by Edson, J. T.
Tall, lean, grey haired, in his late forties at least, the one who the hired gunslingers felt sure had addressed them wore the attire of a Texas cowhand and had a deeply tanned face which looked as mean as that of an Indian brave riding a war trail. He stepped forward with a slouching stride, but kept his hands clear of the Remington Model of 1875 Army revolver on the left and bowie knife at the right side of his gunbelt.
While the dark visaged man might have passed unnoticed, especially in their present surroundings, his companion would have stood out almost anywhere in Texas!
Short in stature, yet sturdily built, the second intruder was considerably younger than his companion. What was more, he most definitely was not a native born Texan. Good looking by Occidental standards, his clean shaven face had Oriental lines, skin pigmentation and the so-called ‘slant’ eyes which had given the Chinese their derogatory sobriquet. Being bareheaded, having removed a black J.B. Stetson hat styled after the fashion of the Lone Star State and slicker on entering the bar-room, established that he kept his black hair closely cropped instead of having it form the ‘pigtail’ usually associated with such features. Furthermore, no member of the Chinese race seen by Skull and Dip had been clad as he was. Nor, as a general rule when outside their own communities in large cities such as San Francisco, did they carry weapons in plain sight. In addition to wearing a black shirt of Western style, with matching Eastern style riding breeches and boots, he had two strange looking swords—one considerably longer than the other—in sheaths thrust through the left side of the red silk sash about his waist.
‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’ Skull demanded, his voice becoming charged with menace as he allowed the bottle from which he had poured the liquid to slip out of his fingers.
‘Plenty,’ the Indian dark Texan claimed and gestured briefly with his left hand towards the little Oriental at his side as they continued to advance. ‘When I got word’s how you was holding this gent here ’gainst his will and told Miz Freddie, she straight off said, ‘Well now, Kiowa, that’s not rightful’ right. So you and Danny best just go along ‘n’ fetch him back.’
Wondering where he had heard the first name mentioned before and in what context, the bald man made no attempt to satisfy his curiosity. Instead, silently cursing the impulse which had led him and Dip to come to see their captive while the third member of the abduction party was visiting the backhouse, he elected to take action.
‘Get ‘em!’ Dip spat out, dropping his right hand towards his low hanging Colt and proving that—while nobody was likely to consider either of them great—the minds of himself and his companion were in complete accord over the way to deal with the intruders.
Already contemplating such a solution to the intervention, Skull was duplicating the action of his companion. Both were giving their attention to the Texan, feeling sure he posed by far the greater threat. No Chinaman they had ever met had shown any skill in handling weapons, or even displayed the spirit to fight back if abused by them. What was more, even if this one should prove the exception, they did not consider he could provide any danger with his—to their mind primitive—weapons carried in such a fashion.
The pair soon discovered their summations were wrong!
Neither was given an opportunity to think about, much less try to correct, their erroneous conclusions!
While Oriental in racial origins, Danny Okasi was not Chinese. xxxvii Nor did he possess the meek and mild disposition of the average member of that race to be found in the United States. Born in the Japanese seaport of Kanazawa, he had come to Texas to continue repaying an obligation to the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan which a now dead uncle had incurred. xxxviii Nevertheless, although he had arrived in Bonham County acting as the driver of Mrs. Freddie Fog’s coach, he was far from being a mere servant. From his childhood, despite their special rights having been abolished as a result of edicts issued by the Emperor between 1873 and ’76, he had received and become adept at all the training required to qualify him as a samurai warrior. Having acquired proficiency in handling all their traditional weapons and at performing their special bare handed fighting techniques of ju-jitsu and karate, he was extremely competent in the use of the daisho of swords—comprised of a katana with a blade thirty inches long and a wakizashi approximately half its length—with which he was armed at that moment. xxxix
Springing forward, the little samurai sent his right hand flashing across his body. Although he selected the longer sword, despite what appeared to be a cumbersome way of carrying them to Occidental eyes, such was his mastery of the technique known as laijitsu that the slightly curved blade slid free of its sheath with a blurring speed. With the possible exception of an Ancient Roman legionary’s ability to pull out his gladius, it was a feat unequalled by the swordsmen of the Western Hemisphere. Yelling a single word in his native tongue, with his left hand joining its mate on the hilt, he struck at the man to his right in a continuation of the motion which set the katana free.
Before Skull’s revolver cleared leather, with the shining steel glinting in the light of the lantern suspended from the ceiling, the apparently less sophisticated weapon reached its target. Possessing a razor sharp cutting edge, the power with which it was swung caused it to bite in and pass almost all the way through his right arm above the elbow. As the blade was withdrawn, a screech of pain burst from him. Spinning around with gouts of blood spurting through the terrible gash, he fell against the wall and his Colt still remained in the holster.
Effectively as Danny had dealt with the bald man, it seemed he had made a serious error in judgment. His advance had carried him between Kiowa Cotton and the two gunslingers. By doing so, he was preventing his companion from being able to aim at Dip with the Remington which was brought out of its holster—although not as swiftly as his sword had appeared—with commendable promptitude.
