by J. T. Edson
The men in the crowd stood immobile. Then, slowly, they started to break up and a drunken cowhand whooped: “Good for you, Major!”
A figure lurched from the side of the street, a wild-eyed man in the torn and disheveled remains of a gambler’s fancy rig. He halted and from under his coat, he brought out a short-barreled Merwin & Hulbert revolver, to line in on Pauline Cushman.
“You old witch!” Fellowes gasped. “I’ve lost my saloon, and your place is still standing. I’m going to kill you.”
Jere Fryer forgot his gun, he hurled forward in between his wife and Fellowes just as the gambler triggered off a shot. Fryer crashed back into his wife, blood oozing from his shoulder. At the same instant, Mark Counter’s right-hand gun came out with a flickering blur of speed. The hammer eased back under his thumb even as the gun was lifting and, by the time it lined, all was set. The hammer fell and flame tore from the muzzle. Fellowes rocked backwards as lead took him. Even as he went down, he triggered off one more shot Then the gun slid from his hand. He arched his back, then went limp.
Mark stepped forward and looked down. One glance told him that it was all over, and that Dudley Fellowes had fallen to his hand.
Pauline Cushman was holding her husband. She glared at the crowd. “Big Blue, give Mark a hand here. Get Jere back to the hotel.”
“Yes’m. I’ll do just that,” Big Blue replied.
Mike Rice joined Mark Counter and wiped sweat from his face. The crowd was disbanding now. The young townsman watched Pauline Cushman standing in the center of the street, directing the men to return the following morning—or she’d want to know why.
“That’s the Major,” Rice remarked. “She sure is some woman.”
Mark grinned back. “She surely is.”
Mark Counter saddled his big stallion, ready to leave Casa Grande the morning after the hoorawing. From the places where they’d been sage-henning, the cowhands and muleskinners had returned. They were being put to work on clearing up the wreckage by Pauline Cushman.
“Mr. Counter, sir.” It was the photographer standing there, holding out a developed picture and an exposed plate. “I took this of the Major after the fight. I burnt all the pictures I’d developed, but this one. Now.” He took out a match, lit it and burned the piece of paper, then dropped the plate and, lifting his foot, stamped it to pieces. “I wouldn’t make money on a thing like that.”
Mark gripped his hand, then turned to find Pauline Cushman bearing down on him. The photographer turned and hurried away and Pauline smiled up at the big Texan. “I hope you enjoyed your stay in Casa Grande.”
“Sure, I’ll never forget it. One thing though, Major: you’re retired from the Army now; try and remember it.”
“Meaning?”
“Let other folks make some of the decisions some of the time. That way, they could get to like you, instead of just respecting you.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “I’ll remember that. I’ve promised to lend Iris Pendleton a hand with her place, to get it going again. Funny, when I went to see her, she was burning some hair.”
Mark laughed. He looked at the woman they called the Major, swept off his hat in a graceful bow and kissed her hand. Swinging into the saddle of the blood-bay he looked down at her.
“You know something, Major. If you’d ever met Belle Boyd, I’d bet you’d have held her to the tightest-drawn fight ever seen.”
Pauline laughed back. “You damned Reb,” she replied. “Call in again sometime and see us all. I’d best go and nurse my invalid now.”
Mark Counter rode slowly from the town of Casa Grande and, from the top of a rim, turned and looked back. His visit had cost him thirty dollars, and the bet; but it was worth it and more—for he’d helped restore a good woman’s self-respect.
Five – Stomp Hollorhan’s Boast
Red Blaze never expected to win the bet. He explained that to the others of the floating outfit as they sat round the table in the gun-decorated room Ole Devil Hardin used as a study.
“Fact being,” he’d remarked to his wholly unsympathetic audience. “You bunch should ought to give me odds of five-to-one at least.”
Not that Red was a trouble-causer, or even a trouble-hunting man. It was just that, as some people have a way of finding gold, or fish in a river, Red Blaze found trouble.
It came as something of a shock to him to be riding into Pinto City, the second town on his itinerary, without having to fight someone for making fun of his hair color.
