‘Was I a suspicious man, which nobody could right truthfully say I am,’ announced the Ysabel Kid, holding his rangy, mean-looking blue roan gelding to a steady, but mile-devouring walk. ‘I’d be asking myself just what did make those two gals conclude to come back to Hell with us.’
‘I’ve been thinking long on that myself,’ Waco drawled, keeping his black and white tobiano mount alongside the Kid’s blue roan. ‘And anybody’s likes can say I’m a suspicious man; as long as they do it polite and not twice on the same Sunday.’
‘Trouble being, you’ve got no pride,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Anyways, what’s all this-here thinking got you?’
‘Not a whole heap,’ the blond youngster admitted. ‘Was it just Emma, I’d say she’s going and hoping Dusty’ll take her to church ’n’ make a honest woman of her when we get back.’
‘Emma’s smart enough to know it’ll be more if than when we get back,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘Likewise, she’s smart enough to know there’s no chance of Dusty doing it.’
‘They do tell me all women’re a mite foolish and a whole heap hopeful when it comes to getting took to church and being made honest,’ Waco answered. ‘Could be Giselle’s going back to hear the will read, her being a widow-lady and all.’
‘She’s a widow, for sure, you saw to that,’ growled the Kid. ‘But I wouldn’t lay no “lady” brand on her.’
You mean she’s a man?’Waco demanded with carefully assumed interest.
‘I don’t know and I’m not caring,’ the Kid replied. ‘Was you wanting to find out, sneak off and look next time she goes. They do tell that women’re different from us.’
‘How, pappy?’
‘They squat, ’stead of standing when they only want to pee—or so I’ve allus heard tell.’
‘Now why’s they do that, would you say?’ Waco wanted to know.
‘You should’ve asked Red last night,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Likely she could’ve told you. I for sure don’t know.’
Despite their casually cheerful discussion, the Kid and Waco never relaxed in their ceaseless vigilance. Always their eyes searched the surrounding terrain and they carried their rifles instead of leaving them in the saddle boots. With the sun sinking towards the western horizon, they had already covered almost thirty miles of the journey back to Hell. That put them on the fringes of the Kweharehnuh’s stamping grounds and, if the Kid’s theory about Giselle Lampart should prove correct, moving deeper into danger with every sequence of their mounts’ hoof-beats. A quarter of a mile behind, Dusty Fog escorted the two subjects of his companions’ conversation.
The small Texan had not agreed to permit the women to accompany him without some argument, discussion and heart-searching. Nor was he yet convinced that he had acted for the best in concurring with Emma’s and Giselle’s demands to come along.
After the Kid had returned the previous night and said that the Kweharehnuh would be unlikely to come back, Dusty had organized things in a brisk, business-like manner which had won Lieutenant Kitson’s approval. In fact, there had been moments when the young officer had found himself on the point of snapping into a brace and answering ‘sir’ as Dusty had rattled out some command or instruction. By the time the bodies had been buried and the camp generally settled down, Kitson had been convinced that Dusty was telling him the truth and was willing to carry out his request for further assistance.
Taking advantage of the soldiers accompanying the Kid to search for the rest of their stampeded horses, Dusty had talked with the women. Although Red and the other saloon girl had not argued when they had been told they would each receive twenty thousand dollars—the increased amount having been granted as there was a smaller number to take shares—Giselle had sulked and pouted in her disappointment. She had been expecting a far greater sum than the fifty thousand dollars given to her and was inclined to be rebellious until Emma had intervened. Drawing the brunette aside, the blonde had talked quietly, but earnestly to her. At first Giselle had been in vehement disagreement with Emma’s proposals, but had finally and grudgingly yielded to them. Much to Dusty’s surprise, the blonde had then suggested that she and Giselle should return to Hell with the three Texans.
Dusty’s first instinct had been to refuse, for he had not underestimated the dangers of going back. Slowly, but surely, Emma had won her point and was granted permission. She had repeated her statement that Dusty, the Kid and Waco would not be popular with the citizens of Hell and had suggested that her presence and that of Giselle might be in the trio’s favor. On hearing why, Dusty had been compelled to admit that the blonde was making sense.
Before giving his permission, however, the small Texan had insisted on learning the real reason for the request. As he had suspected, Emma had financial rather than humanitarian motives. There was a fortune in jewelry at Hell and she hoped to lay hands upon some of it, Sufficient, in fact, to make up for the reduction in the sums she and Giselle had been forced to accept as their share of the mayor’s ill-gotten gains. To prevent a similar happening, Emma had extracted Dusty’s promise that any loot she and Giselle gathered would be their property and not handed over to the authorities.
