by J. T. Edson
“I know that without being told,” she answered. “Don’t worry. I’m not the crying sort.”
They topped a ridge and she stopped the horse, her breath drawing in sharply. In the valley below was a mine tunnel and a small log cabin. By the cabin stood a Conestoga wagon and in the small corral a team of mules and a couple of horses. The girl was looking at none of these, her eyes were on a blanket covered shape on the ground by the wagon. She started her horse forward and the others followed her. The Ysabel Kid scanned the rock strewn slope which rose sheer at the other side of the valley. It would be a good place for a man to lay up in ambush but he could see no-one although every instinct warned him all was not well.
Men came from the cabin, three of them, one behind the other. The first was a tall, wide shouldered miner. His hair was blond and cropped short, his face handsome. He was a fine physical specimen; Dusty guessed him to be almost as tall as Mark and nearly as well built. The man’s cheeks bore small scars and Dusty guessed at their cause.
Behind him came a short, scar faced Mexican wearing the dress of the Texas border country and looking alien in this northern range. He wore a gunbelt but the holster and knife sheath was empty. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and his face was bruised.
Pushing the Mexican forward urgently was a tall, dark haired young man. He was handsome, his face tanned by the elements and although it was a cheerful face there were hard, bitter lines to be seen by a man as knowledgeable as Dusty Fog. The young man wore a dark blue cavalry campaign hat, fringed buckskin shirt and trousers. Around his waist was a gunbelt, a knife sheathed at the left and an Army Colt butt forward at the right. He halted and looked at the newcomers with some interest, his hat coming off.
“Who is this, Miss Delue?” the big blond man asked, his voice having just a trace of an accent.
“The new town marshal, Dutchy.” Roxie tore her eyes away from the still, blanket-covered shape.
“New marshal?” Dutchy Schulze turned and looked at the unarmed Mexican. “Then you want this man.”
“Caught this rattler on the rim back there.” The other man apparently decided he owed Dusty an explanation for his presence. “Was lining up on Dutchy here when I happened along. I brought him down here.”
“Looks like he fell down the rim,” Dusty remarked drily, looking at the bruised face. “Doc, you know what I want?”
Doc nodded. From his saddlepouch he took an oilskin roll which contained a small set of surgical instruments. A few years before he had been a medical student and now was frequently putting his learning to good use. He went to the blanket-covered form and lifted the covering up. With a bullet probe in his hands he set to work to remove the bullet, trying to prevent the girl seeing.
The Mexican stood silent and sullen. His eyes went to the Ysabel Kid with something like fascination in them. Then he lowered his gaze to the ground once more. Dusty glanced at the Mexican then to the buckskin-clad young man, taking in the Sioux moccasins on his feet. “Tell it friend.”
“The name’s Day, call me Happy Day. I was riding scout for the Army until I came down here. Came up on the Mexican lining a Sharps on Dutchy here. Threw down on the Mex and brought him here. Me ‘n’ Dutchy talked to him but he’s some quiet.”
“Sharps, huh?” Dusty glanced at the saddle, laying on its side by the cabin door. It was a Cheyenne roll and a Henry rifle showed from the boot. “That your saddle?”
The Texans dismounted and left their horses standing free. Roxie swung down out of her saddle and faced the Mexican, her eyes hard. She did not speak but waited to see how Dusty handled the situation.
“Check the rifle there, Lon,” Dusty ordered when Happy Day nodded.
The Kid went to the saddle and looked down. The saddle-boot was made for a Henry rifle and would have been too short for a Sharps. Straightening up the young Texan returned to Dusty’s side just as Doc joined them. Holding out a bullet Doc said, “Looks about right for either a Sharps or a Spencer rifle.”
Roxie moved forward, her hand dropping to lift clear the Navy Colt. “You killed nay pappy!” she hissed. “Who sent you to do it?”
The Mexican did not move or reply. With a gasp of anger Roxie lined the gun, her thumb easing back the hammer. Dusty reached forward and gently pushed her arm down again. “That’s not going to get your question answered, ma’am.”
