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 before 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 forward 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.
Skilled as Smith otherwise was at defending himself without weapons, at that moment he was grateful for some added knowledge he had acquired while at the OD Connected ranch. Having watched Danny Okasi instructing the Blaze twins in some effective bare-handed fighting techniques he had not previously come across, he had Obtained permission to join the lessons. One trick he had acquired was intended to cope with just such a position as he now found himself in.
Removing his hands and feeling the constriction begin to be inflicted without impediment, Smith clenched them into fists and thrust their extended thumbs against the very sensitive area just below the base of the ears and behind the angle of the jaw bone. When he had been subjected to such an attack by the little samurai, albeit with far less force than he was now applying, he had found the pain sufficient to make him release the ‘bear-hug’ hold he had been employing. Feeling as if his ribs were on the point of caving in, he hoped there would the same response from the Dumb Ox.
For what seemed to Smith to be far longer than was the case, nothing happened!
Then, just as blackness threatened to engulf the Texan and his strength was almost gone, the terrible constriction ended!
Making awesome sounds indicative of rage, the Mexican opened his arms and gave a thrust with his belly. Doing so sent Smith staggering and he was saved from falling by reaching the open door of an empty stall. Catching hold of it, he hung there gasping breathlessly albeit in relief.
Instead of following immediately, the Dumb Ox clasped at his ears. Then, again letting out an inarticulate bellow, he charged forward.
‘Kill the bastard, gringo,’ Javier shrieked.
The young man’s never even temper was already aroused by the condition to which he had been reduced through employing heroin as a substitute for cocaine. Its effect was causing a bitter resentment of the treatment, although this was on the orders of his elder brother, to which he was being subjected at the hands of the enormous Mexican.
Brief though the respite had been, Smith’s head had cleared sufficiently for him to be able to assess and take steps to avoid the danger. Although he heard the exhortation and saw how it might be turned to his advantage later, provided he survived the encounter with the Dumb Ox, he had no time to acknowledge it. Instead, shoving himself from the gate, he swerved and snapped a kick with his right foot at the rapidly approaching giant. Reaching its intended target with the skill instilled by the savate fighter who had taught him such tactics, he found the impact from the ball of his foot failed to produce anything like the result he anticipated.
Despite letting out a grunt, the Dumb Ox gave no other sign of having received punishment which would have caused a less muscularly endowed man to be winded and driven into a retreat, if not close to incapacitated. Instead, he made a grab and, catching his assailant’s ankle before it could be withdrawn, gave a twisting heave. Feeling himself once more being thrown and unable to retain his equilibrium, the Texan had cause to be grateful for the ability he had acquired as a horseman. Instead of trying to stop his headlong rush, he relaxed and went to the floor in a rolling plunge. Although it carried him almost to the wall, he halted in control of his movements. Glancing around as he came into a kneeling posture, he saw his assailant lumbering after him. His revolver lay too far away for him to hope to reach it in time, but he noticed something else closer at hand which he considered might serve his purpose just as well.
Reaching out swiftly with both hands, Smith gathered up the object which had come to his attention. It was the kind of horizontal crossbar from a wagon known as a ‘singletree’ lii, to which the ends of the harness’ traces were attached. Made from a sturdy piece of wood, with the ends tipped by metal, it proved to be a most efficient extemporized weapon. Thrusting himself upwards, with a twisting sidestep which once again carried him clear of the massive fingers reaching to take hold of him, he pivoted and rammed one end of the device with all the strength he could muster into the Mexican’s lower body.
Despite the way in which he had withstood the effects of the kick, on this occasion the Dumb Ox was unable to do so. All the air gushed from his body in a strangled roar. Starting to fold at the waist, he stumbled away from his attacker. However, regardless of his obvious distress, Smith did not dare hesitate over what to do next. Nor, having heard of the way in which the huge Mexican had dealt with one man who aroused the wrath of Teodoro Fuentes in Flamingo—only the production of ‘witnesses’ to imply self defense was responsible for the fatal injuries inflicted when Tobin had brought him to trial saving him from dire consequences—did the Texan have any compunctions over the response which was launched. Bringing up and around the singletree, he crashed it against the back of the lowered bare skull with considerable force. Bone splintered and the Dumb Ox collapsed as if he had suddenly been filleted. Even as he was falling, his assailant heard several sets of running feet approaching the stable.