Even with that much knowledge, Dusty might have refused; but Emma had pointed out that she might still have been able to ruin the good impression he had made on Kitson. There had also been the point of keeping Belle’s true identity a secret for Dusty to consider. Emma had hinted that she would tell the officer the truth and dispel his belief—due to carefully planted hints—that the lady outlaw was the Rebel Spy. There had been a heated scene between Belle and Emma which Dusty had ended by agreeing to the blonde’s suggestion.
Belle had once more requested to accompany Dusty’s party, although on less mercenary grounds than those of the blonde. Not only had Dusty refused, but he had obtained her agreement to deliver the money for him. Neither the Kid nor Waco had been surprised by the trust Dusty placed in the lady outlaw. Apart from her close relationship with Mark Counter, Belle had a strong sense of personal honor. Once she had given her word to carry out a project, she would do so without hesitation. The three Texans had been certain that when—or, as the Kid had said, if—they came back from Hell, they would learn that Belle had carried out her part in the assignment.
By the time the men had returned, everything had been settled. Each woman had collected her cut of the money and concealed it. Although Red and the other saloon girl had asked if they could ride with Dusty’s party, they had been persuaded to accompany Belle and the soldiers. Kitson had shown no hesitation about escorting Belle and the two girls to Wichita Falls and acting as custodian of the wagon’s load until such time as ‘the Rebel Spy’ could hand it over to Governor Howard. If he had been surprised by Dusty saying that Emma and Giselle would not be going with the other women, he had hidden it very well. That could have been due to the women’s stories. While the blonde and brunette had insisted that they were going to their original destination, the girls had declared that they only wanted to reach civilization as quickly as possible.
So everything had been arranged. Waco and Red had spent the night together and had parted at dawn without too great regrets. Knowing that nothing could come of their association, the girl had accepted that it had been enjoyable and profitable but was now at an end. Red was to put her windfall to good use, returning to her hometown, marrying well and settling down to a life of happiness and respectability. For his part, it would be a few more years before Waco met the girl who persuaded him to settle down in matrimony. 16
No fool, Kitson had noticed certain inconsistencies in the story he had been told. The signs of physical strife on the lady outlaw’s and Emma’s faces, taken with the money being in the wagon which the saloon workers had obviously been using, had pointed to the whole party travelling as a single unit. However he had been willing to accept that the blonde and her companions had helped Dusty and ‘the Rebel Spy’ to complete their assignment and asked no embarrassing questions. He had agreed to deliver a message to the Governor, requesting that the Army should move into the Palo Duro as soon as possible. Without mentioning the town, Dusty had given an accurate description of its location and asked that the soldiers be sent there.
Dusty, the Kid, Waco, Emma, Giselle and Belle had all offered up silent prayers that the Army would receive the news and reach the town in time to save it being wiped out by the Kweharehnuh.
Dawn had seen the two parties going their separate ways. After swinging to the north until hidden from Kitson’s view, to keep from adding to any suspicions he might have been harboring, Dusty and his companions had turned to the south west. By using the riding technique known as ‘posting the trot’, 17 they had made good time through the day. It had not been easy on the women, but, fortunately, both had done considerable riding in Hell and were fired by their eagerness to reach the safety of the town. ‘Safety’ would be a relative name for it, but at least they would have the buildings in which to shelter if they should be attacked by the Indians.
Unless, of course, the enraged citizens of Hell shot them on sight.
Their reception would depend upon the reaction to the story concocted by Emma and Dusty. If it was accepted, they might be spared by the citizens and would only need to worry about the Kweharehnuhs’ retaliation when it became obvious that no ammunition was forthcoming.
Bearing in mind the possibility that Giselle might have been the target of the Kweharehnuhs’ attack on the camp, Dusty had insisted upon taking precautions against ambush. The Kid and Waco had spent their time ranging ahead or on the flanks of the women’s line of march. Although there had been no sign of human life all day, the Texans did not regret having taken such preventive measures.
‘What do you reckon those folks’ll do when they see us riding in, Lon?’ Waco inquired, becoming more serious.
‘I’d say if they see us, it all depends on what we let ’em do,’ the Kid replied. ‘Or do you figure on Dusty taking us a-whooping and a-hollering, “Look, folks, we’re back!” along the main street comes high noon?’
‘I’ll let you go in front if he does,’ Waco promised. ‘It’s a pity you don’t have your ole Thunder hoss along. He’d surely look elegant a-heading the parade.’
