It was shortly after noon that Beth Morrow came in sight of the town of Two Forks. She rode the dainty dun gelding with the easy grace of a cowhand, matched the skill of the half-dozen hard-riding men who surrounded her. She was on her way to town for the election. Her BM crew was the last to be heading for town. Having only just ended their round-up and being one of the further ranches of the country, they’d not been able to make it before.
The men who rode around her were a typical batch of cowhands; hard-riding, hard-working, and hard-playing men, loyal to the brand they rode for and more than loyal to their beloved boss lady. They rode with her, argued with her, laughed at her jokes and would have laid down their lives for her any time it was needed.
There might have been prettier girls, more intelligent girls, girls with more talent than Beth Morrow, but to even hint so in front of the ranch crew meant fighting the bunch of them.
She made a good picture, sitting astride on the back of the dun gelding, her long black hair held back with a red band, the Stetson hat hanging by its storm strap. She wore a tartan shirtwaist, blue jeans and dainty, high-heeled cowhand boots with spurs on the heels. It was a style of dress which set off her full and willowy figure.
Beth was worth a second look in any company. Her face was gentle and very beautiful. The eyes were dark and seemed to glow with a rich joy of life. The nose was small, well-shaped and the mouth red-lipped, full, yet never feeling any kind of cosmetic, or needing it. It was a face of unspoiled beauty, unaided charm, a sweet, kind and gentle face.
Beth’s foreman, tough, middle-aged, craggy Seth Braden, was proud of her as he watched her from the corner of his eye, listening to her arguing with the hands. The girl could manage to be friend, sister and confidante to the hands and still be their boss, handling them with easy assurance.
“What you aiming to do when we hit town?” Braden asked, cutting across a long argument as to who ate the most pie in some contest they held.
“See Bix and Simon first off,” she replied. “It’s about time those two old villains earned their pay and stopped us losing cattle.”
“We don’t need no lawman to do that,” whooped a dark-looking young man by the name of Nakton White. “Just you say the word and we’ll head over there and take them Mormons to pieces and get back all our stock.”
Beth surveyed the cowhand with disgust, then turned to the others. “Hasn’t Darkie got a brain? He’s a regular Pinkerton sneak. He knows it’s the Mormons taking off with our stock.”
“Waal, I got it on real good authority. Right smart from that tough Mr. Jack Hatch, hisself,” replied Darkie, when the jeers of the others died down. “He allows it’s them, so it must be.”
“Hatch talks too much,” Beth said quietly.
Braden nodded his agreement. He thought of the tall, handsome, dandified cowhand he took on to help with the round-up. The man was a real good worker, but a loudmouthed trouble-causer and not the sort Braden cared for. That was the reason Braden left the man back at the BM house, with two of the old BM hands he could trust. When the trip was over, Braden aimed to change a horse in Hatch’s saddle string, giving the man notice that he was no longer welcome on the ranch.
“You want for me to fire him?” he asked the girl.
“Was we to fire every hand who talks too much we wouldn’t have any of this worthless crew left,” replied Beth.
The jeers and some of the comments thrown back at Beth would have given any stranger who did not know cowhands the idea that they were a poor mannered bunch. If the same stranger had dared to say half of the things to the girl he would have rapidly learned that the cowhands were exercising their rights as old friends.
Darkie White came alongside the girl and started to give out with large chunks of his wisdom, so she kicked his mean-looking horse in the ribs. The horse left the ground with a wild busking bound which almost landed Darkie on the ground and took some handling to get it back under control.
With a laugh Beth looked back to where, in the distance, the BM chuck wagon was following them, driven by the cook and coming to town for supplies. She put the pet-makers to her dun’s sides, sending the little horse racing towards the cattle bridge over the Colorado River. The rest of the crew, not to be outdone, sent their cow horses hurling after the girl, riding with the centaur-like skill of the cowhand. They thundered over the bridge, on to Colorado Street, whooping, yelling and firing their revolvers into the air. It was nothing more than the usual way a ranch crew came to town, letting everyone know they’d arrived.
