’re trying to help us,” Sarina offered.
“No!” groaned the young mother. “That’s too much—too much to hope for ...!”
With the burro lagging in its wake, the big stallion pounded another forty yards along the trail. Benito was yelling a plea, while triggering at the pursuing raiders.
“Amigo Jim—no burro was born to run so fast!”
Jim didn’t need to be told. Burros, after all, were pack-critters, not built for speed. He threw a glance behind then stared ahead and, as dust raised by the pounding hooves of the stage-team was carried away on the morning breeze, sighted the cluster of lava rock to the right of the trail. The mound of rock, he reflected, might be the only cover for miles. And they would reach it not a moment too soon.
“Hold your fire!” he called over his shoulder to the Mex. “Make for those rocks—and we’ll give ourselves the edge on these bandidos!”
“We are outnumbered!” wailed Benito, while coaxing a last burst of speed from Captain Cortez. “They are six!”
“Make that five and a half,” retorted Jim. “I think I winged one.”
The raiders were still advancing at speed, when Jim and Benito reached the rocks, hustled their animals around behind the mound and dismounted. Jim crouched on one knee, squinting along the barrel of the Winchester. The Mex lay flat, steadying his Colt-filled right hand on the top of the mound. This was the only cover in the area. The stage robbers were wide open, but maybe they had not yet realized as much, because they were still advancing.
Jim got off three shots fast. Two kicked up dust in front of the outlaw horses and one of the animals took fright, coming to a slithering halt, rearing, neighing shrilly. His third bullet scored on one of the lead riders. He saw the man shudder, drop his six-gun and slump forward in his saddle, grabbing for his pommel. The Colt boomed and jumped in Benito’s fist. He kept cocking and firing until the weapon was empty; he didn’t draw blood, but the .45 slugs whined perilously close to the riders, who had now reined up and were milling in disorder. Jim took aim, triggered another shot and heard his target raise a yell of rage and pain. Grim-faced, he began ramming fresh shells into the breech of his Winchester.
“Help yourself to cartridges out of my belt,” he ordered Benito, “and get that Colt re-loaded.” And then, raising his voice, he called a stern warning to the raiders. “You’re clear targets—every one of you! This is the only cover, and we got here first.” As if that wasn’t enough discouragement, he added, “Keep coming—and I can pick off all six of you! It’ll be dead easy!”
For a tense moment, he thought they might resume the attack. They were hanging back, their horses still milling, raising plenty of dust. He could hear their voices raised in heated argument, though he couldn’t distinguish what was being said. And then, abruptly, they turned their horses and began a fast retreat.
Benito nervously enquired, “What do you think they will do now? They will circle around, maybe, and make another attack?”
“I got a hunch they’ve had enough,” muttered Jim. “Three wounded—that’s half the outfit. And these are the kind of heroes that believe in safety in numbers. They want it all their own way.”
“And the coach?” prodded Benito.
“We’ll tag after it,” Jim decided. “Easiest way to find the next town is to stay on the stage-route.”
He rose up, returned the Winchester to its sheath, Benito returned his re-loaded Colt. He holstered it and swung astride the charcoal, waited for the Mex to mount his burro, then broke from the rocks and made for the trail. Both animals had given of their best, so they didn’t hustle them now.
A half-hour after quitting the flats, they followed the stage trail through a narrow canyon and a stand of cottonwood. .The coach was stalled just beyond the trees and, noting the clear pool and the tiny cataract chattering down from a rock-littered hillside, Jim concluded that this was a regular watering place along the north-south route.
Still shocked by their grueling experience, the guard and passengers greeted their rescuers not with loud cries of gratitude but with weary nods and a few murmured words. The mother of the sobbing child was almost incoherent; Sarina was doing her best to comfort both of them. Dutton was feeding a shot of brandy to the trembling old man with the snow-white hair. The body of the driver was sprawled atop the roof of the vehicle.
“We got hit hard this time,” Dutton declared, as Jim and the Mex dismounted. “But it would’ve been a sight worse for us if you fellers hadn’t happened along.”
“We’re deeply grateful,” frowned Sarina. “I speak for all of us.”
“My pleasure, ma’am,” said Jim, raising a hand to the brim of his Stetson. Then, eyeing Dutton again, “You said ‘this time’—as though it’s happened before.”
“Almost every time a Kiley & Ogden stage is totin’ cash or gold,” growled Dutton, “there’s a raid.” He raised h
is eyes to the strongbox behind the driver’s seat. “That’s what they’re always after.”
“But they don’t always get it?” prodded Jim.
“They’ve gotten it too often, I’ll tell you that,” scowled the guard. “Somebody’s gettin’ rich—at the expense of the stage line, the banks and the insurance outfits.”
“What’s your next stop?” demanded Jim.
