by J. T. Edson
“Where the hell’re the hosses?”
Uttered in tones redolent of fury, the words aroused the other four men who were sleeping on the ground around the gray ashes of a burned-out fire in a clearing where they had made camp the previous evening. Like the speaker, they wore grubby range clothing and were well armed. Regardless of their attire, none were cowhands. They had been hired to follow and kill Waxahachie Smith. However, the delay caused by the precautions he had taken prevented them from catching up with him. Therefore, at sundown, they had halted the pursuit with the intention of taking it up in the morning.
“Looks like they’ve gone,” remarked the oldest of the group dryly as he and the rest got to their feet.
Although he had been a hired gun for all his grown life, Milt Carver had never ranked high among his kind.
On the other hand, he had developed a streak of caution that kept him alive long after a great many of his more skillful and less wary contemporaries were dead. Because they had been acquainted in the past, he had been selected by Pampa to supply up-to-date information and help recruit the assistance that was required. On learning against whom they would be in contention, he had avoided being involved in any active participation at Austin. Then, having taken over as go-between for the unknown employer after Pampa was killed, he had gathered reinforcements. Before he arrived with the group who followed Mark Counter to Hereford, the man who hired him had tried to bring about Smith’s death by giving the chore to Monte Parker. Knowing that the failure strengthened his own position, Carver had been pleased on learning the result of the attempt.
Having hidden at Jones the Burial’s place when the abortive attempt to gun down the blond giant and Ramsbottom took place, Carver joined the survivors when they made good their escape. At a pre-arranged rendezvous just outside the town, receiving fresh orders from the still-unknown man and a thousand dollars to cover whatever expenses were entailed, he had gone to where the pair and two more who were waiting in a disused cabin some miles away. Because of the precaution taken by Ramsbottom, they were delayed in following him. The chance occurrence of going to Tulia for fresh mounts warned them that Smith had changed directions. By the time they were approaching Wichita Falls, Carver had concluded that their quarry was not making for Brownsville. However, despite also riding a two-horse relay apiece, they still were not close enough to take any action when they made camp for the night.
From the beginning of their acquaintance, Carver had no liking for any of the men with whom he was traveling, and their mutually condescending attitude toward him had done nothing to bring about a change of mind.
None were half his age, and despite realizing that he alone knew how to contact their employer, they had continued to make it clear that they considered him to be along merely on sufferance. Not only had they done much complaining over the time the pursuit was taking, they had repeatedly refused to adopt the basic precautions he had suggested. His suggestion that they should take turns to mount guard through the night was greeted with derision. Furthermore, they had been drinking before bedding down, and Carver could not resist the temptation to join them.
“How the hell did they get loose?” demanded the youngest of the group. “I tethered mine good.”
“Goddamn it!” snarled another of the party as they went to where the animals had been standing. “They’ve been cut loose and led off!”
“Do you reckon that son of a bitch we’re trailing come back and done it?” inquired the youngest.
“Nope!” Carver asserted with such conviction that the rest looked at him. Bending, he picked up two objects that none of others had noticed lying on the ground. “Doing it’d take an Injun.”
“Injun!” snorted the second speaker, oozing derision. “There ain’t been no Injuns hereabouts for years.”
“Somebody must’ve forgot to tell this one,” Carver claimed, holding out the objects he had retrieved.
“They’s just a pair of wored-out old moccasins,” the youngest growled.
“Yep, that they be,” Carver agreed. “And they was left by a Comanch’.”
“A Comanch’?” the biggest, of the party snorted. “They’ve all been on the reservation for the last twenty years or more.”
“Back in the old days,” Carver explained, showing no sign of having heard the comment, “when a Comanch’ helped hisself to hosses, he used to leave a wored-out pair of moccasins behind to let the owners know’s how he didn’t need ’em ’cause he wouldn’t be walking no more. Only, it didn’t end there.”
“What else?” the youngest asked, remembering all the stories he had heard about the ferocity and righting ability of the Comanche Indians.
“It also means he’s giving word’s how he don’t want nobody coming after the hosses,” Carver elaborated somberly, thinking back to a time when he had seen a pair of old moccasins left behind and remembered who had done so. He was also all too aware of with whom the man responsible was closely connected and did not care for the possibilities arising from his conclusions. “Should they do it, he’ll get more’n a mite riled and stop them cold.” xxi
“That ain’t going to stop me going after him!” the biggest hard case declared.
“That’s up to you,” Carver replied as the rest signaled agreement with the statement. Waving a hand in a southerly direction, he went on, “The sign heads off that way. I’ll see you gents around.”
“Aren’t you coming with us?” the youngster asked.
“Nope, I’m headed for Wichita Falls,” Carver replied, knowing he could send an apparently innocent telegraph message at the town that nevertheless would inform the man who had hired him of the latest development and request instructions. “Because I’ve got a sneaky notion who this Comanch’ is and, gents, there’s no way’s I’m going to get him riled up at me!”