The breath came from Roxie’s lungs in a gasp. She still held the gun and her lips quivered as she fought down her desire to kill this man. The Ysabel Kid jerked his head towards the wagon. “Lash him to the wheel, then we’ll make us some talk.”
Dutchy Schulze reached out, gripping the Mexican and half carrying him to the wagon, slamming him against one wheel. Happy Day moved in, taking a rope from the back of the wagon and lashing the Mexican into place.
“Get that bullwhip, ma’am,” Happy said, his voice gentle. Roxie picked the long whip up, curling the lash in her hands. She knew how to handle a whip well enough. Looking at the blanket which covered her father’s body she snapped. “I’ll do it.”
“It’s no chore for a lady, ma’am,” Happy answered.
Clenching her fists Roxie glared at the young man. She was close to tears and fought to stop them coming. “Don’t you call me no lady. I ain’t a lady and I’ll fight the lot of you all at once or one at a time to prove it.”
“Sure, ma’am,” Happy Day agreed, taking the whip from her, his voice calm and gentle. “Maybe it’d be better if you went in the cabin for a piece, ma’am.”
To the surprise of the other men, Roxie allowed Happy Day to take her to the cabin. Inside she threw herself on to Dutchy’s bed and sobs wracked her slim frame as the reaction set in. Happy Day watched for a moment, then returned to the other men. He lifted the whip and brought the lash snaking out in front of him.
The Mexican still did not show a sign of fear. He knew these gringos would not kill him and the people he worked for would pay him well for his silence. He met Happy Day’s eyes with a mocking sneer on his face.
“Blacksnaking won’t make him talk,” the Ysabel Kid remarked gently, coming to stand by the Mexican.
“Then turn him loose and I will break him with my bare hands,” Dutchy Schulze suggested.
“Nope, that won’t do any good, either,” the Kid answered. “This here’s a real tough hombre. He’s from Sonora, ain’t you?”
“Si, señor.” The Mexican looked at this Indian dark boy and remembering something which made him more scared than fear of a whipping could.
“Them Sonora boys are all real tough, friend,” the Kid’s voice was mild. In his faultless Spanish he went on, “How do they call you?”
“Juan Sebastion.”
“I am el Cabrito!” The Kid’s voice was still mild. “Why did you kill the man?”
The change in the Mexican was immediate and a touching tribute to the reputation of the Ysabel Kid. There was real fear in the man’s eyes and showing on his face. El Cabriro was a name to be feared in Mexico. It was not a name to give a prisoner joy or peace of mind.
“I don’t know what you—.”
The Ysabel Kid’s right hand moved and the bowie knife came out. “You boys just take a walk round the cabin there.”
Dusty watched all this. He had seen the awe the Mexican border peons held his friend in. This one here certainly was in keeping with that awe. “No señor. No!” Frenzied eyes turned to Dusty. “You are lawman. You can’t let them do it to me.”
“Tell us what we want to know!” The Kid’s voice was hard now.
“It was Bronco Calhoun—.”
Happy Day moved forward, the hard, bitter lines more in evidence. “Bronco Calhoun?” his voice grated with hate. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not lying, señor!” the Mexican screamed. “Bronco Calhoun told me to kill the old man with the wagon. Then I moved around to try and get the miner.”
“Where’s Bronco Calhoun now?” Happy Day’s voice still throbbed with hate.
�
�Up—.”
A hole appeared in the centre of the Mexican’s chest and the men heard the “whap” of a bullet passing. The group by the wagon hurled in different directions and a bullet ripped the heel from Doc’s boot as he went under the wagon. The Ysabel Kid landed alongside Doc and cursed as he scanned the slope. High up, well out of pistol range he could see smoke rising and the shape of the rifleman. The butt of his Winchester in the saddleboot of his white stallion mocked the Kid. With that weapon in his hands he would either dislodge or kill the man on the slope. The other men were under the wagon with him and Dusty glanced as the Kid gave a low whistle. The white snorted and started to move towards the wagon. Then from the house came the crash of a shot and dust erupted just above the shooter. The man on the rim backed out and even as the Ysabel Kid dived forward to grab his own rifle the man passed over the rim out of sight.