Red Blaze had hair that was untidy, long and red. His expensive brown JB Stetson hat was shoved back to show the frontal mass of his hair and expose his pugnaciously good-looking and freckled face to the sun. Around his throat, tight-rolled and knotted, was a silk bandanna which contained near on every color imaginable in a gorgeous riot which defied description. Red was proud of the bandanna, more so than of any other thing he owned. Ole Devil had given it to him to show approval of Cousin Red’s first lone-hand chore and of how he’d handled it.
The bandanna hung long ends over his dark red shirt, almost to the waistband of his brown Levis. The cuffs of the Levis were turned back and hung outside his expensive and fancy-stitched boots. Around his waist was a buscadero gunbelt, walnut-butted Colt Cavalry Peacemakers butt-forward in the holsters.
He rode his big claybank stallion easily, the good Texas kak saddle between his knees. He had his rope strapped to the horn, bed-roll to the cantle; and, from under his left leg, there showed the butt of his Spencer carbine.
Red studied the town of Pinto with the gaze of a man who’d looked on such capitals of the cow-country as Dodge City, Wichita, Hays, Abilene and Fort Worth. His reason for coming here was to deliver an invitation to the lawman, Stomp Hollorhan. Ole Devil had checked Red’s route and asked him to call in to ask Hollorhan to make a visit to the Rio Hondo when he retired.
So Red Blaze was surveying the town of Pinto and thinking how little it differed from any of the many sun and heat-dried towns throughout the range country. It consisted in the main of one long street—which provided a man with the chance and facilities to be born at the doctor’s, attend school, get married buy and furnish a house with everything it might ever need, get drunk, gamble, be put in jail, post mail, have his horse shoed or stabled; and, at the end of his days, wind up on a slab in the somber parlor of the undertaker’s shop.
In fact, there was not a single dwelling on main street that was not a business of some kind. Only two places of community value which were not on Main Street were the opposites and at opposing sides of the town. They were the church and the brothel. The church was situated on the better side of town, along with the homes, in order of prosperity, of the two saloon-keepers, the undertaker, the better-off business men and the town-dwellings of the big ranch owners. At the other side lived the town marshal and the rest of the citizens.
Taken all in all, Pinto was hardly the sort of town where a man would expect to find old Stomp Hollorhan. In his day he’d made a name as a lawman which left tarnished the better-publicized efforts of such practitioners of the silver star as Dallas Stoudenmire, Longhair Jim Courtney, or Bat Masterson. He’d tamed the bad wild towns just after the War—when a Southern lawman was harder to find than a snowball in hell. Now he was here in a small, one-horse town like Pinto; and, soon, if the word was right, he would be retiring.
Along the street a piece, where it widened out to allow stage coaches turning room and to make a town square, a crowd was gathered round a garishly-colored wagon. From his seat on the big claybank thoroughbred, Red looked over the scene and a grin which was never long absent from his face broadened. He’d seen many Medicine Shows in his time, but never missed one if he could help it.
“Doctor Henry Folsom’s Miracle Balsam and Tonic.”
The words were emblazoned on the side of the wagon in large and eye-catching letters. Red rode slowly round to get a view of the rear, which was painted to represent a trail-end town. The back of the wagon was let down and for
med a stage on which a pretty, blonde woman, wearing a green satin dress, was playing a guitar and singing Barbara Allen.
Like most folks in the West, Red enjoyed a medicine show. The travelling mendicants brought a chance for the womenfolk, especially the poorer ones, to see a show. In Texas, particularly in the smaller towns of the time, there were few theatres; and a good woman did not go into a saloon where the only other professional entertainers appeared. So, even if the magical medicines did fall short of their maker’s claims, the shows themselves were well-received.
The girl stopped her song with a flourish and acknowledged the cheers of the crowd. Then she announced: “And now we present for your entertainment, The Man Of A Thousand Faces!”
A tall, slim, young man with a thin, aristocratic face stepped out. He wore a collarless shirt, trousers and moccasins. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I would like to introduce you to a few people you may know.”
