by Edson, J. T.
Startled exclamations burst from the hard-cases. Jerking his hand away from the Colt, as if it had suddenly become white hot, Coltrane joined the others in looking upwards. All any of them needed was a single glance to realize the warning was valid and could be carried out. Held by a bare headed stranger whose tanned face showed marks of fading bruises, the Winchester Model of 1876 rifle was rock steady and handled with the familiarity which came only from competence in its use.
~*~
Having been looking out of the net drapes of the glass paneled doors leading to a balcony, in the hope of seeing something which might jog his memory into responding, the Texan had watched the riders approaching. Although he was unable to understand why, something in their demeanor had suggested they were not coming for any well disposed purpose. What was more, instincts he had already learned to act upon—if not entirely trust, after the way he had greeted the girl a short while earlier—supplied the information he needed to decide how to respond. Although he had loaded the Colt, he had not offered to collect it from the top of the chest of drawers.
Having remembered what the girl had told him about the rest of his property, the man had been taking the Winchester from the wardrobe when the recollection of his discovery with regards to the condition of the revolver caused him to check its state of readiness. Finding it was unloaded, he had started to open the war bag before realizing what he was doing. The impulse had proven correct. Taking sufficient cartridges from the appropriate box which was therein, he charged the magazine tube through the slot in the side of the frame. With the precaution taken, he crossed the room and reached the edge of the balcony unnoticed by the newcomers until he addressed them.
‘Who the “something” hell might you be?’ Coltrane demanded belligerently, recovering quickly from his initial shock and gaining courage from appreciating numbers still favored his party.
‘I’m a man who doesn’t take kind to talk like that where a lady can hear it,’ the Texan replied, having guessed from the bow given by the fancily dressed young Mexican that the black haired girl was with her father. Such was the deeply rooted repugnance he had acquired in his unremembered past for hearing foul language spoken in the presence of the fair sex, regardless of age and status, he continued, ‘So, was I you, I’d clean up my language with Miss Cordoba being down there.’
‘Be that so?’ the spokesman for the white hard-cases growled, conscious of his reputation of being “wild, woolly, full of fleas and never curried below the knees.” Poking his left thumb against his chest for added emphasis, he went on, ‘I’m Asa Coltrane and I’ll “something-well” talk how the “something” I feel like doing, no matter who’s listening. Which no god damned saddle tramp’s going to tell me I can’t. So you bill out of things that’s none of your “mother-something” never-mind.’
‘These folks’ve been good to me and I’m making it my never-mind, all the way from here to there and back the long way,’ the Texan claimed. Although he did not raise his voice, the threat of retribution was plain in it. ‘So, being quick-sick of your foul mouthing, I’m saying I reckon it’s time you was headed back where you come from, ready to start giving it all that protection your boss reckons’ll be needed.’
‘Who the hell are you to be telling us to leave?’ Fuentes demanded in English, his voice grating savagely.
‘The “yes” or “no” to who-all goes or stays’s in the hands of Senor Cordoba where the rest of you’re concerned,’ the man on the balcony replied, without allowing the Winchester to sag from its alignment. ‘But, while he’s making up his mind on it for you and the rest of your bunch, seeing’s how Coltrane’s put it down ‘twixt me and him personal, you’d best tell him to clean out his mouth, or turn and get the hell gone beyond hearing distance.’ Then, proving he had not allowed his attention to be distracted, he growled, ‘That hand’d better come out pronto and empty, foul mouth!’
Believing the intervention by Fuentes had diverted the Texan’s gaze from him, Coltrane had moved his right hand in what might have passed as a gesture intended to scratch at his ribs beneath the left side of his grubby calfskin vest. However, deducing to whom the final sentence was meant, he glanced up and found the muzzle of the rifle was pointing his way in spite of its holder having started to speak to somebody else. Doing as he was advised, if so mild a term could be applied to what was obviously a command charged with menace, he brought his hand into sight with exaggerated care.
‘I’ll wait for you back there a piece, Javier,’ the hard-case claimed.