‘What the hell’s happened?’ Teodoro Fuentes demanded in Spanish, dashing through the front entrance followed by several hard faced and well armed Anglos and Mexicans.
Amazed by what he had seen and more than a little worried over how his part in the affair would be received by his sibling, although the question was directed at him, Javier did not reply!
‘I thought that jasper was going to rob your brother,’ Smith claimed, employing his native tongue and, tossing aside the singletree, going to retrieve his Colt. Although the men accompanying Teodoro had formed a rough half circle, they made no attempt to stop him. ‘So, knowing who he was, I cut in.’
‘You know my brother?’ Teodoro inquired, having glared down at the motionless body without showing concern or any other emotion.
‘Not enough to go over and say, “Howdy you-all, Mr. Fuentes” and have him come back with, “Howdy you-all, Mr. McCabe”,’ the Texan admitted, truthfully as far as it went. ‘But I saw him when I come into Flamingo to see what was doing thereabouts. Checking the revolver was not affected by its fall and, when satisfied, returning it to its holster, he continued, ‘Which’s why I billed in. I usually tend to my own never-mind, but I’m smart enough to know it’s good to stand in well with the boss of any outfit and reckoned that’s what I’d do happen I saved your brother.’
‘You saved him, that’s for sure,’ an especially villainous looking Mexican stated in bad English, having crossed to examine the figure on the floor. He was somewhat better dressed than all of his compatriots with the exception of the brothers. Turning his gaze to Teodoro, on whose heels he had followed ahead of the rest, he reverted to Spanish. ‘The Dumb Ox’s dead, patron!’
‘Do that “muerto” mean the jasper’s cashed in his chips, Mr. Fuentes?’ Smith inquired, wanting to give the impression his knowledge of Spanish was less extensive than was the case.
‘It does!’ Teodoro confirmed.
‘That figures,’ the Texan admitted. ‘Feller with his heft, I didn’t aim to take chances with him. He come close to making wolf bait of me afore I got loose and laid into him with that singletree.’
‘Damn it!’ Teodoro snapped. ‘He was my man!’
‘I’m right sorry about that,’ Smith asserted, looking as if he was speaking the truth. ‘Only, way they come in here and your brother yelled to be turned loose, I reckoned he’d got robbery or worse in mind and went to make him stop.’
‘You thought somebody would dare to rob my brother?’ Teodoro snorted.
‘Most folks’d likely have a heap more sense,’ Smith replied. ‘But that big jasper looked a whole lot too mean and stupid to give thought to who-all the feller he was fixing to rob might be kin to. Anyways, your brother didn’t do nothing to try to make him stop when he jumped me. Pact being, he yelled for me to kill the son-of-a-bitch. So how was I to know how-all things stood?’
‘I don’t remember seeing you around Flamingo,’ growled the evil visaged Mexican—who might have had a sign reading ‘hired pistolero’ stamped on him, his trade was so obvious —before Teodoro could answer.
‘I can’t bring to mind seeing you there, neither,’ Smith countered. ‘Fact being, I rode in on Sunday and, afore I could get to meet Mr. Fuentes, I heard tell he’d lit a shuck over the Rio Grande.’
‘Well I’ll be damned!’ ejaculated a white man standing slightly behind the Texan. He had features as close to villainous in cast as those of the Mexican pistolero and they were not improved by a black patch over his right eye. ‘Will you just take a look at his back!’
‘How did this happen?’ Teodoro inquired, as Smith moved until allowing the tear made across his shirt and his exposed back to be brought into view.
‘Me and the marshal in Trubshawe couldn’t see eye to eye about something,’ the Texan lied, realizing how he might turn to his advantage the still visible marks left by the inducement he had had inflicted while accustoming himself to the changed position of his holstered Colt. Aware it was common knowledge that the peace officer in question frequently engaged in such methods, liii he felt sure his explanation would be considered credible. ‘The son-of-a-bitch had me whipped while I was in the pokey and I couldn’t get at him after I was loose to thank him.’ Adopting an attitude which implied he regarded the matter closed, he gestured at the body of the Dumb Ox and went on in a tone of annoyance, ‘After this, I reckon I won’t be getting hired.’