‘Who are they, Comanche?’ Emma Nene asked, throwing a worried look around.
‘Soldiers, sound of it,’ the Kid replied. ‘Ain’t nobody else makes all that much clatter ’n’ jingling.’
‘How many of them?’ Dusty demanded, for he could only just make out the faint sound of hooves.
‘Four, five maybe,’ estimated the Kid. ‘No more’n that, anyways.’
‘What color hosses’re they on?’ Waco challenged cheerfully.
Having brought their assignment to a successful conclusion, the youngster could see nothing to be concerned about from the presence of the soldiers.
‘Have they seen us?’ Hubert wanted to know, not sharing Waco’s feelings on the subject.
‘I’d say “yes” to that,’ the Kid drawled. ‘Leastwise, they’re headed right slap at us.’
‘What’re we going to do?’ yelped the pretty red-haired girl who had been Waco’s escort in Hell.
‘How’s about you-all taking them on tooth ’n’ claw, Red-gal,’ Waco suggested. ‘You can hold ’em off long enough for the rest of us to get away.’
‘Like hell I will!’ the girl snorted. ‘Only I’d hate to have them find out what’s in the wagon.’
‘And me!’ Hubert agreed. ‘So how do we play it, Ed?’
‘Make out you’re a bunch of saloon-folk headed for work in Colorado,’ Dusty decided. ‘You’d best hide in the wagon, Belle. Matt, Comanch’ and me, we’re cowhands stopping by for the night. Play it that way and everything’ll be fine.’
Even as he finished speaking, Dusty became aware of Emma Nene’s eyes on him. There was more than a hint of suspicion in her scrutiny and he could guess at its cause. Whilst walking with her and Belle, he had disclosed his true identity and made her an offer. In return for their help in Hell, Emma, Belle and Giselle Lampart would each receive fifty thousand dollars. The rest of Emma’s party were to be given ten thousand dollars apiece. That was less than any of them, with the exception of Belle, had anticipated; but it was backed by the small Texan’s assurance that he would not mention their connection with the town. All in all, it was a generous offer.
Up to Dusty’s speech, Emma had apparently been satisfied with the arrangement. Having seen the small Texan and his companions in action at Hell, she had known there was little her party could do other than accept. The three men and Belle Starr could nullify any protest. His words had created doubts. Instead of realizing that the subterfuge was for her and the other Hell’s citizens’ benefit, she had started to wonder if he really was Ed Caxton, wanted for murdering and robbing a U.S. Army paymaster.
There was no time for the small Texan to go into an explanation, even if—which he doubted—the blonde would be inclined to believe it. So he decided to say nothing further to Emma. In the interests of self-preservation, she would be unlikely to betray him.
Nearer came the sound of the hooves, mingled with the creaking of saddle leather and faint jingling of metal accoutrements which civilian travelers did not find necessary. Instinctively the Kid edged to where his Winchester Model 1866 rifle rested on the seat of the saddle he would be using as a pillow. Waco ambled across to stand alongside Dusty. Going to the wagon, Belle Starr swung herself on to its box and disappeared inside. The rest of the party remained around the fire.
‘Hello, the camp!’ bawled a voice. ‘U.S. Cavalry here. Can we come in?’
‘Answer him, Hubert!’ Dusty growled when the bartender looked for guidance. ‘It’s you they’ll expect it from.’
‘C—Come ahead,’ the bartender replied.
Led by a tall, broad-shouldered young 2nd Lieutenant, a sergeant and three troopers rode from amongst the trees. They drew rein by the line of horses picketed on the fringe of the firelight and swung from their saddles. While the enlisted men stood by their mounts, the officer crossed to the fire. As he walked, his eyes darted from side to side and he seemed to be examining his surroundings with some care.
‘My names’s Kitson, 4th Cavalry, ladies, gents,’ the officer introduced. ‘Is it all right if me and my men share your fire?’
‘Feel free,’ Hubert offered, darting another look in Dusty’s direction. ‘Coffee’s on the boil and we’re going to cook up supper.’
‘Thanks,’ Kitson answered, turning a quick glance in the direction the bartender had looked. ‘We didn’t expect to meet anybody out this way.’
‘We’ve come up from Paducah,’ Hubert explained, selecting the only town he knew to be roughly south of their position. ‘Headed to work at the Bon Ton House in Denver.’
‘All of you?’ queried the officer.
‘These three young fellers met up with us around sundown,’ the bartender replied.
‘We’re on our way home from a trail drive, mister,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘The folks were good enough to let us stay on here for the night.’
