by Edson, J. T.
‘Now me,’ Smith answered. ‘I’m just a half-smart lil ole boy from Texas and, somehow I just can’t see things their way.’
‘My friend warns me that Congress will institute legal proceedings of the most serious nature against anybody who goes after the Fuentes,’ Freddie asserted, her manner grave.
‘They’d have to catch the feller’s did it first,’ the sergeant countered. Then his right hand dropped to feel at the butt of the Colt in its unfamiliar position. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Miz Freddie, ma’am, I’ve got to make a start at learning how to use this fancy new rig. Could be I’ll be needing to know one of these days.’
~*~
The crack of a revolver shot rang out from behind Waxahachie Smith!
Swinging around swiftly, the sergeant started his right hand to move!
In the wrong direction!
As had happened so many times over the past four days whenever he was given some signal to draw his gun, no matter how unexpectedly, Smith had responded with his usual speed. Unfortunately, unless he forced himself to consciously remember the difference in the way he was now carrying the weapon—which he had not on this occasion— his reflexes, honed to a fine edge by many years of habit, instinctively sent his hand down to where the Colt used to be hanging.
‘Damn it to hell, Kiowa!’ the sergeant said in exasperation, as his fingers found only the material of the yellowish-brown nankeen trousers he was wearing. ‘It’s always the same unless I think what I’m doing and that slows me down to where I might’s well not bother making a draw.’
‘Huh huh!’ the Indian dark cowhand grunted.
‘What I need is something to make me remember I’ve made the change all the time,’ Smith assessed. ‘But I’ll be damned if I can figure out what it’s to be.’
‘I’ve allus found the quickest way to get a hoss or a hound dawg to change his ways is to use a quirt on him every time he forgot,’ Kiowa commented. ‘After he’s felt the sting of it a few times, he soon enough comes ’round to doing what’s wanted.’
‘Hell, yes!’ the sergeant ejaculated. ‘And that’s what I want you to do with me.’
‘ What?’ the cowhand spat out, coming as close as he ever had to showing surprise.
‘Keep close enough behind me on the left side,’ the sergeant explained, as calmly as if he was doing no more than pass a few seconds in idle chatter. ‘And every time I start reaching down instead of doing a cavalry-twist draw, lay a quirt across my shoulders so I feel it.’
So began a period which Waxahachie Smith would remember for the rest of his life!
Nor would the means adopted ever be forgotten by anybody else who saw it!
No matter where the sergeant might be, as long as he was wearing his new rig, he never knew when somebody would either shout or give another signal for him to make his draw.
Nevertheless, the moment it happened, his right hand was supposed to turn palm out and, coiling the thumb over the low spur of the hammer, cause the single action mechanism to be cocked of its own volition as the Colt was twisted from level and turned forward. However, should be revert to his old system of reaching downwards, Kiowa instantly lashed him across the shoulders with a quirt and, at his insistence, the blows were not delivered lightly.
‘God damn it, Kiowa!’ the younger of the Blaze twins said on the fifth day of the mental conditioning, watching the ranch’s cook use powdered witch hazel leaves to staunch the blood flowing out of the weals which resulted from slashes with the quirt. ‘Why doesn’t Wax either quit, or leave off until his hurts’ve healed up?’
‘He’s a driven man, Charlie boy,’ the grim visaged cowhand replied. ‘And he knows that, happen he’s going to be able to do what he’s driven to do, he’s got to change his ways until he acts right without needing to think what he’s doing first.’
Drastic though the treatment was, producing scars which Smith would carry to his grave, it eventually proved effective and in less time than the same result could have been achieved by any other means. With each succeeding day, the number of times he needed the painful reminder grew less. Stimulated by suffering, his reflexes gradually and, at last, permanently became attuned to the new responses required from them.
‘Well,’ Kiowa said, after the sixth day of continuous practice without needing the punishment for instinctively making a wrong move. ‘I’d say you’re as ready as you’ll ever be.’
‘I was figuring along those lines myself,’ Smith admitted.
‘You know what you can expect from Congress if you succeed?’ Freddie queried, having come to join the men on seeing them approaching the house.
‘Yes’m,’ the sergeant answered, thinking of a letter he had received from Captain Thornton warning him of the possible consequences should he take revenge upon the Fuentes brothers. ‘But I’m going after them regardless.’
‘Very well,’ the beautiful woman accepted. ‘Dusty will be back by the end of the week and we’ll do everything we can to help you when you return.’
Chapter Fifteen – Look At His Back!
Leaving the stall of the blaze-faced dun gelding, having finished attending to its needs and those of the roan in the next enclosure, Waxahachie Smith was convinced that nobody he had met in Flamingo, or most other places for that matter, would recognize him!
Six weeks had elapsed since Smith left the OD Connected ranch on his mission to avenge the cold blooded murder of three people to whom he owed a debt of gratitude!
During that period, the seeker after vengeance had brought about sufficient changes to his appearance to feel certain his true identity would not be discovered!