Chapter Fourteen – Mr. Smith, Meet Mr. Smith
Walking along a passageway left between the rows of wooden pens into some of which cattle were being transferred from the railroad cars designed for their shipment, Waxahachie Smith was far from being at ease over the change circumstances had compelled him to make to his means of self-protection.
As the rusty-haired Texan did not possess any official status to serve as an excuse in his still-retained persona as Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third, he had taken into account that wearing a handgun or carrying his Colt Lightning rifle openly would not be permissible while he was staying in Chicago.
Wishing to avoid the problems that might otherwise have arisen, including the possibility of causing embarrassment for the senior local police officer whose cooperation had been arranged by Dusty Fog, xxii Smith had left his gunbelt in the carpetbag when he set out for the appointed rendezvous that morning. Nor would carrying his Colt Lightning rifle be any more admissible within the bounds of such a large Eastern city. Nevertheless, because he was disinclined to leave himself without a weapon on his person, the Colt slip gun was tucked into the waistband of his trousers behind his back and concealed by his jacket. It was the first time in well over ten years that he had been compelled to behave in such a fashion, and although he arrived at the Windy City without further attempts upon his life, or even being followed so far as he knew, he still remained wary and on the alert.
Even though there had been no arrangements made for him to carry his armament readily accessible for immediate use during the latter part of the journey, especially in his present locale, Smith had been helped on his way by the arrangements that had been made to facilitate his traveling. Excellent horses as replacements for his own mounts were awaiting him at livery stables on a list that Mark Counter had given to him while discussing the route he was to follow in the privacy of his room at the Cattlemen’s Hotel on the night before he left Hereford. Nor was this restricted to the Lone Star State. Making use of friendships formed while he was leading Company C of the Texas Light Cavalry there during the War Between the States, xxiii Dusty had arranged for the same facilities to be available while Smith was c
rossing Arkansas. Arriving at Little Rock, he left the latest pair of animals and his saddles with the man to whom he had been directed. He had ceased wearing his gunbelt, doing so would no longer be practical, since he was continuing the journey by train, although he had taken his slip gun and Colt Lightning along, the latter in its saddle boot.
No matter what means of transport he was using, the time passing without further dangerous developments, Smith had remained constantly vigilant so as to be ready to cope with any further attempts upon his life. None had been made, and it seemed he had thrown his enemies off his trail. Nevertheless, aware that he was in contention against ruthless men with many sources for obtaining information, he was too experienced to allow a false sense of security to dull his perceptions. As a precaution in case his destination had been suspected and arrangements made by his enemies for his reception at Chicago, he kept a careful watch for anything that might be attempted. He followed the instructions he had received in a letter that morning at the hotel into which he had been booked before arriving two days earlier so as to make contact with the man he had traveled so far to meet.
While he had not forgotten that there could still be threats to his well-being, the rusty-haired Texan was paying little attention to what was happening around him as he approached the place where he was to be taken to meet the man whose protection was to be his duty. In addition to the usual noises to be expected at any railroad depot were some that were particular to the kind of area through which he was starting to pass. Only partially domesticated in the first place, the cattle brought in on the train were far from soothed by having been forced to enter the special cars and transported in such a fashion from a trail-end town in Kansas. Nor, if the furious bellows that rang out were any indication, was their temper improved on being urged to emerge and enter the pens.
Under more peaceable conditions, Smith might have found the sights about him of interest. As it was, while walking along, he merely noticed that to his left there were a large number of cattle being allowed to leave the train in which they had been brought from a railroad town in Kansas after having been delivered there by a trail-drive crew. The work was mainly being carried out by what were poorly dressed Easterners, if their clothing and occasional speech were any guide. However, near where the rusty-haired Texan was approaching, they were supplanted by half a dozen cowhands whose attire was indicative of their having come from one of the northern of the cattle-raising states.
Clearly business had been good recently, for only one of the pens at the other side of the passageway was occupied. It was farther along the line and held only a single large longhorn that, going by the noises it was making, possessed an even worse disposition than was usual for its kind. Three men in Eastern garb of a better quality than that worn by the workers around the train were in its immediate vicinity. However, although it seemed likely that they were responsible for the animal’s ill temper, he was unable to see what any of them were doing and felt that this was not any of his concern unless one should prove to be the person he was seeking.
Suddenly, Smith’s thoughts were jolted from the problem of locating the man he had been sent to contact. Mingled with the awesome bawl of an angry longhorn whose masculine condition had not been changed when the beast had been turned into a steer and the drumming of rapidly approaching hooves, yells of warning came to his ears. Glancing over his shoulder, he found that his guess regarding the cause of the commotion had been correct. Somehow, the solitary animal on the right side of the passageway had escaped from its pen and was charging toward him.