‘Huh huh!’ Kitson grunted in a matter-of-fact manner, as if three cowhands were beneath his serious notice. ‘I’ll fetch my men along. I want to warn them about their behavior.’
Swinging around, the officer strode away. Dusty watched him go, deciding that under the slightly pompous nature—which was only to be expected in a young 2nd Lieutenant—Kitson was most likely a capable soldier and popular leader. Certainly the enlisted men listened attentively to his low spoken words and showed no resentment, although they all had the appearance of long service.
After Kitson had finished speaking, each of the troopers unclipped his carbine from the leather sling draped diagonally over his left shoulder to the right hip. None of the Texans saw anything suspicious in the move. The carbine sling, a sixty inch long, three inch wide leather strap fitted with a polished steel ring and snap-hook, had become a standard issue to the U.S. Cavalry during the War Between the States. That had been brought about by the tendency of Union commanding officers to make their mounted men fight on foot. A combination of the sling and carbine-ring had ensured that the weapon was always in its user’s possession. However, the Springfield Model of 1870 carbine weighed seven pounds fifteen ounces—no mean burden to have dangling at one’s side. Experienced men would not leave their carbines on the slings in a friendly camp, but would pile them in a neat, easily-separated pyramid close to the fire.
Fanning out in a casual-seeming manner, the soldiers walked towards the civilians. Suddenly, the troopers’ carbines lifted and lined on the Texans. With fair speed, considering the awkward manner in which the United States’ Army insisted that its personnel carried their revolvers, Kitson and his sergeant produced Colt Cavalry Peacemakers from their holsters.
‘Don’t move, or we’ll shoot you where you stand!’ Kitson snapped, thumbing back the Colt’s hammer and lining its muzzle on Dusty’s chest.
‘What—?’ Hubert croaked, starting to rise.
‘Don’t be alarmed, sir,’ Kitson replied, without taking his attention from the small Texan. ‘Your visitors are our concern. They’re Ed and Matt Caxton and the other one’s name is Comanche Blood.’
‘Lands sakes a-mercy!’ Emma gasped, right hand fluttering to her mouth. ‘The men who robbed that paymaster and murdered all his men?’
‘That’s them, ma’am,’ the sergeant confirmed and his revolver lined unerringly at the Kid. ‘Paddy Magoon was a good friend of mine.’
Dusty could have cursed the unexpected turn of events. After leaving Hell, he and his amigos had shaved off the beards grown to lessen the chances of them being recognized. Unfortunately, the recognition had finally come from an entirely different source. That figured. Kitson had the look of a competent, efficient officer. So he would be unlikely to have forgotten the descriptions of the three men accused of robbing an Army paymaster and murdering his whole escort. What was more, he had been smart enough to plan the best way in which to arrest the trio. When the story came out, a number of Yankee officers who had served in Arkansas were going to have red faces. None of them had come anywhere near to capturing Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog.
Apart from the embarrassment which would be caused for various officers, there was another and more immediate point to consider. How could Dusty, the Kid and Waco evade capture without implicating Emma’s party with the town of Hell? Or prevent Belle Starr from being arrested? Dusty had promised that his helpers would go free, without even being connected to the town, and he always believed in keeping his word.
One thing was for certain. Dusty knew that convincing Kitson of the truth would be anything but easy. The very nature of the deception had rendered impossible the carrying of written proof of the trio’s true identity. Angered at the story which had been circulated, the soldiers would be unlikely to accept the mere word of men they believed had cold-bloodedly murdered several of their comrades in arms.
Unless, of course, they had no other choice but to accept.
Attaining that desirable situation would not be easy, if it was to be done without the help of Hubert and the women.
‘Let your gunbelts fall,’ Kitson ordered. ‘Left-handed and real slow.’
‘You’ve got us dead to rights, mister,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Best we do what he says, boys.’
‘We can save a whole heap of fussing if we just shoot ’em now,’ muttered the burly soldier covering Dusty.
‘Shut off that kind of talk, Brill!’ Kitson snapped. ‘I’ll have no more of it from you.’
That removed one worry from Dusty’s mind. No matter what his personal feelings might be, the lieutenant did not intend to carry out any private revenge on his captives. Nor did he mean to let his escort do so. Although the other enlisted men showed their dislike of the trio, none of them appeared to be openly supporting Brill’s point of view.
Studying Brill, with eyes which read his character as if it had been printed on his sullen face, Dusty decided that he would offer the best opportunity to turn the tables on their captors.