Beth brought her horse to a halt and the rest of the crew, red-faced and laughing, brought their horses sliding to a stop around her.
“I’ll be headed back for home soon after dark,” she told the grinning cowhands. “I don’t want to be gone too long, what with the cattle we’ve been losing. I don’t reckon any of you’ll be ready to come, though.”
“Not us,” Angus McKie, the ranch’s poker champion replied. “We don’t aim to head back until we’re busted clear through the blanket.”
“Which same won’t be long if there’s a halfway good poker player in town,” scoffed Beth. “Don’t you bunch go drinking the Twin Bridge Saloon dry.”
For all the banter, the cowhands and Beth knew they would go back to the ranch as a bunch, the same way they came to town. They would have taken their fill of city life by the time Beth was ready to go back home.
Beth watched the cowhands heading away, a tolerant smile on her face. None of her crew were heavy drinkers and would be capable of riding back to the BM under their own power. She was a true western girl, despite the fact that she’d been well educated in the east. She never forgot what the Morrows (she’d never known her parents, having been brought up on the BM by an aunt and uncle) had taught her; a saloon was not a place of evil, it was necessary. She knew there were bad saloons, she also knew that the Twin Bridge Saloon was not one of these and it was the favorite place for her crew. She knew the saloon women supplied a need in the west, as did the other women, not necessarily the same as the saloon girls, who worked the houses of the red lamp.
Beth swung from her saddle and looked at the two big posters outside the jail. She had not known that any other candidate than Von Schnabel was on hand for the election but could see there was now. Von Schnabel’s poster was big and blared out the message of his intention to clean out Two Forks. The other poster was just as large and glaring, but she’d never heard the name before.
“drifter smith for sheriff,” she read, then mused aloud, “Now who is Drifter Smith? I’ve never heard of him before.”
She opened the jail office door and heard Bix Smith airing his views about the candidate for sheriff.
“Dagnab that damned, no-good yahoo,” he growled. “Done snuck off after that kid rather than come in and make a speech.”
“Thought you done well at it, though,” Simon replied, then he looked at the door. A beam of delight came to his face as he swung his feet from the desk top and stood up. “Howdy Miss Beth, howdy. You brought your boys in to vote for Wa—Drifter Smith?”
“I don’t know?” she replied, smiling back. “Who is he?”
Bix Smith looked straight at the girl. “As square, fair and good a man as ever drawed breath, Miss Beth.”
Beth looked hard at the old-timer. She’d never heard him sound so eager about any man he ever worked under, even the legendary Dragoon Dune, of whom Bix would never hear of a better. Now it seemed that Dragoon Dune had a man who was at least his equal in Bix Smith’s book.
“Better than old Dragoon Dune?” she asked mischievously.
Bix coughed, not wishing to be trapped in such a manner. “He ain’t all that old, but he packs a world of savvy. I’ve never seen a better man with a gun. Not real recent anyways.”
“He chased Matt Kyte and four more gunhands out of the Twin Bridge,” Simon went on. “Then backed down a tough drunk who was shooting Colorado Street up, took his guns and knives offen him without even drawing on him. Then he stopped a big bunch of Mormons from raising hell in town and made their Bishop sing low. There was a young gunhand got drunk and had a gun on Drifter, and ole Drifter took him. Then put that killer Keg Bullock under, and run Dillis out of town. He’s done plenty to tame this town down now. The cowhands like him, he gets on with them.”
“Shucks, Simon. You all forgetting about this morning,” interrupted Bix.
“This morning?” Beth smilingly asked. “What did this wonder man do this morning, after all that?”
“Why, he heads out along the stage trail and stops a hold-up, brings in the five owlhoots. Then he’s supposed to come along to the Twin Bridge Saloon and make him a fancy speech to the folks, but Mrs. Schulze comes in and says her lil boy’s lost. So ole Drifter just says ‘to hell with speechifying, even if I lose votes.’ And he heads out to find the button.”