Knowing what he was doing was illegal and that certain ‘liberal’ factions in the United States would demand that retribution was carried out should he succeed, Smith had had no intention of allowing his actions to be used by them to besmirch the Texas Rangers as their kind always tried to do with every law enforcement agency. Therefore, prior to setting out, he had sent a letter of resignation which— knowing the circumstances, deducing what had provoked the decision and approving of the motives—Captain Frank Thornton had accepted. With the aid of Mrs. Freddie Fog and her husband, who had returned before Smith set out and confirmed her promise of support, news of what had been done was circulated to newspapers all through Texas. The reason they had given for the resignation was that injuries he had sustained, in an unspecified accident, prevented him from being able to continue his duties because he was now unable to handle firearms. Although they had realized doing so could serve as a reminder of the nature of his disablement to the men he was seeking, they were hoping it would also induce a sense of false security where the possibility of him seeking revenge was concerned.
Aware of the danger of legal retribution, Smith had refused an offer of assistance from the Blaze twins and Kiowa Cotton even though they had stated willingness to go along regardless of the possible consequences. He had lessened their disappointment by pointing out there was more chance of four men being recognized than one, but refrained from adding that somebody might inadvertently say something which caused the same result. Having engaged in tasks requiring the adoption of a false identity on more than one occasion when younger, Dusty Fog had later stated concurrence with the latter reason. xlix
Needing to discover the whereabouts of his quarry, Smith had gone to Bonham County in the hope that he would find a most useful ally!
The hope had been fulfilled!
Pointing out that there was nothing to prove the Fuentes brothers had been compelled to take flight by some other motive than a desire to avoid the consequences of Javier’s actions, Daniel Tobin had persuaded his superiors to let him remain at Flamingo in the capacity of county sheriff and continue to look for the men he had been sent to locate. Still believing he was at least partly responsible for the mutilation of Smith’s hands and also desirous of seeing justice done—even though it would not be of the strictly legal kind invoked by a judge and jury—he had shown no hesitation befor
e proving he was willing to keep his promise to give every assistance he and his organization could supply.
Going directly to the Union Jack ranch’s house, so as to try to keep his return to Bonham County a secret. Smith had word of his arrival sent to Tobin by one of Sir John Besgrove’s most trusted men!
According to Tobin, when he had arrived to discuss the situation, he was justified in what he had told his superiors. He had carried out a very thorough examination of the Spanish colonial style mansion which served as headquarters for the Rancho Miraflores, finding nothing to help him prove the suspicions he harbored about its departed owners. Deputized by him, Bradford Drexell and a force of cowhands from the B Bar D, Union Jack and Rancho Mariposa had carried out an equally exacting search of the property. All this had established was either the Fuentes brothers were not involved with the cow thieves, or the stolen cattle had already been removed in some mysterious fashion from their range. However, instead of stating his belief that Teodoro was a leader rather than a mere participant in whatever was to have taken place in Bonham County, he had asked for the pair and those associates who fled with them to be located and kept under observation in the hope they would expose whoever they had been working for. As the man to whom the suggestion was made had had a friendship of long standing with the Cordoba family, therefore sharing the wish to see them avenged, it was accepted and acted upon.
One point which was puzzling, yet a source of relief, had been that the men engaged upon the roundup were not finding cattle which had been re-branded on the Rancho Mariposa, Union Jack and B Bar D. This was considered to be proof of innocence on the part of the respective owners. However, while convinced that the Fuentes brothers were behind the thefts, Smith, Tobin, Besgrove and Drexell had been unable to decide what had happened to the stolen animals. l
Satisfied that the situation was well in hand though he was, Smith nevertheless had found waiting for the information he required to be an irksome process!
Not that the former sergeant had been idle. As the majority of the crew were away helping Drexell on the roundup which it had been decided to carry out on the day of the murders, he helped with the chores around the property. He also continued his exercises and training to improve the dexterity with which he handled his weapons. Effective though the specially made gloves had proved to be, despite realizing he would always need to wear some form of covering to conceal the condition of his hands, he gave attention to using the Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker revolver without relying upon the additional support offered by the padded and curved leather ‘forefinger’.
While Smith had appreciated the futility of attempting any such disguise as dyeing his hair—knowing the ‘roots’ would require constant attention as time went by and this might not be possible to maintain he had refrained from shaving and soon had a neatly trimmed beard of sufficient size to make a vast difference to his features. He had, nevertheless, retained the style of clothing he wore—including a jacket with its right side stitched up—but all the garments were different from those he had worn when he was last in the vicinity. Enough gunslingers dressed in the same general fashion for him to believe his attire would not arouse suspicions. On the other hand, appreciating how the big claybank gelding might be remembered by somebody who had been in Flamingo—also that he might have the need for greater speed over a distance than a single animal could maintain—he had borrowed two of Besgrove’s horses which had been trained to work together as a ‘relay’, but did not carry the brand of the Union Jack or the other ranches in Bonham County. li
At last, the sheriff had received the information which was required from the members of the United States’ Secret Service assigned to keep the Fuentes brothers under observation. They had not halted their flight until reaching Mexico City, where they had frequently been seen in the company of various middle class ‘liberals’ known to share the close to paranoid hatred their kind throughout the world were already directing towards the United States. However, they had recently travelled to a hacienda near Ascension in the northern part of the State of Chihuahua. They were now engaged in gathering a large herd of cattle and assembling gunslingers of both races.