Freeing the pigging thongs which held the tips of the holsters to his thighs, Dusty unbuckled and lowered the gunbelt to his feet. All the time, he studied Brill with an infuriatingly mocking sneer. He could see the soldier’s indignation rising. Which was just what the small Texan wanted to happen.
Waco and the Kid followed Dusty’s example, satisfied that he had some plan for their salvation in mind.
‘Back away from the belts,’ Kitson commanded, as he continued to advance with Brill at his side.
‘Could be you’re making a mistake, mister,’ Dusty remarked, standing his ground. ‘We don’t know anything about—’
‘You heard the lieutenant!’ Brill barked, delighted that the short-grown son-of-a-bitch had presented him with an opportunity. Striding ahead of Kitson, he directed the muzzle of his Springfield in a savage thrust towards Dusty’s midsection. ‘Move b—!’
Offered his chance, Dusty took it with devastating speed. In his eagerness to strike, Brill had inserted his big frame between the small Texan and the barrel of Kitson’s revolver.
‘Get out—!’ the lieutenant bawled.
Like a flash, Dusty’s right hand cupped under the Springfield’s barrel and jerked it out of alignment. At the same moment, his left hand closed over the carbine’s breech from above. Although Brill had involuntarily squeezed the trigger, the outside hammer was halted by the small Texan’s hand before it could reach the head of the firing pin.
Finding his weapon grasped with surprising strength and turned from its target, Brill’s first inclination was to reverse its direction. Instantly Dusty changed his twisting motion to the way in which the soldier intended it to go. Dusty’s response took Brill by surprise. Pivoting slightly on his left foot, he plucked the carbine from the soldier’s hands. Snapping it back, Dusty propelled the butt against the side of its owner’s jaw and knocked him staggering.
Attracted by the commotion, the soldier covering Waco allowed his attention to wander. Watching the carbine swing towards Dusty, the youngster sprang forward. Taking his hold with both hands gripping from above, Waco felt the soldier trying to pull back from his grasp. Up swung the youngster’s right foot to ram into the soldier’s belly. Sinking into a sitting position, he dragged the trooper off balance. By rolling on to his back, pulling down with his hands and thrusting his foot upwards, Waco caused his assailant to turn a half somersault through the air. With a startled yell, the trooper lost his hold on the carbine and landed upon his back beyond Waco’s head.
Like Waco’s watcher, the sergeant and third trooper heard the disturbance. They matched their companion’s reaction in starting to turn away from their charge. Although the Kid immediately made his play, he was all too aware of the dangers doing so entailed. The non-com and the soldier were experienced fighting men. So they had halted well beyond the Kid’s reach and sufficiently far apart for him to be unable to launch a simultaneous attack on them. Any other way he tried it would likely prove fatal for him.
However, the chance had to be taken. If not, either Dusty or Waco would die. While one of them kept the Kid covered, the other soldier would turn and shoot at their companions’ attackers. Sure enough, the sergeant was already swinging his attention back to the Kid and the trooper made as if to throw up and sight his carbine towards Dusty.
Cutting loose with a ringing Pehnane scalp-yell, the Kid hurled himself into motion. He went forward in a swift dive, aiming for the sergeant’s legs. So swiftly did he move that he passed under the barrel of the Colt as its wielder tried to throw down on him. Enfolding his arms about the yellow-striped, blue breeches’ knees, the Kid jerked them together and heaved. Thrown off balance, the non-com sent a bullet harmlessly into the air. Then his back smashed on to the ground with enough force to jolt all the air from his lungs. Wriggling forward with desperate speed, the Kid tried to drop alongside the dazed non-com and used his body as a shield. From the rapid way in which the third trooper was turning and handling the Springfield, the Kid would not be fast enough.
Having disposed of Brill, Dusty continued to move with planned alacrity. He put himself in Kitson’s place and decided that the officer would expect him to keep the trooper between them. So he went the other way. That carried him in the direction of the fire. Dusty was gambling on Kitson being taken by surprise, but also that he would remain calm enough to think.
Baffled by Dusty’s actions, Kitson attempted to change his point of aim. Instantly a difficulty arose. If he fired and missed, his bullet would fly towards the—as he assumed—innocent people around the fire. Rather than endanger the women, the lieutenant was determined to be certain of where his lead would end its flight.
With the Springfield lifting and lining at him, the Kid figured that his life expectancy was getting shorter by the second. The shot which cracked out did not come from any Army carbine. Struck on the fore grip by a bullet the Springfield spun unfired from the trooper’s hands. He gave a yelp of surprise and spun around to see who had intervened. Although his right hand was clawing at the flap of his revolver’s holster, he refrained from completing the motion.