The girl laughed. Any man who could bring out such admiration from this pair of hardened old-timers was a man to be reckoned with. She formed an idea that Drifter Smith was a hard, tough lawman in his early thirties, the sort who made a living running the tough towns.
“He sounds quite a man. Do you think he can get whoever it is who’s stealing my stock?”
“Why surely so,” agreed Bix with complete confidence. “He’ll make a start on it as soon as he can. You should come in later on and see him.”
“I’ll do just that,” she promised. “Don’t worry. The BM vote’s going to your friend, Drifter Smith.”
The girl left the jail, making her way through the streets and meeting several people she knew. She was stopped and heard plenty about Drifter Smith. Her idea of what he must look like did not change, even though several of her girlfriends were all talking about how handsome Drifter Smith was. Strangely, not one person mentioned that he was a Texan. For all that, the people in town, the ones she talked with, appeared to be sure that Drifter Smith would make them a real good county sheriff. By the time Beth visited the Trenard store and ordered her supplies she was sure that he was the man for her.
Nightfall found Beth standing by the wagon looking around for the members of her ranch crew. She’d been along to the jail and recorded her vote earlier in the day, but the famous Drifter Smith was not back from looking for the little boy and she had not yet seen him.
Beth stood by the wagon for fifteen minutes or so, then decided it was, time she went to find her missing crew. She walked along the street and came to a halt at the corner of the Guesthouse. For a time she stood looking across at the Twin Bridge Saloon, then crossed over. She stopped by the window and looked in. She’d never been so close to the Twin Bridge Saloon before and was suddenly filled with desire to see what was on the other side of the swinging doors. Her every instinct warned her not to be silly; the good women of the town did not enter a saloon when it was open for business. The women inside would resent her presence, for inside the saloon was their province, they stayed off the street and expected the same courtesy to be extended by the townswomen.
For a moment she stood looking at the batwing doors, then drew in a deep breath and stepped forward. She pushed open the doors and moved into the bar-room of the saloon, looking around with considerable interest. The crowd appeared to be enjoying themselves but she could see nothing to offend her, things appeared to be as quiet and well-behaved as a church social. Her eyes went to a table in the center of the room, her foreman, the foremen of three of the local spreads and a good-looking woman were playing poker. Beth started towards the table; she knew the woman was the owner, Ella Baker, for she’d seen her around town.
“Seth. Let’s go after this hand.”
The words brought every eye from the table to the girl. Ella gasped, her face lost color and her hands crumpled the cards she held. Seth Braden and the other three men stared at the girl and the BM hands at the nearby tables gave startled exclamations as they saw their boss-lady in the saloon.
Before any of the card players could say anything, Beth felt a hand on her sleeve and a voice said, “All right, girlie, out!”
Turning, Beth found herself facing a girl her own size, a tanned girl with short, boyishly cut hair. The girl’s face looked vaguely familiar and Beth frowned, seeing the man’s clothes and the gun. She turned back and spoke to Braden.
“Are you ready, Seth?”
Lynn Baker frowned, catching Beth’s arm and turning her. “I said out, girlie!” she snapped.
“Make me!” hissed Beth, suddenly angry that this girl should try and push her around.
Ella came to her feet, trying to prevent trouble, but she was too late. Lynn dropped her hand, the gun lifting clear of the holster but she did not bring the Colt to line. Even before her mother let out a scream of: “Drop it,” Lynn was already releasing her grip of the butt.
Beth grabbed the other girl’s wrist, lifting it and banging it down on her knee as she’d seen the hands do in play at the spread. She felt the gun fall free and pushed the other girl backwards. Lynn staggered slightly and with a wild yell hurled herself forward, hands digging into Beth’s long hair and tearing at it. Beth let out a yell of anger mingled with pain, her own hands tangled with the short cropped black hair on Lynn’s head and they reeled backwards.
