The Ysabel Kid twisted his head around to see who had lifted the door flap of the medicine tipi. It was well past sunup and he had not been disturbed since Pohawe had followed her companions into the darkness. However, the rawhide thongs still held him securely in their clutches and he could not do anything to escape. His eyes rested upon a bent, white haired old Kweharehnuh man who stepped inside and stared in a puzzled manner at him.
‘What is this?’ demanded the old man.
‘Set me free, naravuh,’ the Kid requested, using the word which meant respect when addressed to an old timer. ‘Much death comes to the Kweharehnuh if you don’t.’
Instead of replying, the newcomer lifted his eyes and gazed with fixed intensity at the opposite wall of the tipi.
‘I am close to the Land Of the Good Hunting, Raccoon Talker, medicine woman of the Pehnane, the old man announced, drawing the knife from his belt’s decorative sheath. ‘That is why I came to this place. Speak well of me to Ka-Dih, for I will do as you ask.’
Moving around, the man severed the Kid’s bonds. While the pain caused by restored circulation beat at him, the Texan satisfied some of his curiosity.
‘Where are the men of the village, naravuh?’
‘They have ridden to the white men’s wooden tipis. Only the old ones, women and children are left.’
‘Did Pohawe go with the men?’
‘This is the day when she breaks the palefaces’ medicine,’ the old man replied. ‘It is my thought that evil will come if she does, Cuchilo.’
‘I am honored to think as you do, naravuh,’ the Kid replied. ‘Now I must ride to my friends.’
‘Let me saddle your horse,’ requested the old man. ‘It is outside and I think I will never handle such a fine animal again.’
‘You have my thanks,’ the Kid said with quiet sincerity. Five minutes later, wearing his hat and in possession of his full armament, he crossed to the tipi’s door. Before he left, he faced the interior and went on, ‘And my thanks to you, Raccoon Talker.’
Tired and showing signs of the great strain to which she had been subjected, Raccoon Talker emerged from her secret medicine tipi high on the slopes of Mount Scott. She found Long Walker waiting.
‘Cuchilo is free,’ she announced. ‘I can help him no more this day.’
‘Count coup for me, Cuchilo,’ called the old man as the Kid galloped away. ‘This day I die.’
By riding in the direction from which he had heard the sounds of celebration the previous night, the Kid soon located the Kweharehnuhs’ village. From there, he knew that he could easily find his way to Hell. Even if he had not been sure, the massed tracks of the warriors’ horses would have served as an excellent guide. Circling the village beyond its occupants’ range of vision, he urged the blue roan between his legs to a better speed.
Pausing only to slake his thirst from a stream he had to ford, the Kid travelled as a Pehnane tehnap on an urgent mission. He did not follow along the line of tracks, but kept off to one side of them. That was a precaution taken in case the party should have scouts watching their rear. It paid off in another way as he approached the trees which surrounded the great basin that held Hell. Four riders had quit the main body, heading at a tangent towards the wooded land.
Dismounting at the fringe of the tree-line, the Kid slid free his Winchester and tucked its medicine boot under the bed roll. Swiftly he catered for the lathered, leg-weary horse. With that done, he glanced at the midday sun as it approached its zenith. The preliminaries to the allocation of the ammunition would have commenced. If anything was going to happen, it would be during that part of the ceremony.
Darting through the trees on foot, his rifle held ready for use, the Kid moved in as near silence as he could manage. How well he succeeded showed in that his presence was undetected by the four war ponies which stood grazing under a large old flowering dogwood tree. One of the horses had a long rifle’s medicine boot draped across its blanket-covered saddle. The last time the Kid had seen that boot, it had been covering a Sharps owned by
In that moment, the Kid saw through Pohawe’s plan to break Lampart’s medicine. Springing to his mind, the name of the limping tehnap had furnished the Indian-dark Texan with the vital clue.
Kills From Far Off!
Because of his infirmity, the brave must have developed exceptional ability in using a rifle; especially at long ranges. The powerful Sharps rifle, even a model handling paper cartridges and with percussion cap priming, was a weapon noted for its extreme accuracy. A bullet fired by it would carry from the trees to the town, retaining sufficient energy on its arrival to pass through the walls of any building—or to burrow into the occupant of the box used for the medicine illusion.