Nor, Smith suspected, had the animal’s attaining of freedom been caused by accident. As the massive beast was emerging through the gate, which opened outward and offered him some protection, one of the men who now stood beyond it pressed the glowing end of his cigar against something and made a tossing motion. In an instant, there began a series of rapid bangs accompanied by flashes of flame of the kind the rusty-haired Texan had seen occur when Chinese workers were celebrating the New Year festivities with use of what they called fireworks. Any longhorn would have been dangerous enough under the circumstances, but this was a particularly large and, going by appearances, thoroughly irate bull. Nor was the extent of its already vile temper lessened by the explosions taking place so close behind its rump. What was more, in addition to viewing Smith as a potential impediment to its flight, it gave indications that it was intending to vent its anger upon him.
Even though he had spent little of his working life as a cowhand, like most people who had grown up in range country, Smith knew that a longhorn had no fear whatsoever of a man on foot, so he was all too aware of his peril. Even without the inducement of the provocation it had received, a bull such as was coming toward him would prove a dangerous antagonist for even a Texas flathead grizzly bear to tackle. With that thought in mind, he reacted fast. While he was doing so, he realized the full extent of his danger under the prevailing conditions. Effective as the multi-ball loading he generally used in his slip gun undoubtedly was at close range against a human being, the balls would not have sufficient stopping power to halt the charge. Receiving some of them in the face might cause the bull to swerve aside, but they were more likely to increase its fury and make it determined to take revenge upon him.
While these thoughts were flashing through Smith’s head, his training as a gunfighter caused him to react instinctively. Unfortunately, when his right hand started to perform the movements that would have brought out the slip gun, it was in the fashion that had become second nature to him since the loss of his forefingers. Therefore, all he managed was to brush the back of his hand against the waist belt.
The familiar staghorn grips of the handle were not in their usual position waiting to be enfolded.
In the stress of the moment, Smith had forgotten that his changed circumstances had caused him to make an alteration to the way he was carrying the Colt.
Before Smith could fully appreciate the latest development, he saw something that handed him almost as much of a surprise as had the charging bull.
Wearing clothing similar to that of the other cowhands present, a tall and well-built young Negro had been helping to guide the animals into the pens. He was performing this task while walking along the top rails. However, on seeing what was happening, he responded with most praiseworthy promptitude. Dropping the metal-tipped prod he had been using, he darted, despite having on the typical high-heeled and sharp-toed footwear of his trade, along the narrow wooden plank he was currently occupying with the speed of a high-wire artist performing in a circus.
Throwing himself from the top of the pen, the Negro struck the bull. On making the contact, showing a speed that suggested he had performed a similar feat on a number of occasions, he passed his right arm over the animal’s neck and clasped his hand on its nostrils. At the same instant, his left hand closed around the tip of the left horn. Swinging forward his feet and allowing the full weight of his obviously powerful body to lunge downward against his left elbow, he twisted the neck of his captive. Taken unawares and treated in such a fashion, the animal was thrown off balance and went down with its assailant lying on top and retaining the holds.
The impact of the bull’s unexpected descent upon the hard ground jarred all the air from its lungs and dazed it, but only momentarily. After a few seconds it started to struggle, and by all appearances, powerful though he undoubtedly was, the Negro would not be able to hold it down. Realizing this, Smith made adjustments to his right hand’s position that allowed him to bring the Colt from beneath his jacket. It was his intention to step in close enough to place the muzzle against the animal’s forehead and rely upon the three balls in the load having the velocity at such close quarters to drive through the bone into the brain.
“Hold hard there, Mr. Smith!” the Negro yelled, guessing what the rusty-haired Texan had in mind. “Ain’t no call for that!”
Before the rusty-haired Texan could comment upon the words, or do more than realize
he had been addressed by his name, he saw the five white cowhands who had also been helping load the cattle into the stock cars running up. Two of them held coiled ropes and, drawing near, another yelled for the Negro to “get clear, Sam!” Releasing his hold, Smith’s rescuer rolled away with alacrity.
As the liberated bull began to rise, a loop was tossed over its head from each side and drawn tight about its neck. Working swiftly in concert with the Negro who had risen, the other cowhands made two groups that grabbed the trailing stem of each rope. Their combined weight was only just sufficient to hold the animal in check as it surged to its feet. However, showing an alacrity that indicated they had performed similar tasks in the past, some of the Eastern workers arrived to help compel it to enter the gate of the nearest empty pen instead of the one it had vacated. Once there, its forelegs were ensnared and it was toppled to the ground for long enough to allow the nooses around its neck to be removed. With this done, all but the man who did the roping got out swiftly. On reaching the passageway, the last to emerge wasted no time before closing the entrance. Having released the animal, the roper followed them and climbed over the fence so swiftly that the bull was unable to rise in time to attack him.