Leaping up, Ella came around the table fast, knocking aside one of her girls who came running to help Lynn. Then she made towards the wild tangle of arms, legs and thrashing, writhing bodies of the fighting girls. Braden caught her arm, holding her back.
“Easy, Ella,” he growled. “You’ll have a riot on your hands if you try and stop them. It’s Beth’s fault, she shouldn’t have come here.”
“Yahoo!” howled Darkie White as Beth swung a wild slap which staggered Lynn across the room. “Up the BM.” The girls met again, tangling like two enraged wildcats. They tripped and crashed to the floor, rolling over and over, swinging wild slaps and waving their legs as they fought. They screamed in anger, squealed as a fist landed, each struggling to try and pin the other girl down. Lynn was used to tangling with tough saloon girls, she expected no trouble in dealing with this girl from outside. She found her mistake fast enough for Beth, despite her upbringing and eastern schooling, was just as strong and fit as Lynn herself. She’d learned how to take care of herself in her tomboy childhood and in the wild tangle gave as good as she got.
The entire crowd in the saloon, even the hardened drinkers, formed a large circle around the fighting girls, yelling their approval and encouragement. The cowhands were almost all rooting for Beth. She was one of them and they wanted to see her hand the other girl her needings. The saloon girls were just as wildly cheering Lynn, hoping to see the townswoman who’d trespassed on their domain beaten.
The two girls rolled apart and forced themselves to their feet, standing with legs braced apart, hair disheveled and gasping for breath.
“Had enough?” gasped Lynn, hitching up her pants.
Beth licked the blood which trickled from the side of her mouth. Then she swung a wild punch which staggered Lynn backwards into the bar. Lynn hung there for a moment and as Beth came to her, lowered her head to butt into her and resume the wild fight. They reeled backwards, fighting just as wildly as before and went down again, neither able to gain any advantage over the other.
Big Molly, one of the bartenders, forced her way to Ella’s side, watching the exhausted girls for a moment, then asked: “Want me to stop them?”
“You try and you’d have all the cowhands to deal with,” replied Ella. She saw Bix Smith and Simon Girty in the crowd and shook her head in answer to the unspoken word of the old first deputy.
Lynn and Beth were on their feet now, struggling weakly as they staggered backwards. Lynn felt herself hit the edge of a table; Beth was pushing swinging slaps at her face and, trying to avoid punishment, Lynn went backwards on to the table top. Beth’s reaction was automatic and instinctive. She lunged on to the table, on top of Lynn, trying to bang the other girl’s head against the hard wood. Beth was exhausted, she could hardly breathe and the other girl’s face appeared to be whirling before her eyes. She felt Lynn struggle weakly beneath her, then she rolled off and Lynn was throwing a leg astride her. With the last of her strength Beth twisted Lynn from her. Locked in each other’s arms they rolled across the top of the table.
Seeing what was going to happen, Ella started forward. She was too late, for the girls rolled off the table and crashed to the floor. They lit down side by side and came apart, flopping on their backs, then laying still. Apart from the heaving of their breasts, neither girl made a move; they’d been all but exhausted on the table and the fall finished the fight.
Ella was the first to get to the girls. She dropped on to her knees and looked down nervously at each of them in turn, showing as much concern over Beth as she did over Lynn. She looked up at Braden, who was by her side, and there was something like relief on her face. She’d seen cat-fights in plenty while running a saloon and knew that neither girl was seriously hurt. They’d both got the makings of a black eye, a bloody nose and a swollen lip, but there was no serious injury. Tenderly she pulled Beth’s tom-open shirt together and then looked at the cheering, wildly excited crowd. There was one way of getting rid of them and she took it.
“Drinks on the house, Madge. Belly up to the bar and drink to a pair of real game gals, boys!”
The words brought the desired result, there was a rush for the bar. A few of the saloon girls gathered around and one looked at the dirty, sweat-streaked and bruised faces. “They look a helluva lot alike,” she said.
Ella stared at the girl and there was a real fear in her eyes. “Get among the crowd, you bunch!” she ordered. “Keep them talking.”