Due to the necessity for avoiding the drawing of attention to similarities between their real identities and those of the ‘Caxton brothers’ and ‘Alvin “Comanche” Blood’, the trio had not been able to use their favorite horses on the assignment. The big paint studs often ridden by Dusty and Waco bore, respectively, the brands of the OD Connected and Clay Allison’s CA ranches.
Although it had never been branded, the Kid’s magnificent white stallion was too large and distinctive to be overlooked. By leaving it in the care of the OD Connected’s horse wrangler—one of the few people who could handle it in comparative safety—divesting himself of his usual all black clothing and refraining from demonstrating too much of his prowess with the Winchester or his bowie knife, the Kid had contrived to prevent the citizens and outlaws in Hell from suspecting whom he might be.
While speaking, Waco and the Kid had been climbing a ridge. They did not permit conversation to override caution. Instead of continuing over the rim, they halted below the sky-line. Elevating their heads, they peered at what lay on the other side.
‘Now there’s a feller who’s just asking to get hisself scalped,’ the Kid remarked.
Following the direction of his companion’s gaze, Waco was inclined to agree with the cryptic comment. About a quarter of a mile away, a man was riding across their front. Holding his big blue-black horse to an ambling walk, he traversed the bush-scattered terrain as if he did not have a care in the world. Tall, well built, with darkish hair, the man wore the dress and rig of a cowhand. He had on a low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson hat, red shirt, dark blue Levi’s pants which looked new and hung outside his high heeled, spur-decorated brown boots. A brown gunbelt about his middle carried an ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Peacemaker in a contoured, fast-draw holster on his right thigh. For all his appearance, he did not sit his range saddle like a cowhand. He was leading a well-laden pack horse at the end of a long line.
‘Could be he’s an owlhoot looking for Hell,’ Waco suggested.
‘Ways things are right now,’ the Kid drawled, ‘he’s likely to find it a whole lot sooner than he’d figured on. Only it won’t be the “Hell” he’s hunting.’
‘That’s for sure!’ Waco breathed, swinging his gaze from the rider. ‘You see ’em, Lon?’
‘Ten minutes back,’ the Kid exaggerated and twisted in his saddle to wave for Dusty to keep the women away.
Even when he became aware of the half a dozen Kweharehnuh braves who had appeared and sat watching him, the rider displayed no great alarm. Instead, he merely lifted his right hand in a friendly greeting. His behavior indicated that Waco had guessed correctly about his station in life. If he was an outlaw on his way to Hell and under the impression that he had nothing to fear from the Kweharehnuh, he received a rapid and unmistakable disillusionment. Instead of responding with an amiable gesture, one of the younger members of the Comanche group raised and fired a Spencer carbine.
As the bullet hissed by his head, the man gave a startled jerk and let go of the pack-horse’s lead rope. He did not, however, take the appropriate and sensible course of trying to gallop to safety. Instead, he tilted to the left and his right hand wrapped around the wrist of a Winchester rifle’s butt. Sliding the rifle from its boot, he straightened up on the saddle. Two more of the tuivitsis—there was only one warrior of tehnap status present—cut loose with their repeaters. Neither hit the man, but one’s bullet spiked up an eruption of dirt to his horse’s right. The other’s lead rose in a vicious whining ricochet that passed within inches of the animal’s right ear.
Giving his first hint that he had realized conditions had changed in the Palo Duro, the man attempted to rein around his mount. At that moment it was rearing its fore legs into the air and trying to back away on the hind limbs. It was moving to the left and its rider attempted to guide it in the opposite direction. His unequally distributed weight caused the horse’s hind legs to slide to the left and its front hooves thrust forward in an unavailing bid to regain its equilibrium.
Despite his casual disregard for what the watching Texans regarded as essential precautions of Palo Duro life, the man proved himself capable of swift movement in an emergency. Almost before his mount’s right rump had hit the ground, he had freed his feet from the stirrups irons and kicked his left leg forward across the animal’s neck. Springing clear, he landed on slightly bent legs and the Winchester rifle’s wooden fore grip slapped into his left palm.
Fast though the man had reacted, he had not done so a moment too soon. Letting out ringing war whoops, the braves jumped their mounts from stationary to a gallop almost in one motion. They fanned out, boiling down the slope at reckless speed and each with the same intention; to be the one who counted coup on the hated white brother and who, by doing so, would be entitled to the first pick at the victim’s property.