However, the samurai proved more than adequate in coping with his apparent mistake. Still continuing to display the remarkable rapidity which had characterized all his movements since commencing the attack, rotating his hands so their knuckles were downwards, he twisted his body and reversed the direction of the weapon. Already stained by the blood of his previous victim, the blade blurred around in an upwards arc. Passing above Dip’s shoulder an instant after his Colt emerged from its holster, the hammer being thumbed back and his forefinger entering the trigger guard, the blow was directed with the intention of preventing him being able to complete the movement by opening fire.
Nor was the attempt in vain!
Not only did the force with which the gunslinger was struck knock him sideways, it produced an even more devastating effect. The blade pierced the skin of his neck and kept moving like a hot knife sinking into butter. More by luck than deliberate aim, although Danny was aware that such a thing was possible, it made contact with the cervical vertebrae at the point where two of the segments joined. Aided by the extremely sharp cutting edge, the blow was able to part them with greater ease than if striking a solid piece of bone.
Killed almost as instantly as would have been the case had a bullet passed through his brain, the second of Smith’s captors was sent reeling involuntarily across the room. Nor had the attack been delivered a moment too soon. In fact, so narrow was the margin, the bullet which left his gun missed the samurai by no more than a couple of inches before flying harmlessly into the wall. Going down, his lifeless body gave a succession of spasmodic jerks much like those made by a chicken after being beheaded. In fact, so effective was a katana in competent hands, he had come close to duplicating such a fate.
Running footsteps sounded in the hall and the third of the kidnappers appeared in the doorway. He had come into the building from the backhouse through the side entrance just in time to see two men with whom he was not acquainted entering the room. Although he was not aware of their purpose, he had been disinclined to take chances. Bringing out and cocking his Colt, he had hurried to investigate.
Despite the man holding his revo
lver ready for immediate use, and the fact that he had heard enough while approaching to indicate it might be required, the sight which met his gaze caused him to pause instead of taking any kind of hostile action. The delay proved fatal for him. Even as his horrified gaze went from Skull to where Dip sprawled, head tilted at a far from natural angle, and blood flowing like a fountain from the severed veins and arteries of the neck, he was prevented from doing so. Swiveling around, the Indian dark Texan brought his Remington into alignment at waist level. Squeezing off a shot, he sent a .44 caliber bullet between the newcomer’s eyes. Prevented from using his weapon and rendered a corpse as effectively as Dip had been, the last of the trio pitched backwards into the passage from which he had come.
‘You all right in there, Kiowa?’ yelled a young sounding Texan voice from the bar-room.
‘Fit’s frog’s hair,’ the Indian dark man answered, knowing the speaker to be one of the Blaze twins. The appearance they had conveyed on arrival at the hotel of being somewhat drunk had been a pose to avoid arousing suspicion. Once it was established which of the men present were guarding Smith, they had drawn their revolvers and covered the other occupants of the room while he and Danny came to effect the rescue. ‘How’s about you!’
‘We’ve told these gents who we are and what we’re doing,’ reported the twin acting as spokesman. ‘They all conclude it’s between us and those jaspers you followed.’
‘That’s mighty obliging of them,’ Kiowa declared, having no doubt the passive response was in part due to the potency of the OD Connected ranch’s reputation for the toughness of its crew. Holstering the Remington while speaking, he stepped forward and made a quick examination of Smith’s motionless body. ‘One of you go fire off a couple of shots outside, just in case the boys from the Union Jack haven’t heard us and’ll need to be let know it’s time to fetch up the buckboard. We’ll need it. He’s alive, but he surely isn’t going to be able to ride a hoss.’
~*~
‘Where am I?’ Waxahachie Smith asked, thrusting himself into a sitting position and looking at the man and woman who had come into a room which was a vast improvement— like the bed beneath him—upon the one where he remembered having been held a prisoner. Then, attracted by a throbbing ache which each was giving, he stared at his hands. The bandages which covered them were now clean, but once again he realized there was something wrong with their shape. However, he still was not sufficiently over the effects of the drugged liquid which had been inflicted upon him to know what it was. Lifting them so they could be seen by the couple, he went on, ‘What’s happened to me?’
The sergeant had regained consciousness some time ago, at least two days unless he was mistaken, but his assailants had not arrived to sedate him. Despite their absence, when he was not sleeping, he had been in an unresponsive stupor. It had rendered him incapable of knowing more than that, although Juanita had come to feed him with the kind of nourishing stew he had received during his previous period of convalescence, he was not in the bedroom he had occupied at the Rancho Mariposa. Neither the fact that she was clad in somber black nor her massive features being marked by signs of grief had any significance for him. He was even too befuddled to wonder why Ransome Cordoba or her father had not come to visit him.
However, on waking up a few minutes earlier, Smith had felt considerably improved. With his brain starting to function again, he had decided to find the answers to the questions which came flooding into it. His call for the massive woman had ‘been answered by the white couple he recognized as being Mrs. Freddie Fog and Sir John Besgrove. While asking the question, he noticed they were wearing somber black attire.
‘At the Union Jack,’ the Englishman replied.
‘Then how—what ?’ Smith commenced, struggling
to decide which piece of information was of the greater importance.