The girls went, not knowing what brought on a sudden hard note in their boss’s voice and put it to her worry about the fight. Ella let out a long sigh, then looked at Seth Braden as he bent over Beth.
“Poor lil Beth,” he said gently. “She’ll be stiff’n a dead polecat tomorrow morning. I’ll put her in the back of the wagon and get her home.”
“Keep her in town,” Ella suggested.
“Nope,” replied Braden, picking the girl up, then calling for the rest of the BM hands. “See you next time I come in, Ella.”
Ella nodded in reply, then told Big Madge to help Lynn to her room. The big blonde woman lifted Lynn up and made her way across the room to the stairs which led to the upper part of the building.
“That gal of your’n sure can fight, Ella,” whooped one of the men who’d been in the card game with her.
“Yes, they can,” replied Ella, then stopped, her face even more pale.
However, the man did not appear to have noticed the way she put the words and turned to the card table once more. Her attention was no longer on the game, for she was worried. The girl’s remark, or her own slip of the tongue, almost brought out Ella’s secret, the secret that not even Lynn shared with her.
Before the fight could be discussed too much there was a more than welcome interruption. The local Judge came in with the news that Drifter Smith was elected sheriff with a large majority. There was only one snag now, the young Texan was not back from searching for the boy. If he was, he had not made his appearance at the saloon. Bix slipped out, at Ella’s suggestion, to head for the jail and see if he could find the youngster.
The jail office was empty, but when Bix opened the door of the living quarters, he saw something which worried him, Waco’s gunbelt, with the matched, staghorn-butted Colts, lay on the bed with his star. There was no sign of him, nor had there been his big paint outside. Thinking the young Texan might be tending to his horse, Bix looked out back, his eyes going to the horses belonging to the five hold-up men, in the civic pound. Waco’s big paint stallion did not take kindly to strange horses, so the young Texan might have taken the horse to the livery barn for the night.
It was unusual for him to walk the street without his gunbelt, but he did have his rifle and the barn was not far enough away.
Bix checked on his prisoners, then headed back to the Twin Bridge Saloon. He walked in and immediately Molly, one of the bartenders, came forward. “Ella’d like to see you in the office, Bix,” she said.
Bix went to the small side room Ella used as an office. He knocked and opened the door. The moment he stepped inside he knew there was something badly wrong. It showed on Simon’s face and on Ella’s. Bix could never remember when he had seen her so worried.
“Is he there?” Ella asked.
“Nope, his gunbelt’s on the bed. I figger he’s gone to the livery barn with his hoss—”
“He’s in trouble!” Ella interrupted. “Wharton shot him, his horse carried him out of town.”
“What!” bellowed Bix. “I’ll go out there’n’ I’ll tear Wharton’s heart out with my bare hands.”
“Sit down and keep quiet!” Ella ordered, knowing the old deputy was real likely to do just what he said. “You can’t do Waco any good tonight. I don’t know for certain what’s happened. Listen, at dawn tomorrow I want you to take out and try to trail Waco. I’ll fix it that if he’s hurt, or you can’t find him, there will be a letter from him, explaining why he’s not here. I’ll want the jail log again to do it.”
“Go git it,” Bix ordered and Simon left the room, headed for the jail. Bix went on: “How’d you get to know, Ella?”
“A friend told me Wharton came to the Guesthouse in a hurry and told Kyte, who called Von Schnabel over and told him.”
Bix asked no more questions. He knew Ella would never tell him who the friend was and did not blame her. Whoever it was who worked for Ella at the Guesthouse Saloon was taking a big chance. One slip would mean almost certain death.
The old deputy was worried. The previous sheriff was murdered and they’d never been able to find the man who did the killing. Now Waco might also be dead.
Ella was a worried woman as she made the arrangements for the forged letter to be written. Waco might be dead, it was likely he was. If so she would have to try and stall Von Schnabel as long as she could. It might be that she would have to do as her daughter wished, call on Butch Cassidy to help her out.