“Want me to take after him, Dusty?” the Kid asked.
“Nope, he’ll be long gone before you can make the top of the slope. You couldn’t follow his sign over that rocky ground. Who was shooting?”
Roxie came from the cabin rubbing her shoulder. She’d heard the shots and used Dutchy’s rifle, a long barrelled, bolt action weapon which she brought out with her. The rifle kicked harder than the Winchester carbine she had grown used to and the pain shook her out of her grief filled tears.
The men came from under the wagon and Dusty looked at the Mexican who now hung sagging in the ropes. “That’s real good shooting,” he said, bending forward.
A faint, elusive smell came to Dusty’s nostrils and he leaned forward. The Mexican’s clothes appeared to give off that smell but he could not place it. He looked at the Kid, before he could speak Happy Day asked, “Was he lying?”
“What about?” Dusty turned his attention to Happy.
“It being Bronco Calhoun he ran with.”
Dusty shook his head. Although he came from the South he had heard some about the vicious old outlaw, Bronco Calhoun. The old killer was wolf smart and mostly ran with his six sons for a gang. If he took on extra help he used Northern men and yet the Mexican had claimed to be working with him.
“I don’t know. What do you reckon, Lon?”
“I wouldn’t believe one of his kind happen they told me Monday was a day afore Tuesday most times. But he was scared for some reason. He told the truth.”
Roxie came closer, the rifle under her arm. She looked up at the rim and shook her head. “I allow to be better than that.”
Dutchy looked at the girl, then at the rifle. “You used my Mauser?”
“Sure, sorry I did but my carbine’s in the wagon. This damned fool rifle shoots high. I’d got the sights set for five hundred yards and it shot high.”
“That was where you went wrong,” Dutchy explained. “The sights are set in metres. On close range it makes little difference but it would at five hundred.”
The girl handed the rifle to Dutchy and went towards the wagon. She glanced at Doc Leroy who was limping due to his high heel being shot off, then turned to Dusty. “Did he talk?”
“Some. Told us it was Bronco Calhoun who gave him his orders.”
Roxie’s hands clenched, quivering by her sides. Her voice was low and filled with concentrated, hate-filled venom. “The Calhouns did it. The greaser wasn’t but a tool they used. I’m going to kill any and every Calhoun I see. I don’t care how I do it, but I will.”
Dusty was watching the young Army scout. Happy Day’s face clouded over with something Dusty could not tie down, some fleeting expression which Happy could not control. There was hurt in his eyes and he opened his mouth to say something. Then as if thinking better of it he closed his mouth again.
“Let us handle things here for you, Miss Delue,” Dusty said. “Wait with the horses while we harness the wagon and load it for you.”
The journey back to town was made in silence, the men all occupied with their thoughts and the girl not wanting to speak. Beside her, on the box and handling the ribbons like a master sat Happy Day, his face still showing the bitter lines.
Roxie watched Happy Day as he handled the team. For the first time she was realising the enormity of the task ahead of her. She was only nineteen and left alone in the world to try and keep the freight wagons running. It was the only business she knew. She also knew her father’s men, reliable and old friends though they were, would never be happy without a man to lead them. Looking at Happy Day she wondered if he would stay on and help her. He was the sort of man she needed. He could handle a mule team and looked like a fighting man. He had been an Army scout which meant he knew Indians and other things a freighter needed to know.
Night was coming as they came into Quiet Town; the town was already loud and starting on the carouse which marked every night. No one took any notice as the wagon creaked along Grant Street and halted outside the jail. Rusty Willis came to the door, his face showing some slight trace of worry.
“Dusty,” he said. “Mark just heard that Bert Calhoun’s in Detard’s place on Lee. Allows he wants to kill a Marshal and ole Mark’s gone along. Left me here to watch the jail.”
Dusty glanced at the girl, then snapped, “Doc, take Miss Delue to the undertaker’s. Keep her out of it.”
Roxie opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. Much as she wanted her revenge on the hated men of the Calhoun clan she knew Dusty would brook no interference. She glanced at Happy Day, who was getting to his feet and swinging from the wagon box.