Keeping down wind and taking ever greater care with his movements, the Kid continued his advance. He did not expect that he would have to go far. With the prospect of coups to be counted and loot to be gathered, no Comanche tehnap worthy of the name would put too much distance between himself and his mount. Once Kills From Far Off had carried out his assignment, the quartet would waste no time in boarding their horses and heading to the center of the action.
Sure enough, the Kid had barely covered thirty yards before he found the four braves. And not a moment too soon by all appearances. Already Kills From Far Off was cradling the Sharps at his shoulder, with its barrel supported by a forked stick that he had thrust into the ground. Holding their Winchester carbines, the other three braves stood watching with rapt attention. There was no way in which the Kid could move closer without being instantly detected. Nor could he bring himself to open fire without giving the quartet a chance to defend themselves.
‘Namae’enuh!’ the Kid called, snapping the Winchester’s butt plate against his right collar-bone.
The word brought an instant response. Spinning around, the three tehnaps with the repeaters gave startled exclamations and raised the weapons. On the point of pulling the Sharps’ trigger, Kills From Far Off jumped slightly. In doing so, he tilted the barrel out of line at the moment of the detonation.
Flame belched from the Kid’s Winchester and One Arrow died with a bullet in his head. Spinning around, he dropped his ‘yellow boy’ carbine close to Kills From Far Off and tumbled lifeless in the other direction.
Right hand moving like a blur, so that an almost continuous flow of empty cartridge cases spun through the ejection slot, the Kid demonstrated how to attain the three-shots-in-two-seconds rate of fire promised by Mr. Oliver Fisher Winchester’s advertisements. He moved the barrel in a horizontal arc as he fired, throwing the shots like the spreading spokes of a wheel.
Small Post Oak was torn from his feet by the impacts of three bullets in rapid succession, before he could raise and use his rifle. Although the third brave got off a shot, he missed. He was not granted an opportunity to correct his aim. The invisible fan of flying lead encompassed him. Four of the deadly, speeding missiles found their marks in his head and chest. He died as he would have wished; facing a name warrior and with a weapon in his hands.
Throwing aside his empty Sharps, Kills From Far Off made a twisting, rolling dive that carried him to One Arrow’s discarded carbine. Snatching it up as he landed facing the Kid, he fired. As if jerked by an invisible hand, the black Stetson spun from the Texan’s head. Inclining the rifle downwards, the Kid responded. Struck in the forehead, Kills From Far Off made the journey to the Land Of Good Hunting—
Ceasing his operation of the Winchester’s mechanism, the Kid ran by the four dead tehnaps. This was not the time for him to count coup in honor of the tsukup who had set him free. That ancient warrior would not expect such an act to be committed against another Nemenuh. Striding through the trees, the Kid came into sight of the town. Everybody was turning his way. So far there had been no hostile response to the sound of the shooting. He wondered how long the condition of peace—or surprise—would continue to hold the two parties in check.
Everything seemed to be going satisfactorily, Dusty had been telling himself when the shooting had started. Even knowing that some trickery was involved, it had been a fascinating experience watching the saw biting through the side of the box and, apparently, cutting into the little brunette’s body. He still had no idea how it was done, for the women had refused to explain. Certainly the Comanches had been suitably impressed. Pohawe had moved in as close as she dared, staring with great interest and clearly trying to decide how the trick was done.
Suddenly the shots had rang out; the deep boom of a Sharps, followed by the rapid crackle of Winchesters. Coming from the tree line on the rim, the lead screamed by unpleasantly close to the illusionist’s top hat. Although nobody took much notice at that moment, the sound brought a very masculine ejaculation of surprise in its wake.
‘What the—?’ Waco demanded, moving to Dusty’s side. Then he stared to where the shot had come from. ‘Look! It’s Lon!’
Every eye had already been directed in that direction. Much to the two Texans’ relief, their amigo made his appearance and loped swiftly towards them.
‘It’s a trick!’ Pohawe screamed, speaking Spanish in the hope of provoking a hostile gesture by one of the white men.
‘Not on our part, Ten Bears!’ Dusty countered. ‘If there is treachery, you can blame it on your medicine woman.’