Taking the brass butt of the Winchester to his shoulder, the man sighted and fired at the nearest of the warriors. Down went the tuivitsi’s horse, head shot and buckling forward as its legs folded beneath it. With typical Comanche agility, the young brave not only quit the stricken animal’s back and landed without injury, but he hit the ground running. Without a moment’s hesitation after his narrow escape, he continued to bound onwards.
‘We’d best go lend the feller a hand,’ the Kid commented as the attack was launched, signaling with his heels for the blue roan to start moving.
‘Be best,’ Waco confirmed and his tobiano sprang forward alongside the dark Texan’s mount.
Topping the rim, the Kid and Waco unshipped from their saddles. They released the split-ended reins, ground-hitching the horses as effectively as if they had knotted the leather straps to a saloon’s hitching rail. Advancing a few strides, so that the noise of their shots would not be too close to the horses, the Texans prepared to help the stranger.
While his horse struggled to its feet and loped away, until stopped by its trailing reins, the man turned his rifle on the dismounted Indian. He himself was under fire from the rest of the braves, but he did not allow that to fluster him. Taking aim as the brave bounded on to a rock, he fired. Hit in the head, the tuivitsi threw aside his Winchester carbine and pitched over backwards. Lead hissed around the man, but none of it struck him. None of the tuivitsis had had sufficient experience to perform accurate shooting from the back of a war pony thundering at top speed over sloping, irregular ground.
Maybe the tehnap in the party would have had better success, but fate—in the shape of the Ysabel Kid—robbed him of the opportunity. Having decided that the experienced warrior posed the greatest threat to the man, the Kid had nullified it with his ‘old yellowboy’ 18 rifle. Standing erect, the dark Texan lined and fired with what barely seemed time to take aim. For all that, the tehnap’s head snapped back sharply and he slid rearwards over his mount’s rump.
Delaying only long enough to kneel and support his left elbow on his bent right knee, Waco blasted the tuivitsi who had started the shooting from his fast-moving bay pony.
Ignoring their companions, the remaining trio of tuivitsi kept shooting and advancing. Knowing that there was no other way to save the white man, the Kid turned his rifle on the center rider. Through the swirl of powder smoke, he saw that he had made a hit; but the man had also selected that particular tuivitsi as his target. Waco’s rifle had sent the right hand warrior sliding sideways from his horse, but the last of the attackers was drawing closer. He was rapidly approaching a distance from which he would be unlikely to miss, even from a moving base.
The sound of hooves from behind reached the Kid’s ears. More than one horse at that. Not that he felt alarmed, guessing correctly that Dusty had come up to lend a hand. Either with the small Texan’s permission, or disobeying orders, the women had followed him. Emma and Giselle came over the rim just after the Kid and Waco fired their second shots.
Eager as he might be to count coup, the tuivitsi knew enough to watch more than his intended victim. He had detected the two ride-plenties on the other slope and noticed a third coming to join them. Then his eyes went to the women. Instantly all thought of killing and loot departed from his mind. There was something of greater importance on hand; a matter which could not even be delayed while he shot down the unhorsed white man.
‘White witch!’ the brave yelled, whirling his mount into a tight turn that saved his life.
Three bullets, any of which would have struck a vital region of his person went by the tuivitsi’s body as he made the abrupt, violent change of direction. Guiding the pony in a weaving line, he flattened himself along its neck to offer a smaller, more elusive target. It said much for his early training that he escaped with his life. Four times the Kid’s rifle cracked, but the flying lead narrowly missed its mark. Then the tuivitsi had rocketed over the rim and was gone from sight.
‘Ole Ka-Dih’s 19 siding the Kweharehnuh, not the Pehnane today,’ Waco commented, having watched the Kid’s abortive attempts to hit the departing tuivitsi.
‘Could be we’ll come to regret it,’ the dark-faced Texan replied grimly. ‘He saw Giselle, yelled “White witch” and took off like the devil after a yearling. Likely he’ll be back, with company.’
‘Which case, I’ll go catch that feller’s hoss,’ Waco drawled. ‘This’ll not be a good place to be when him and his company get here.’
While the young blond went to gather up the man’s mount and pack horse, Dusty, the Kid and the two women rode down the slope. Resting the barrel of his rifle on the top of his shoulder, the man turned towards them. His eyes narrowed a little as they flickered from Emma to Giselle and back. However, he advanced with a friendly smile on his lips.
‘I reckon I owe you gentlemen my thanks,’ the man said. ‘My name’s O’Day. My friends call me “Break”.’