Tugging on the reins less than gently, Coltrane guided his horse around in its own length. However, the moment his back was turned to the building, he slid the hand beneath the vest once more and closed it around the butt of the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker he carried concealed in an open fronted spring-retention shoulder holster. Twisting the weapon free, he rotated his torso and started to bring it up. His hope of taking the Texan by surprise proved totally invalid. Flame erupted from the muzzle of the Winchester on the balcony. He screeched as a .45 bullet tore through the brim of his hat and gouged a bloody furrow across the side of his head just above his left ear. Stunned instead of having received a far more serious injury, with the revolver slipping unheeded from his fingers, he toppled limply sideways from the saddle.
Although the rest of the hard-cases had expected something of the sort from Coltrane, events moved far too swiftly for them to capitalize upon his actions!
‘The next’s for you, boss man!’ warned the Texan, making the lever of his rifle blur up and down the instant he fired and replenishing the chamber.
‘If the gentleman up there doesn’t send it into you, I will, Mister Fuentes!’ Ransome stated, having collected the carbine from the rack by the front door on seeing who was approaching and brought it to her shoulder as soon as the shot sounded from over her head.
‘This isn’t just a walking cane!’ Cordoba supported, as his daughter was speaking, lifting and pointing his disguised firearm at Fuentes. ‘It’s a most effective gun!’
Having seen similar devices and feeling sure the rancher was not bluffing, the young Mexican realized that all three weapons were aimed directly at him. Nor did the thought that none of his men were covered offer him any solace. He was aware that, if any of them was successful in making a hostile gesture, he was highly unlikely to see its result. Even if they had been prepared for the intervention from above, they were unlikely to be so concerted in their action that they would be able to prevent at least one shot being fired at him. While the cane-gun might miss, he doubted whether the carbine would and felt sure the rifle held by that grim-looking Tejano on the balcony would not. For the first time in his life, he was in mortal peril and he discovered the prospect of danger was not to his liking.
‘Don’t move, any of you!’ Fuentes ordered, his voice shrill with the anxiety caused by appreciating just how precarious a situation he was facing, but he had no need to speak.
Appreciating the danger, none of the five surviving hard-cases attempted to complete the drawing of the guns for which each had reached. Not only did they believe either the girl or the man on the balcony would select them and not their leader as a target should they continue, but they saw a massive woman of mixed blood appear in the open doorway from which the girl had emerged. She was holding a double barreled shotgun in a way which warned she knew how to use it and at that range it would prove even more deadly than the two Winchesters.
Glancing each side to make sure his words had been obeyed, the young Mexican returned his gaze to the rancher. He was seething with fury at the failure of the plan for revenge he had been assured by Coltrane would work as they had watched every fighting man of Rancho Mariposa depart and have time to be well clear of the area before leaving their hiding place nearby. Nor were his feelings improved by realizing he would be compelled to report his failure to his brother even if the hard-case was only wounded.
‘Look to your man!’ Cordoba instructed. ‘Then, as we h
ave nothing further to say and you probably have things of importance to do elsewhere, don’t let us detain you any longer. And I would be obliged if you would refrain from coming here again. Much as it pains me to say so a second time to one who is related to a man I was proud to call friend, you are unwelcome on Rancho Mariposa. Do not come back.’
Chapter Five – My Name Is Smith!
‘You have my gratitude for helping, my friend,’ Don Jose Fernando de Armijo y Cordoba stated, as he and his daughter entered the room allocated to the man she had brought home injured.
‘I’m right pleased I could help out, sir,’ the Texan replied, placing a tray holding used crockery on the floor of the balcony and stepping through the open glass paneled doors. ‘Like I said, you folks’ve treated me real good and I figured something had to be done about those yahoos. Which I reckoned I was pretty well placed to do it.’