“Cadiz City,” said Dutton. “We’re due there around ten o’clock. At this rate, I don’t guess we’ll make it before eleven.” He set the bottle aside, patted the old man’s shoulder. “You all right now, mister?”
The old man nodded, trudged wearily to a patch of grass and seated himself. Eyeing him morosely, and then staring up at Jim, Sarina said, “They aren’t men. They’re animals. They attack like hungry wolves, not caring how much fear and grief they cause.”
He conceded she had ample justification for such bitterness, for the hint of savage indignation edging her every word, but he was taken aback nevertheless. This woman was something special, he told himself. Not because of her looks. It was some inner quality, something no doubt born of grim experience in an unhappy past.
“Ma’am,” he frowned, “I don’t admire outlaws any more than you do.”
“This unfortunate child,” breathed Sarina. “Her mind may be scarred for life. And look at her mother—sick with shock—and the old man. I wonder his heart could survive the strain.”
“My partner ain’t the only casualty,” Dutton soberly informed Jim. “There’s a drummer inside. The lady tells me he tried to shoot it out with ’em ...”
“He did his best, with a small caliber pistol,” sighed Sarina, “but his best wasn’t good enough. I saw him die.”
“You’ve seen a lot of sadness,” mused Jim. For a moment, he was tempted to add, “And not just today,” but he decided that such a remark might cause offence. To the guard, he suggested, “We’d best get him out of there and up onto the roof with your partner.”
“Rightaway,” agreed Dutton.
“Any canvas?” Jim asked.
“Couple old blankets in the boot,” said Dutton. “They’ll do,” said Jim. “And, just so you folks won’t feel nervous of us, we better get introduced.”
“Buenos dias,” grunted Benito. “I am Benito Espina.”
“Rand,” offered Jim. “Jim Rand.”
“Dutton’s my handle,” said the guard. He named the passengers, then told Sarina, “It’ll be best if you and Mrs. Cleaver and the little girl keep your backs turned.”
“Yes,” nodded Sarina, “I’d already thought of that.” She lifted the child, slid her other arm about the plump woman’s shoulders and moved across to the grass where the old man squatted.
“As soon as you’ve watered Hank and Capitan Cortez,” Jim quietly ordered Benito, “you go over there and try and amuse the young ’un, try and get her laughing. For a hombre with a face like yours, it ought to be easy.”
“What is funny about my face?” Benito wanted to know.
“You said—Hank—and Capitan Cortez?” blinked Dutton. “Which is which?”
“I named the black after the toughest N.C.O. I ever served under,” said Jim. “Benito calls his burro Capitan Cortez because he figures it gives him dignity—or something like that.”
The women kept their backs turned. After watering their animals, the little Mex loafed over to where they sat and endeavored to entertain the wide-eyed two-year-old. He crouched before her, stuck his thumbs in his ears, showed all his buckteeth in a grin and waggled his fingers. The child became very solemn. Mrs. Cleaver, who was finally regaining control of herself, thanked him for trying. Sarina asked, “Does your friend Mr. Rand have business in Cadiz City?”
“Si, Senora.” Benito nodded emphatically. “Muy importante.”
She said nothing more at this time. Her question was born of her need to engage the services of a bodyguard. There was a need, she assured herself. Her mother would not have made the suggestion, had she not considered it necessary. But it was a mite early for any kind of business discussion.
Jim, no stranger to the grim chore of tending the dead of battle, made short work of transferring the dead salesman to the coach roof, wrapped in a blanket. Both bodies were secured with rope.
“Any man could guess you’ve been a soldier,” Dutton moodily remarked, when the big man climbed down. “The way you handled poor old Barney and the drummer ...”
“Old Barney was a good friend of yours?” asked Jim.
“I didn’t know him real close,” said Dutton. “All I can tell you is he was easy company, smart with horses and ...” He grimaced, shook his head sadly, “… and devoted to his family.”
“I’m sorry for the both of ’em,” drawled Jim, jerking a thumb to the roof. “Maybe, if we’d heard the shooting just a little sooner, we might’ve hit the flat country in time to save ’em. On the other hand ...”
“On the other hand,” finished Dutton, “we might all have been killed, if there’d been nobody ridin’ that hogback.”
“If you’re ready to go on,” said Jim, “we’ll ride escort.”
“Sure,” nodded Dutton, “and that burro won’t have to bust his innards to keep up with us, because I’ll be takin’ it easy from here to town. Those passengers are too shook up for another fast ride.”
“Open country from here on?” demanded Jim.
“Pretty much,” Dutton assured him.
“Bueno,” said Jim. “I don’t reckon there’s much danger of another attack.”