The office door opened and Lynn limped in. The girl’s face was washed and no longer bleeding but her right eye was a beautiful shiner. She’d tucked her shirt into her trousers again but had not changed.
Lynn looked distinctly uneasy, she knew her mother did not like cat-fights or trouble in the saloon and expected a severe bawling out. “I’m sorry, maw,” she said contritely. “Who was she?”
“Your—a girl who owns a ranch in the back country,” Ella replied.
“I couldn’t lift my gun against her, maw. I don’t know why, but I couldn’t do it.”
Ella slipped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, squeezing her gently. “I’m pleased you didn’t, dear. Now you get to your room, have a bath and go to bed.”
Lynn left the room and Bix Smith entered, followed by Frank Derringer, the gambler. He smiled a greeting, then the smile died as he saw that this was more than a social call. He knew Ella too well to think otherwise; the woman was clearly worried and he’d played poker with her enough to know how good a poker-face she possessed. He took the chair Ella indicated and sat back.
“How well do you know Drifter Smith, Frank?” asked Ella.
“You mean Waco, don’t you?” he replied.
“We mean Waco,” agreed Ella, cutting through Bix’s angry growl.
“I served as a special deputy with him under Dusty Fog in Mulrooney. Taught him some about cards. We’re old friends. I didn’t let on we knew each other. I’d heard about that trouble down in Arizona and didn’t want to tip his hand. Couldn’t say I knew him, not after he didn’t take me in for killing that cardshark.”
“He’s in trouble,” said Ella.
The relaxation left Derringer and he sat up straight, his face suddenly hard and cold. “Tell it, ma’am,” he snapped.
Ella told all she knew, the gambler not speaking until she finished, then growling out a threat to kill Wharton on sight. Ella shook her head:
“That won’t help, or I’d do it myself.”
“I heard shooting, was playing in a big stake game along at the Hotel,” Derringer remarked. “I’ll start playing at the Guesthouse from now on, see if I can get some certain proof. There’ll be three men coming along. If anything happened to the boy, they’ll just about tear this town apart, board by board.”
“Who do you mean?” asked Ella.
“Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. Waco’s closer’n any brother to them three and they’ll be here as soon as they get word. They’ll just about tear Two Forks into lil pieces if they don’t get the right answers.”
Bix left the office and headed for the jail. He found Simon with disturbing news. The five prisoners had obtained a key to the cell and were gone. The old deputy cursed savagely, but there was nothing much he could do. The following morning, Von Schnabel and several cronies arrived breathing fire and smoke over the escape of the prisoners. The German’s insistence on seeing the new sheriff was answered by Bix handing him a sheet of paper. The German began to read and his face showed a mixture of anger and disbelief.
“Bix,” he read. “Heard I was elected sheriff. I’m headed out for the range, want to take a look around and see about this rustling that’s going on. I’ll see you in a week or so. Take care of the town and don’t let any gals get hold of your whiskers while I’m gone.”
He compared the writing on the paper with the entry on the page of the jail log, recording Waco’s finding of the boy and return to town, then departure to investigate the rustling. The writing was identical, that he was sure of.
So Von Schnabel was left with no option but to take the word of the letter. He could not announce that one of his men claimed to have bushwacked and run the new sheriff out of town He tried to stir up public opinion over the escape of the rive men, but most folks were inclined to scoff at it. The men had taken nothing in the hold-up, were not badly wanted elsewhere, so their escape saved the county the cost of a trial. Folks regarded Waco’s disappearance as yet another proof of their new sheriff’s willingness to get on with his work. They thought he was giving good value for his money.
A week passed slowly by, the town remained quiet, held down by a rejuvenated pair of tough deputies. Frank Derringer played in the games at the Guesthouse, his eyes often on Matt Kyte, who was by now almost always accompanied by Ben Wharton.
The town was quiet, to most people it was peaceful and calm. To Ella Baker, Frank Derringer and the two deputies it was merely the lull before the storm broke.