‘Take it easy,’ Freddie advised gently, still retaining her British upper class accent despite the number of years she had spent in the United States. ‘How much do you remember?’
‘Not much, clearly,’ the sergeant admitted and his gaze went to his bandaged hands. ‘Have I had an accident?’
‘No,’ the Englishwoman replied, after glancing at her cousin. She realized that she must be experiencing emotions similar to those of her husband when, shortly after the War Between the States, he had to tell the then leader of the clan, General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin that the injury he had sustained as a result of being thrown from a horse would leave him a cripple for life. xl While Smith was not that badly off, his loss could prove a serious impediment should he wish—which she suspected would be the case—to remain a peace officer. ‘It wasn’t an accident!’
‘Then what in God’s name ?’ the sergeant began, a realization of why his hands looked so different beginning to make itself felt.
‘Yes,’ Freddie said, as Smith swung his gaze to her with an expression of seeking confirmation that his eyes were not playing tricks. ‘You’ve lost both forefingers!’
‘Lost?’ Smith gasped, raising and staring at the misshapen bandaged hands. ‘How—Why ?’
‘They found out who you really are somehow,’ the Englishwoman explained. Despite Skull having sustained a wound which would leave him unable to use his right arm, due to having received prompt attention from Danny Okasi —whose education as a samurai had covered such matters —he had come through the attack alive. He had told them on being brought to the Union Jack ranch house by the rescue party the reason for the mutilation of Smith’s hands, but he had not known that Talbot Ottoway was responsible for the betrayal. ‘It seems they didn’t want to chance killing a Texas Ranger, so Doctor Grantz cut the fingers off to prevent you from carrying out the assignment which brought you to Bonham County.’
‘He cut them off?’ the sergeant croaked, unable to turn his eyes from the white lumps at the ends of his arms.
‘Perhaps we’d better get Juanita in to give you one of her sedatives?’ Freddie suggested, seeing how distressed the injured man was becoming and having formed a healthy respect for the capability of the massive woman from the Rancho Mariposa where medical matters were concerned.
‘No, ma’am!’ Smith refused, weakly yet emphatically. ‘I want to know all about it.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t know it all,’ the Englishwoman replied, sitting on the chair which her cousin had brought for her. ‘But, as far as we’ve been able to find out, Teodoro Fuentes is behind the cattle stealing. It’s Sheriff Tobin’s belief that he had his uncle murdered so he could take over the Rancho Miraflores and to divert suspicion, had Grantz make it appear his story of having been wounded was genuine.’
‘Has the sheriff got them?’
‘No. Javier Fuentes must have arrived and told them what he’d done before John could notify the sheriff and, realizing how everybody else in the county and throughout much of Texas would react when the news got out, they fled across the border to escape arrest.’
‘What was it he’d done?’ Smith demanded, deducing that something very bad had happened.
‘Ambushed the Cordobas as they were going home from church last Sunday,’ Freddie replied and she was unable to keep a timbre of deep bitterness out of her voice. ‘Ransome, her father and five of their hands, including their segundo, were killed.’
‘Killed!’ the sergeant repeated, visualizing the girl as he remembered her in vibrant life. ‘God damn it to hell, why didn’t Tobin go after the stinking son-of-a-bitch?’
‘Across the Rio Grande?’ the Englishwoman said quietly. ‘No matter what young Fuentes had done, the Mexican authorities wouldn’t have allowed him to be arrested and brought out of the country of his birth.’
‘Why ask if he could be?’ Smith snarled. ‘Or bother about trying to arrest him, comes to that!’
‘You know the answer without me needing to tell you,’ Freddie pointed out, but her manner was still gentle. ‘And don’t think what you said wasn’t considered. In fact, it was all John and I c
ould do to make ourselves prevent an attempt to do it being made.’
‘ You stopped it?’ the sergeant hissed, his face darkening with anger.
‘We did,’ the Englishwoman confirmed, showing neither remorse nor embarrassment over the indignant—close to hostile—response her declaration had elicited. ‘No matter how justified going after him would be, certain anti-American elements down there would choose to consider it was a lynch mob taking the life of a Mexican citizen; or more than one, if his brother decided to help him resist, as would have been sure to happen. And that could have a most detrimental effect upon the relationship between our two countries.’
‘So he’s going to get away with it?’ Smith suggested bitterly, despite knowing every word he had heard was true.
‘Not necessarily,’ Freddie answered. ‘While a person cannot be extradited from the country of his birth, the Mexican authorities might be persuaded to return him when they learn how serious a crime he committed. But such a decision can only be handled at a very high level and any attempt to take revenge outside the law would ruin all chance of it happening.’
‘Knowing the way things move at a “very high level”,’ the sergeant said, with the cynicism born of past experience. ‘It’s likely to be a fair spell afore any decision’s reached.’
‘That’s true,’ the Englishwoman conceded. ‘But having things handled in such a fashion is preferable to doing it any other way.’ Wanting to change the subject, she went on, ‘Anyway, as there’s nothing anybody can do about young Fuentes until things are resolved legally, you had better start thinking about your future.’