“You’d best go and help your pard, Cap’n Fog,” he warned as he swung down and went to his horse.
The Ysabel Kid laughed. “I figgered ole Mark’s big enough to take care of his self and he’s fair to middling with a gun.”
“That don’t come into it.” Happy’s voice sounded urgent. “Bert won’t be in there alone. Your pard’s going to be boxed in and cut down without a chance.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Happy Day’s Story
MARK COUNTER and Rusty Willis watched the others leave town then returned to the jailhouse. Mark picked up the scattered cards and returned them to their box and dropped it into the drawer.
“Ole Doc handles a mean deck of cards,” Mark commented.
“A feller called Joe Brambile taught him,” Rusty explained and darted a glance at the blond giant. “You’ve likely heard of him?”
“Some,” Mark admitted briefly for the man in question did not have a good reputation.*
“Doc allows that all you hear about Brambile’s not true,” Rusty said coldly. “Anyways, ole Doc wouldn’t use what he learned when he’s playing for money—unless the other ‘feller started it first.”
“Talking of starting,” Mark said. “Let’s me and you give it a whirl now and start making the rounds.”
The walk around town was uneventful until they reached the poorer class area. There they heard a disturbance in a house and went to investigate. A pimp was in the house, which was a small hotel in reality, and he was beating the girl who worked for him. Mark’s handling of the situation was simple but very effective. Catching the man’s arm Mark turned him, then hit him. The pimp went backwards, smashing into the window and going through, taking the sash and glass with him.
Mark dragged the unconscious pimp back to the jail by his feet. He was put in a cell and when, three hours later he recovered, was told he was being charged with disturbing the peace and damage to private property. He did not answer. His jaw was broken in two places.
The rest of the day was uneventful for a town like this. Mark and Rusty broke up a fight in a saloon, adding more prisoners to the unconscious man in the cells. There was a knife fight in a gambling house and Rusty showed that he too knew how to handle his fists, flattening one of the fighters while Mark dealt with the other.
So by the time evening came all was fairly peaceable in the town. A sense of trepidation came over the people, residents and visitors both. There were lawmen in town now, men who would back their play to the hilt. So, although t
he usual round of drinking, gambling and womanising started up at dark it was in a far quieter and less savage fashion than when Webber ran the law by sleeping in the jail.
Irish Pat came into the office, glancing at Mark and Rusty who sat playing cards before making a round of the town again.
“Where’s Cap’n Fog?”
“Out of town on a chore,” Mark replied. “What’s wrong?”
“Bert Calhoun’s down to Detard’s place, at the far end of Lee Street. Bronco’s oldest boy.”
“So?” Mark was watching the saloon keeper’s face.
“He says he wants to kill him a marshal.”
Mark lifted the Colt from his right hand holster, checking the percussion caps were seated correctly. He holstered the gun again and checked his left. “I surely hate to see a man disappointed.”
“What you going to do, Mark?” Rusty asked.
“Waal, killing a marshal’s real hard. I’m going to let him get some practice on a deputy first.”
“Want me along?”
“Not this time. He only wants to kill one of us. You stay here and watch the prisoners. If Dusty comes back tell him where I’ve gone. How’d you hear about it, Pat?”
“Word’s gone round the town.”
That did not surprise Mark who knew full well how news like that would get around. It would be passed from mouth to mouth, from bar to bar until everyone in Quiet Town knew a man was sending out a challenge. The town would be waiting to see if the gauntlet would be taken up and what would be the outcome.
There was nothing Mark could do but take up the challenge. Dusty was out of town and the sooner someone handled the challenger the sooner folks would know that law was here in Quiet Town. A lawman in a raw, wide open town could not let any challenge go unanswered. Not if he was to keep his self respect and the respect of the people in town.
Mark took up his hat and went to the door. “Stay on here, Rusty. Don’t come after me. I’ll handle this alone.”
Rusty did not like the idea, he knew little of Mark’s true capabilities with a gun. He had not seen Mark draw and wondered just how fast his tall friend was. However Rusty knew the meaning of discipline and obedience to orders. He knew why Mark was going and why Mark needed to go alone.