Standing inside the wagon, left knee bent and its foot resting on the back of the driver’s seat, Belle Starr cradled the butt of her Winchester Model of 1866 carbine in the firing position. Smoke curled from its muzzle, which did not mean that it was now harmless. Unlike the single-shot Springfield issued to the Cavalry, her weapon was a twelve-shot repeater. Down and up flicked her right hand, operating the loading lever which automatically ejected the empty case, cocked the hammer and fed a live cartridge into the chamber. She made the movement with such deft ease that the Winchester .44/28 caliber barrel never wavered in its alignment on the soldier’s chest.
Belle had guessed at Dusty’s predicament, and so had been prepared to lend a hand at the opportune moment. Collecting her carbine from the wagon, she had remained concealed and cut in most effectively to save the Kid’s life.
Throwing a grateful glance at his rescuer, the Kid rolled from the sergeant and snatched up the other’s discarded Peacemaker. Usually the Indian-dark Texan professed to despise the new metallic-cartridge Colt, but he admitted silently that one of them could feel right comforting to a man’s hand given the correct conditions.
Advancing slightly to the right of Kitson, Dusty raised the borrowed carbine vertically and flung it at him. It struck the officer’s gun-wrist with numbing force. Deflected aside and downwards, the Colt cracked. Dirt erupted a few feet from Kitson’s feet as the bullet plowed in. Giving the officer no time to recover, Dusty changed direction. Gliding in, he clamped both hands on to Kitson’s right wrist. Carrying the trapped limb into the air, Dusty pivoted below it and snapped it downwards sharply. Unable to help himself, Kitson felt his feet leave the ground. Turning upside-down in mid-flight, he landed rump-first and lost his hold on the revolver. Releasing his grip, Dusty scooped up the Colt. Cocking its hammer, he turned to see if his amigos required assistance.
Going by all appearances, the Kid and Waco had contrived to deal with their share of the soldiers and were unharmed. The blond youngster was sitting up and lowering the carbine he had been lining on Kitson. Knowing Waco’s sense of loyalty, Dusty figured that the lieutenant had come mighty close to being shot. Beyond a scared-looking trooper and recumbent sergeant, the Kid was rising. He looked a mite guilty as he noticed Dusty’s pointed glance at the long barreled Peacemaker in his hand.
‘I figured it’d make a good club,’ the Kid excused himself.
‘Most times he wouldn’t even say that,’ grinned Waco, following the direction of Dusty’s gaze and guessing what had prompted the Kid’s comment.
From his companions, Dusty turned his attention to the rest of the camp. Giving a grateful nod to Belle in passing, he studied the people from Hell. Emma Nene’s face showed a mixture of disappointment and relief. All the saloon girls had stood up and none hid her pleasure at seeing that the three Texans were back in control of the situation. Worry etched lines on Hubert’s face as he waited to see how the ‘Caxton brothers’ and ‘Comanche Blood’ would deal with the soldiers. By all accounts, they had wiped out a colonel and his escort to steal a payroll. So they would be unlikely to let the cavalrymen survive. Smarter than the girls, Hubert could foresee bad trouble ahead if the lieutenant and his men were murdered. Yet he knew of no way that he could prevent it happening.
Only Giselle Lampart appeared unmoved, either by the Texans’ escape or over the soldiers’ possible fate. Small, brunette, with a beautiful, vivacious face, she wore a gingham dress that suggested her figure would have matched that of Belle or Emma if she had been their height. Her eyes darted around in an inquisitive manner and Dusty sensed that she was waiting eagerly for him to order the cavalrymen’s deaths.
‘Well!’ Kitson gritted, rising to face Dusty. ‘Get on with it, you murdering son-of-a-bitch.’
‘Like I said,’ the small Texan replied, accepting the insult as having been spoken by a man under great stress. ‘Could be you’ve made a mistake.’
Shaking his head to clear it, Brill swung towards Dusty. Hate blazed on the soldier’s face. Unmindful of the revolver in the small Texan’s hand, the surly trooper clawed open his holster. Something hissed viciously through the air. A screech burst from Brill’s lips and, forgetting the weapon he had meant to draw, his hands clutched wildly at the feathered shaft of an arrow which had penetrated his chest so deeply that its barbed head had emerged at the back.
War-whoops shattered the night and several Kweharehnuh Comanche warriors burst into the firelight from all sides of the camp.