Smith had considered their activities were simplifying his task to some extent. While he would have gone to Mexico City if necessary, or anywhere else regardless of how far it might be from the Rio Grande, he appreciated how his escape after the successful conclusion of his quest would be made somewhat easier due to the shorter distance he had to travel to reach Texas. What was more, by posing as a hired gun in search of employment, he might be offered an opportunity to reach the brothers which would have been more difficult to arrange elsewhere.
Finding the whereabouts of his quarry had posed no problem for Smith. The small town was situated where the Rio de Santa Maria flowed into the southern end of Lake Guzman.
After having seen to the welfare of the two horses at a livery stable, wanting to learn as much as possible about the situation before seeking them out, Smith was meaning to go to the place where the hostler who helped him with the work—proving as talkative as his contemporaries tended to be north of the Rio Grande—had claimed the pistoleros from the Fuentes’ hacienda spent much time.
About to don the jacket he had removed before starting work on the horses, Smith was distracted from doing so by hearing footsteps and a voice raised in protest outside the open main entrance to the stable. Looking around, he felt a surge of grim satisfaction rise mingled with anger.
Javier Fuentes appeared in the doorway!
However, the young Mexican was not entering of his own accord!
Following closely on the young man’s heels, in fact propelling him ahead with massive hands grasping his shoulders, was a Mexican so large as to dwarf him!
There was a noticeable change for the worse in Javier’s appearance. Twitching in the stress of something greater than fury, not only were his features more haggard and ravaged than Smith remembered, they had a grayish and unhealthy color. Bareheaded, the rest of his dandified attire was grubby and unkempt. His body quivered as if suffering from ague and his hands were shaking as they flailed the air ineffectually in an attempt to halt.
Also without a hat, the other man had a completely bald head and his attire was that of a vaquero, but he was not armed in any way which could be seen. He had a face with brutish lines and from a mouth of snaggled, discolored, teeth came only grunting sounds. However, these were not caused by physical exertion as he seemed to be handling his captive without the slightest difficulty. Studying him, although their paths had never crossed, Smith had heard enough when discussing the Fuentes brothers to conclude he must be their mute bodyguard known as the ‘Dumb Ox’.
‘God damn you for the stupid bastard you are!’ Javier was screeching as he was pushed into the stable and towards where his black thoroughbred was standing in a stall. ‘Get your hands off me!’
Although Smith’s first inclination was to force a fight and kill the young man there and then, he immediately saw the objections to such a course. These were not restricted to the need he would have to dispose of the massive Mexican first. The noise would bring men to investigate and, regardless of how good an excuse he gave for shooting Javier, it was unlikely to be accepted by them or Teodoro. Nor, with both horses standing unsaddled in their stalls, could be use them to take flight before anybody arrived.
However, hearing the demand, Smith saw what he believed might be a way to achieve his purpose. The hostler had already gone into a room at the rear of the building, leaving the door open, so would serve as a witness to substantiate his story should he succeed in what he decided to do. It was not a scheme which he would have selected if he had had time to concoct several, but was the best he could arrive at on the spur of the moment.
‘Don’t you try to rob that young feller!’ the Texan bellowed in English, having discovered the hostler could understand it and knowing the same applied to Javier.
Making the demand, Smith darted forwar
d to catch the Dumb Ox by the right arm. Even as he ascertained the enormous bulk of the bicep he was grasping, the Mexican gave a surging heave which propelled him away in an uncontrollable spin. Brought to halt by the wall, he felt a sharp pain in his back and sensed rather than saw the Colt slide from its Missouri ‘Skin-Tite’ holster. Rebounding from the planks, the building being constructed of wood instead of the more usual adobe of the district, he heard a tearing sound caused by a partially withdrawn nail against which he had run ripping open the back of his shirt. However, he gave no thought to the damage sustained by the garment. He realized there were other, vastly more serious, matters demanding his full attention. The most serious, to his way of thinking, was the loss of the revolver and he was not granted an opportunity to try to retrieve it.
Having thrust Javier aside somewhat less violently, the Dumb Ox was rushing towards the Texan. For all his bulk, he was remarkably fast. Too swift, in fact, for Smith to avoid what it was he had in mind. Coming close before his intended victim had recovered from the less than gentle collision, he reached out with arms like flexible tree trunks. They encircled Smith’s torso, fortunately without also trapping his hands, to tighten remorselessly. It was a hold the Dumb Ox had frequently applied and, unless released before a crucial point, had crushed ribs and, on occasion, broken the recipient’s back.
Realizing the deadly peril he was in, Smith reacted with speed. Gratified that his arms were still free, he brought up his hands. Cupping them beneath his captor’s jaw, he began to shove with all his might. For a few seconds, benefiting from the regime of exercise which it had long been his habit to carry out, he actually stopped the terrible pressure on his back. Like a steel bar, bending so far and then no further, he quivered motionless in the crushing grip without allowing it to be inflicted more severely. However, he knew the respite could only last for a few seconds at most.