Almost half an hour had passed since the hard-cases with Javier Fuentes had ascertained Asa Coltrane was suffering from nothing worse than a scalp wound which rendered him unconscious. Presented with a strip of white cloth by Juanita, who refused to employ her well known medical skills by giving further assistance, one of them had used it as a bandage. While the first aid was being carried out, much to their relief, their leader had not responded verbally to the curt dismissal he had received from the owner of Rancho Mariposa. Instead, he had spent the time glowering silently from the Cordobas to the Texan—who had continued to line the Winchester Model of 1876 rifle downwards from the balcony—and back. With Coltrane made ready for departure, Fuentes had given the order to ride and led the rest towards the gate still without addressing any comment to the cause of his discomfiture.
Having kept the men from Rancho Miraflores under observation as long as they were in sight, the rancher had taken the precaution of sending one of the youngsters who were in the vicinity of the house to fetch back Tom Halcón Gris Grey and some of the hands. Then he and his daughter had gone upstairs to thank their guest for coming so competently to their assistance. They had found him sitting on the balcony, his rifle close at hand. However, although he too had clearly been keeping watch, he had finished the meal which Juanita had fetched for him.
‘If you are too tired to talk just now—?’ Cordoba hinted.
‘Shucks, no,’ the Texan answered. ‘Happen you’ve a mind, sit down and we’ll visit for a spell.’
‘That was quite a shot, creasing Coltrane the way you did,’ Ransome Cordoba praised, having said she would prefer to remain standing, and waiting until her father had transferred the rest of the young man’s clothing from the chair to the bed and sat down. ‘Most fellers would have killed him.’
‘Could be likely he’s lucky I didn’t,’ the Texan declared. ‘I was figuring on stopping him, no matter how it was done. But I can’t say’s how I’m sorry things turned out the way they did, it’s no easy thing to take a life.’
‘Have you killed many men?’ the girl inquired, but from a—to her—puzzling need to know more about this man she had rescued and not out of idle or morbid curiosity.
‘That’s not a question you should ask, Ransome!’ the rancher asserted, his manner stern and showing he disapproved of such a breach of range country etiquette as the question had been. ‘You must excuse my daught—’
‘No harm’s done, nor offense taken, sir,’ the Texan replied. Then he turned his gaze to the girl and his face was troubled as he went on, ‘I reckon I could have killed a man, or even more than just the one. Hell, you’d think a feller would remember a thing like that, wouldn’t you? But it’s like everything else, I can’t bring to mind whether I have or not.’
‘Going by what I have heard of him, you would have had no cause for regret if you had killed Coltrane,’ Cordoba said reassuringly, having noticed the note of tension and concern which came into the younger man’s voice and sympathizing with how he must feel about the continued refusal of any recollection of his identity or past life to break through. ‘He is a killer, hired for that and nothing else.’
‘It seems I’ve heard of such,’ the Texan admitted. Then a look of frustration close to anger came to his face and, clenching his hands into hard fists, he went on heatedly, ‘God damn it, seeing’s how I know how to do things like handling a gun, why can’t I remember who I am?’
‘My daughter told me you had such a problem,’ the rancher admitted. ‘While I don’t wish you to think I am interfering in your private affairs, haven’t you anything in your war bag which might tell you who you are?’
‘Not a single thing,’ the Texan replied, after having crossed to the wardrobe and carried out a closer examination of the warbag’s contents than had been possible when seeking ammunition for his rifle. ‘You’d reckon a man’d have something with his name on it.’
‘You had on a money belt and a wallet in your pocket,’ Cordoba remarked, giving his injured thigh a slap expressive of annoyance at having been so remiss in failing to mention the matter earlier. ‘It was not that we were prying when we found them. Your jacket was in need of repairs and the wallet was soaking. The belt had to be removed so Juanita could attend to your injuries. I took the liberty of locking them in my safe until you recovered, without looking in either.’
‘That was real good of you, sir,’ the Texan declared, remembering the girl had claimed neither he nor his property had been searched and, despite the removal of two items which could have solved the mystery of his identity, feeling sure she had spoken the truth.