‘Keep your weapons down!’ the pariaivo ordered his braves. ‘We will hear what Cuchilo has to tell us.’
‘I tell you their medicine is bad!’ Pohawe screeched, but this time she spoke in Comanche.
With that, the medicine woman snatched a double-action Starr Navy Model revolver from under her peplum. Three times she fired, driving the bullets into the box’s side level with Giselle’s shoulders. The brunette screamed and started to struggle convulsively.
‘She can be hurt in the box!’ Pohawe shrieked. ‘I told you—’
As surprised as everybody else by the medicine woman’s actions, Dusty Fog responded fast. Even in his haste, he used his head and did not act blindly. He remembered that the photograph of Pohawe had been in the outer position when he had placed them inside his shirt. So he extracted the correct picture and left that of Ten Bears concealed. Gripping the top corners between his thumbs and forefingers, he held it so that the woman could identify it.
‘I hold your spirit, Pohawe,’ Dusty warned. ‘If you—’
‘I fear no white man’s medicine!’ the woman interrupted, turning her revolver in Dusty’s direction.
Instantly, the small Texan ripped the photograph down the middle. Even as the fragments fluttered from his hands, Pohawe’s body jerked violently. The top of her skull seemed to burst open and she crumpled lifeless to the ground.
On the slope, the Kid had read the implications behind Dusty’s and Pohawe’s actions. Knowing that his amigo would hesitate before shooting a woman—even one as evil as her—the Kid had removed the need from him to do so. Skidding to a halt and whipping up his rifle, he had driven a bullet through the back of the medicine woman’s head. By doing so, he had demonstrated in a satisfactory manner that some aspects of a white man’s ‘medicine’ could be deadly effective.
Half a dozen braves, those most deeply involved in Pohawe’s scheme for the reconquest of Comancheria, bounded from the crowd. The woman had planned badly, for her faction had been gathered in one place instead of scattered amongst the other braves. It proved to have been a costly error.
Two died almost immediately, their rifles still not at shoulder level, for Dusty did not hesitate to defend himself against armed, desperate men. Showing the devastating speed and ambidextrous control of his weapons for which he was famous, he drew and fired the twin Colts simultaneously. Those of the Kweharehnuh who had not seen him confront the two Unionist fanatics and their Agar Coffee Mill ‘devil’ gun learned how he had gained the name ‘Magic Hands’.
Slightly less rapidly, Waco tumbled the third and fourth of the braves from their feet. The fifth fell to the last bullet held by the Kid’s Winchester. Screaming out his war cry, the sixth leapt to wreak his vengeance upon the white ‘medicine man’.
With a heave, the illusionist overturned the box and dropped behind it. Its lid burst open as it struck the ground, allowing Giselle’s bloody, lifeless body to roll out. In the dive for cover, the cloaked figure lost its top hat. Although the attacking brave sent a bullet into the box, he missed his intended target. While he was still working the repeater’s lever, four Colts and Ten Bears’ rifle spat at him. Any one of their bullets would have been fatal.
‘I’ll kill any brave who raises a weapon against the white people!’ Ten Bears announced.
There was no need for the pariaivo’s warning. Obviously Pohawe’s medicine had gone very bad, so those who had considered following her lead now changed their minds. Not another weapon was lifted and the warriors stood impassively awaiting the next developments.
‘My thanks, Paruwa Semenho,’ Dusty said, holstering his guns on becoming satisfied that there would be no further need for them where the Kweharehnuhs were concerned. ‘I regret having to kill your men.’
‘They would have killed you,’ Ten Bears pointed out. ‘And the white medicine man.’
‘Are you all right, Em—?’ Dusty began, turning towards the overturned box. ‘What the ... Where’s Emma, O’Day—’
The figure which had risen still had the face of Simeon Lampart, but it was not topped by feminine blonde hair. Instead, the skull was completely bald. For the first time Dusty and Waco realized that the illusionist was taller than Emma; and noticed the deep-set, glowing eyes.
‘In Simmy’s house,’ the man answered in O’Day’s voice.
‘If she’s dead—!’ Dusty growled.
‘She’s not,’ O’Day interrupted. ‘She’ll have a sore head, but nothing more. I’m like you, I respect and admire Emma. So I contented myself with clubbing her insensible. I had to do it. She would never have willingly let me step in as her understudy.’