He stepped back into the wagon and, in a couple of seconds, a different man emerged. Now long hair flowed to his shoulders and a vast handlebar moustache was under a nose which was as hooked as the beak of a bald eagle. He wore a fancy buckskin outfit and, sticking out from various parts of his body, as if they were buried into him, were the hilts of several knives. In his belt were four revolvers, two bowie knives, a tomahawk and a bundle of scalps.
The crowd burst into roars of laughter for all had seen caricatures of Wild Bill Hickok in different newspapers. The girl stepped forward and looked up at this larger-than-life imitation of Hickok.
“Why Wild Bill,” she greeted. “Where have you been?”
“Fighting the McCanles gang. Twarn’t much of a fight though—only fifteen of them.”
Probably, only Red in the crowd realized how good the impersonation was, even to Wild Bill’s booming, boastful voice.
“But your wounds—don’t they hurt?”
“Only when I laugh!”
Wild Bill disappeared to roars of Texas laughter—for the true story of Hickok’s “Great Fight” with the terrible McCanles gang was well known in Texas. It was also known that the stories of the fight now circulating were far less truthful, but far more creditable to Wild Bill.
Another man came from the back of the wagon and Red stared in amazement, thinking for a moment it was Wyatt Earp who stood there. It was amazing; the sober black coat, hat and trousers; the look of sanctimonious piety; the drooping moustache—they were all as Red remembered seeing on his visit to Dodge. The man came forward, the barrel of his revolver so long that it almost dragged on the floor.
Again, a roar of laughter greeted the appearance—for everyone there had also seen the cartoons of Wyatt Earp.
“Mr. Earp,” the girl said, to make sure everyone knew who this was. “Why are you like a Scottish horse-shoer?”
“I don’t know, Miss Bella. Why am I like a Scottish horse-shoer?” Again, the voice was completely right.
“Because you’re a Mac—and you’re black-smithing.”
The crowd roared at this—even the ladies, who were not supposed to know that a ‘Mac’ was a pimp who worked at procuring for the red light trade and ‘black-smithing’ meant living on the immoral earnings of the prostitutes. This was a typical joke in Texas—for Wyatt Earp, and the rest of the Kansas law-and-order crowd, were suspected by the Texans of, if not actually owning and operating, at least, getting their fair share of the profits of the red light area.
Red swung down from his claybank and fastened it to the rail; he lounged on the sidewalk, ready to enjoy the rest of the show. Then, from out of town, there came an interruption in the shape of eight hard-riding, wild-shooting, loud-yelling Texas cowboys. This did not unduly worry Red; he’d come to town that way himself before now—except that the floating outfit made sure their wild riding did not endanger anyone. This bunch were not so particular as they came barreling into the crowd, scattering the people all ways.
The dust died down and the young cowhands sat their horses, looking in delighted fashion at the scattered citizens. Two of them caught Red’s eye right away as the leaders of the bunch. One was a tall, handsome young man dressed better than the other hands and riding a thoroughbred. Around his waist was an expensive hand-tooled gunbelt with an ivory-handled Colt Artillery Peacemaker in the holster. It was the rig of a fast man with a gun, yet—unless Red was far wrong in his guess—this young man was no gunfighter. His face was tanned, good-looking and showed some breeding.
The other was different; from his hat to his boots he spelled trouble. Red could read the signs and knew that here was the kind of yahoo who got all cowhands a bad name. There was a sullen truculence about him that could mean he was very good with a gun or thought he was.
The slender man stepped from the back of his wagon again and looked down at the eight cowhands, then at his erstwhile audience, who were headed for home and safety.
“Howdy, boys. Now you’ve had your fun, how about staying to see the show?”
The truculent hand grinned. He shook loose his rope and flipped it over one of the wagon wheels. “See the show?” he mimicked. “We are the show!”
Saying this, he dallied his rope and sent the horse leaping forward. The rope twanged tight and ripped the wheel clean from the wagon. Folsom yelled as his wagon tipped over. He caught the girl and leapt clear with her, as, from inside, sounded the crash of breaking bottles.
“Brock!” the handsome youngster snapped, angrily. “There wasn’t any need for that.”