‘Perhaps they have something in them to tell us who you are,’ Ransome suggested, intrigued by the visitor and hoping to be able to satisfy her curiosity in a way which would not arouse his resentment.
‘I surely hope so, ma’am!’ the Texan asserted miserably.
‘Because it riles the hell out of me not to know … Happen you’ll excuse my language.’
‘Your interest is understandable,’ Cordoba admitted, his manner soothing and waving a hand to indicate he took no offense at the use of the word ‘hell’ in the presence of his daughter. ‘I have seen such a loss of memory happen before when somebody was thrown from a horse and received injuries like those you suffered. It seems part of the mind still responds to various things which were often done, even though unable to remember personal matters.’
‘Did those other jaspers ever get back to knowing who they were?’ the Texan asked in a worried tone, the comment about the response of the mind reviving the misgivings he had formulated over his obvious skill with weapons.
‘Everyone I have known did,’ the rancher stated, but refrained from mentioning the number was few. ‘Either it came back to them without help, or something was said or done which caused them to remember.’
‘Perhaps if you heard your name it would help,’ Ran-some offered. ‘I know there are so many, but we could try some and see if any is familiar.’
‘I’m game to try anything!’ the Texan declared.
‘You don’t look like a “Marmaduke”, a “Wilberforce”, or an “Algernon”,’ the girl stated, selecting three Anglo Christian names which had always struck her as slightly ludicrous in an attempt to bring a lighter note to the conversation.
The ploy succeeded!
‘Happen I’m any of them, ma’am,’ the young man drawled. ‘I reckon I’d sooner I didn’t know.’
‘It will help if you’re called something like “Hazeltine”, “Higginsbottom” or even “Ramsbottom” although I’m sure you wouldn’t want that for a name,’ Ransome continued, looking coy and seeking to relieve the tension further by picking the most unusual English surnames she had heard Sir John Besgrove mention. Having received a nod of approval which told her that her motives were understood by her father, she continued, ‘But if you should happen to be a “Smith” … What is it?’
The question was provoked by the response to the last, most commonplace, name suggested by the girl!
On hearing it, the relaxed and amused expression left the young man’s face and he sat up stiff
ly!
‘Well I’ll be damned if it didn’t work!’ the Texan ejaculated. ‘My name is Smith!’
Prompted by hearing the word, ‘Smith’, the Texan remembered who he was and what had brought him to Bonham County!
While relieved to discover he had a justifiable reason for having developed such competence in handling firearms, the young man also realized he must keep most of the information which flooded back to himself!
Despite the kindness and consideration he had received since recovering consciousness in Rancho Mariposa, the Texan was aware that—the gratitude he felt and the liking he had formed for the Cordobas notwithstanding—they might find themselves with greatly opposing interests in the task which he had been sent to carry out!
The events which were to drastically change the life of Sergeant Waxahachie Smith of the Texas Rangers had commenced when Captain Frank Thornton called him back early from his furlough and gave him the order which had caused him to be on his way to the border town of Flamingo. Every instinct as a lawman possessed by Smith had suggested the chore ahead would not be easy. For an experienced lawman, particularly one whose well deserved reputation for tough competence had resulted in his recent appointment as the senior peace officer of a large county, to have taken such a roundabout way when requesting assistance as was his right under the legislature of Texas gave strength to the supposition. Instead of coming direct, the message from Sheriff Daniel Tobin which was responsible for his premature return to the headquarters of Company ‘D’ had arrived via the office of Cyrus Holmes, a member of the State Attorney General’s legal staff in Austin.
The suggestion from Holmes, which amounted to an order, was for the Rangers to help Tobin look into a spate of cattle stealing affecting not only the ranchers throughout Bonham County but also threatening the well being of the community which was its seat. According to the information supplied by Holmes, whoever they might be, the cow thieves were not playing favorites. They were hitting each of the four spreads, all of whom had had men killed during raids, with complete impartiality. However, if the sheriff had any suspicions about who was responsible for the situation—or even the possible identity of the cow thieves— there had been no mention of him having put either into writing.