‘My apologies, Ten Bears,’ Dusty said in Spanish, turning his eyes towards the pariaivo. ‘I must talk to this man.’
‘We will wait until you are finished,’ Ten Bears promised.
‘Why’d you do it, O’Day?’ Dusty inquired, giving his attention to the man once more.
‘So that I could become the next medicine man of Hell,’ the illusionist replied. ‘It struck me as a most lucrative proposition.’
‘It might be,’ Dusty admitted, ‘if the town wasn’t closing down.’
‘Why should it close down?’ O’Day demanded. ‘The ammunition is waiting to be handed over—’
‘Only the medicine’s been spoiled,’ Dusty replied, indicating the box and the motionless woman on the ground beyond it. ‘The town’s done, hombre.’
‘Perhaps not,’ O’Day purred. ‘I think that I might yet save the situation.’
‘Not while Dusty and me can stop you,’ Waco growled.
‘I know it wouldn’t be any use offering you shares in the concern,’ the man declared, left hand rising as if to rub at his forehead. ‘So I must make certain that you cannot interfere with my arrangements.’
While he was speaking, O’Day extended his open, upturned right palm and rested its elbow against his side. It was an innocent-seeming movement and had met with success when used against the three outlaws in Baylor County. Yet he realized that he now faced a vastly different proposition. The two Texans were not slow-witted yokels, but intelligent and lightning fast gunfighters. Even with the surprise element of the Derringer in its sleeve-holdout rig, he would be unlikely to drop them both quickly enough to save his life.
He did, however, have an ace in the hole. Something that had saved his life on at least two occasions; once during his quest for Simeon Lampart’s whereabouts 28 and last night while confronted by Rosie Wilson. Once Dusty Fog and Waco saw what lay under the mask, they would be frozen into immobility long enough to give him his chance.
‘Just how do you figure on doing it, hombre?’ Waco inquired, eyeing the wide shirt cuff above the extended, empty hand.
‘Like this!’ O’Day spat and tugged downwards with his left hand.
Doing so peeled off the mask and left his features exposed. There was no face as such, only a cratered, seamed, hideous mass of dirty gray flesh without a real nose or much by the way of lips. As the mask was removed, O’Day pressed his right elbow against his ribs and set the Remington Double Derringer free. It was propelled forward towards the palm that was waiting to close upon its bird’s-head grip.
O’Day was only partially successful in his assumption of the Texans’ reactions to the sight of his face. What he had not known was that Dusty Fog was aware of the vitriol attack and could guess at something of the horror which must lie behind the mask.
Like Dusty, the blond youngster had suspected that O’Day carried a hide-out pistol up his sleeve and was ready to counter its threat. The sight of the man’s ruined features prevented Waco from responding with his usual speed. Letting out of gasp of horror, the blond kept his hands motionless.
Fortunately for Waco, Dusty was not so badly affected. On learning about the incident which had ruined O’Day’s face, the small Texan had reached an accurate estimation of how Rosie Wilson had been killed. From his memory of the sequence in which the shots had been fired and after examining the rear of the barber’s shop, Dusty had concluded that the woman had surprised her killer as he was leaving. Obviously she had been holding her revolver and the bull’s eye lantern. According to Emma, Rosie had known how to handle the gun. So something must have diverted her, giving the person she had confronted time to shoot. Seen in the lantern’s light, that hideously-marked face would have had such an effect.
So Dusty had been prepared. Yet he knew that Waco might not be so ready. Throwing himself sideways, Dusty sent his hands towards their respective weapons. He charged into Waco, knocking the youngster staggering. Even as he moved, the Remington appeared and barked. Something like a red-hot iron gouged across his right shoulder, but he knew that he had been lucky. If he had remained motionless, he would have caught the .41 ball in the torso. Pain halted his right hand, but the left completed its draw. Crashing, once, the Colt from the off side holster sent its bullet into O’Day’s left breast. The man reeled, spun around and landed face down on the ground.
Dusty lowered his smoking Colt and let out a long, low sigh. The assignment was over. All he now had to do was get the remaining citizens of Hell out of the Palo Duro alive.