“Jest funning around, Tad, just funning,” the other replied, grinning at the others. “Come on down to the saloon.”
A tall oldster came from the sidewalk and stepped through the circle of wide-grinning cowhands. He glared from under fierce, bushy eyebrows, his lined, seamed old face showing anger. He glared up at the young man called Tad and snapped: “I warned ye, last time you was in town, Tad Cooke. Now I’m jailing you.”
“We were only funning, Stomp,” Cooke replied. “I’ll pay for the damage.”
Stomp Hollorhan shook his head grimly. “A spell in pokey is all you’ll understand, so I’m taking—”
The man called Brock jumped his horse forward, his Colt coming out and slamming down on to the old lawman’s head, dropping him to the ground.
“Eeyah!” Brock screamed delightedly. “Come on, boys. Down to the saloon and get us likkered up.”
Tad Cooke watched the others going, then followed them.
Doc Folsom swore under his breath; he clenched his hands, looking towards the wagon. The girl caught his arm, whispering: “No Frank. Not this time, please.”
So Folsom went and bent over the old-timer, turning him gently on to his back. He looked down at the black-and-white calfskin vest and white shirt which was Stomp Hollorhan’s trade-mark, then at the tarnished badge which had seen use in many a wild town. A hand came over his shoulder, then an arm with a dark red sleeve. The badge was unpinned and lifted back.
Folsom straightened and looked round. He found a tall, red-haired young man pinning the badge on his shirt. Then loosening the guns in their holsters, the young man walked down the street.
The cowhands were in a group outside one of the saloons. Tad Cooke glared at Brock and snapped, “You’re going too far. There was no need for what you did to old Stomp.”
“Now, Tad boy. You’re just thinking about his granddaughter, not him. Anyhow, that ringy old goat shouldn’t come interfering with us.”
“All right, all of you, turn round.”
The cowhands turned to find Red Blaze bearing down on them. He halted facing them and looked them over while they studied him and the badge he was wearing.;
“What do you want?” Brock asked.
“I’m taking you in.” The voice was flat and even.’
“Look here, friend.” Tad Cooke stepped forward, holding out his hand. “I’m real sorry for what happened to old Stomp. Brock shouldn’t have done it. But we’ve been out on the range for a month and this is our first time in town. We�
��ll pay for any damage we’ve done and hold it down some.”
“Mister, there are a dozen things I’m taking you for: Assault on a law officer; reckless riding; discharging firearms in the city limits. Destruction of—”
“Just hark at him, boys,” Brock whooped, “Ain’t he the living wonder, the way he spouts it all?”
The cowhands closed around Red and one of them leaned forward, pressing hard against his left side. Then Brock’s hand went down towards his gun. In his eyes was the light of killing lust, for he was thinking of the cross-draw and, with a man pinning the left gun and arm, Brock had the red-head whipsawed.
Red Blaze might be a hot-headed young man who acted without thinking and was apt to jump into any fight without worrying about consequences; but, once in, he was cool and capable. His right hand twisted back around the walnut grip of the right-side gun and brought it out in a smoothly-done cavalry twist. The gun was out and lined an instant before Brock’s. Flame tore from the muzzle of the Colt and Brock rocked back on his heels. Red hated to be forced into killing, but he knew that the young man would kill him, given the chance.
Even as lead drove into Brock, Red Blaze slammed his elbow into the stomach of the man at his left, doubling him over. Then, savagely, he smashed the long barrel of the Colt on to the hand’s head.
“Freeze, all of you!” Red snapped, throwing the gun forward, full-cocked and ready. “There’s been enough killing already.”
The cowhands stood fast; their month-long range work had given them the desire to have fun but this was no longer funny. Yet they admitted that Brock and his bunkie had brought this on themselves. That was not fun they’d just tried, but a deliberate attempt at murder.
“Pick him up and head for the jail,” Red snapped. “I’ll get this one taken to the undertakers.”
The cowhands went ahead, carrying their limp and unconscious pard with them. Red stayed behind only long enough to tell two of the men to take Brock to his last resting-place. Then he followed the others to the jail.