He helped the passengers back into the coach, while Dutton climbed up to the seat. The women insisted on giving way to age, so the old man was first to be helped in. Mrs. Cleaver surrendered her child to the big man’s care just long enough for him to deposit her in the corner, and then to take her arm and install her beside her offspring. As he cupped a hand under Sarina Hale’s left elbow, Jim felt her flinch. It seemed an instinctive reaction on her part, and automatic.
“Allow me, ma’am,” he frowned.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged.
And later, while riding level with the northbound vehicle, he found himself tempted to covertly study the profile of the woman seated at the near window. Why should she intrigue him so? What was the special, elusive quality that set this woman apart from all others? Her clothes were of inexpensive material and simple design. She wore little or no make-up and her demeanor was austere, almost forbidding; she seemed to have forgotten how to smile—quite apart from the violence of the past hour. He only once gave way to the temptation and threw her a sidelong glance, and was mildly surprised to discover that she was staring at him, examining him with great intensity.
He hooked a leg about his saddlehorn, rolled and lit a cigarette and stared ahead. At his left, slumped astride the plodding burro, Benito cheerfully asserted, “We do pretty damn good, eh, amigo? We fight and we win. We rescue the senoras and the muchacha. We are two fine caballeros, I think.”
“Only fools brag,” Jim caustically countered.
“Your face is serious,” the Mex observed. “You are thinking of this Jenner again, eh? You hope to find him in this next town, this place called Cadiz?”
“He could be there,” muttered Jim. “One thing’s for sure—I’ll stay long enough to find out. I won’t move on until somebody has identified him from the picture—somebody who saw him quitting Cadiz City.”
~*~
Some considerable distance from the scene of their defeat, in a clearing within a clump of mesquite, the six desperadoes reined up to spell the horses. One of the three wounded by Jim Rand had to be helped from his saddle. He was weak from loss of blood, toting a .45 slug in the fleshy part of his right shoulder. Another had suffered a deep crease that would keep his gun-arm out of action for some time to come.
The third wounded man had been let off easily compared to the others, but his temper was the shortest, his voice the harshest, his profanity the most poisonous. Shep Rawson was his name. Wi
thout his bandanna mask, his face was revealed as sallow, heavy-jawed and somewhat less than appealing. His eyes were red-rimmed with rage. His wound was superficial, but painful; one of Jim’s well-aimed rifle-slugs had burned his neck at the left side. A neckerchief would easily conceal the livid mark, but the injury to Rawson’s pride would never heal.
“If I ever catch up with that big sonofabitch,” he raged, “him on the black stallion—I’ll break every bone in his body—and then put a forty-five slug in his belly ...!”
“Speakin’ for myself,” drawled the man with the arm-wound. “I sure don’t aim to face him in an open fight. I’d as soon down him from behind. The way he throws lead—”
“A real—sharpshooter—he was,” mumbled the man with the shoulder-wound. “And—he sure finished me. I’m a goner—I’m—gettin’ so damn weak ...”
“Quit whinin’,” scowled Rawson. He jammed four inches of cigar into the side of his mouth, scratched a match and got it working. “You ain’t gonna die. We’ll be back, at KD inside a couple hours, and then Purdew will dig that slug outa you. Won’t be long before you’re back on your feet.”
“Rawson,” said the man with the arm-wound, “we should’ve quit as soon as them two strangers headed for the rocks. We had no cover—couldn’t you see that? If we’d turned and run, maybe Jase wouldn’t be hurt so bad, and maybe ...”
“Don’t give me no ‘maybes’!” snarled Rawson, and, heedless of the man’s injury, he knocked him to the ground with a savage back-hander. “I’m still ramrod of KD, and don’t you ever question my orders—you hear?”
“Take it easy, Shep, for gosh sakes,” muttered one of the other men.
“Pick Corey up,” ordered Rawson. “Stash them bandanna masks back in your saddlebags and let’s get the hell outa here.”
One of Cadiz County’s two lawmen would undoubtedly have been shocked to the core, had he caught sight of the six KD riders homebound, had he noted their injuries or guessed at the circumstances under which they’d been wounded. Sheriff Ray Murch, pompous, self-righteous, slow on the uptake, had naught but the most fervent respect for the KD owner. Hadn’t Karl Dreisser made regular donations to the treasury of the Reform Committee? Wasn’t KD one of the most prosperous spreads in the county, and didn’t Dreisser use his profits to further Cadiz City’s civic development? It had also been said that Dreisser was an uncommonly lucky gambler. Well, good for him. He had invested heavily in several of the town’s well-established business houses and now held the controlling interests in the Duval Restaurant, the Hotel Imperial, the Kress Emporium and a couple of very popular gambling casinos. To a man as slow-witted as Sheriff Murch, any citizen as wealthy as Karl Dreisser was worthy of the highest respect.
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