Despite the hectic night before it, Sandy and Sarah’s wedding passed off without a hitch. Certain of the bridegroom’s friends appeared to be slightly the worse for wear as a result of the rowdiest and best bachelor-party San Antonio could remember. However the somewhat stiff carriage of Red Blaze, Billy Jack and Stormy Weather came less from a hangover than the fact that each of them carried an Army Colt concealed under his jacket. Nor did Dusty rely solely upon protecting the couple from within the church. Kiowa and a few others, who felt that the interior of a church would hardly be the place for them, ringed the building ready to prevent a murderous attempt on the outside.
So effective a screen did Dusty throw around the church and Sarah’s home that Murphy saw no way he might carry out his work in safety. After a night spent sage-henning on the range, with the ground for a mattress and the sky his roof, the killer returned to San Antonio a changed man. Discarding most of the clothing he wore the previous night, he rode into town clad in a tartan, open-necked shirt, bandana and levis pants, also altering the shape of his sombrero’s crown to heighten the disguise. For all that, he retained his Allen & Wheelock revolver and boot-knife. Although he carried a change of clothing in his warbag, he did not own spare weapons. In Texas at that time an unarmed man was more likely to attract attention than one who wore a gun, so he gambled on nobody noticing the revolver.
Failing to find an opportunity at either the church or reception, Murphy hung around in the vicinity of the Maybelle house. With so many strangers around, due to the wedding, nobody paid any attention to him. Meeting one of the wedding guests whose consumption of Pa Maybelle’s Old Stump-Blaster rendered talkative, Murphy pumped him for information. From the garrulous guest, he learned that the couple would spend their first night at San Antonio’s best hotel and start out for their new home the following day at around noon.
In view of the way Dusty Fog’s men covered the proceedings to that time, Murphy doubted if the small Texan would overlook an adequate guard over the hotel. So the killer decided against trying. While thinking that a period of inactivity on his part might lull Dusty Fog into a state of false security, Murphy learned something more.
Apparently one of Sarah Maybelle’s former boyfriends was under suspicion for hiring the attempted killing of Red Blaze. The wedding guest spoke of it angrily, going into details and connecting the shooting with the arrival of the rattlesnake.
That started a fresh train of thought in Murphy’s head. Until then he planned to ambush and shoot Sandy McGraw on the San Garcia trail, letting the blame fall where it would. Hearing about Finwald, Murphy changed his mind. His employer would be financially grateful for the news that the killing had been blamed on some other party. So the killer decided to make it look like the kind of amateurish job one might expect from Finwald.
Collecting his horse, Murphy rode out of San Antonio. He followed the San Garcia trail, along which the next morning Sandy McGraw would drive with his wife. Less than a mile from town, Murphy found just what he wanted. The trail at that point had been cut into the side of a fairly steep slope. At a point where the trail made a curve stood a solitary, tall tree. If the tree could be made to fall at the right moment, it ought to crash down on to the McGraws’ wagon box. Even should the couple only be injured, there was a better than fair chance the panic-stricken horses would send the wagon over the lower slope.
One snag arose in the plan: timing the tree’s fall. Murphy knew one way it could be arranged, although he would have to return to San Antonio and purchase the necessary equipment. While riding back to town, Murphy gave thought to another matter of vital importance; his escape after the killing. Although Anse Dale was a capable peace officer, his jurisdiction ended at San Antonio’s city limits. The current sheriff of Bexar County, in which San Antonio lay, was a lethargic man who invariably took the easy course in any business. Left to himself, the sheriff would be only too pleased to accept the basic evidence: that Finwald tried to arrange revenge himself after the failure of the previous attempts.
Unfortunately there was in San Antonio at that moment a man of driving, forceful personality. One with sufficient influential backing to force the sheriff into a thorough investigation and quite capable of taking control of it himself. During the period he held a law badge in a tough Montana gold mining town, vii Dusty Fog showed considerable skill in all aspects of a peace officer’s work, including the investigation of murders. The Rio Hondo gun wizard would not calmly accept the bare appearances.
If Murphy hoped to build up a big start through his false trail, he must try to make sure that Dusty Fog was not around to interfere. The obvious method, killing the small Texan, might be one answer, but Murphy did not even consider such a possibility. More than one man had tried to kill Dusty Fog and failed. The penalty for failure was death. No, Murphy had a better idea, one much safer yet which he felt sure would be successful.
Returning to San Antonio, Murphy visited Finwald’s store where he purchased a hundred foot of stout Manila rope, a saw, hammer and spike-clamp. The latter, looking like an overgrown paper-staple, was used by builders for temporarily securing two pieces of wood together. Loading his purchases on to the waiting horse, he left town once more. Eight miles from San Antonio along the San Garcia trail lay the Lone Elk stagecoach relay station. While employed by Wells Fargo, its owner augmented his salary in a number of ways which would not meet with the company’s approval. For a financial consideration, the agent agreed to send a message over the telegraph wires to Dusty Fog. Maybe he even believed Murphy’s story that the message was no more than a practical joke being played on the killer’s war-time commanding officer. Spending the night at the relay station, Murphy reminded the agent not to send the message until noon—so that he could be in San Antonio to see the result of the joke—and rode back in that direction.
Back at the tree, the killer went to work. First he began to cut into the trunk with the saw about two foot above the ground. When the blade sank almost out of sight in the wood, Murphy took the spike-clamp and drove its points into the trunk above and below the saw. Carefully he continued to cut until seeing the tree quiver and strain against the grip of the clamp. Pulling free his saw, he stood back and studied his work for a moment. As the tree stood on a slope, it would fall downhill and so he did not need to do any branch-trimming to ensure it went in the right direction. Securing one end of the rope to the clamp, he backed off up the slope towards a large clump of mesquite some seventy-five feet from the tree. He had sufficient rope left over to lead among the bushes and fasten its other end on to his horse’s saddlehorn, while keeping himself and the animal hidden from the trail. All was now ready and all Murphy had to do was wait.
Time dragged by slowly, but a man in Murphy’s line of work learned the value of patience. At last he saw a two-horse wagon come into sight from the direction of San Antonio. Waiting only long enough to make sure that Sandy and Sarah McGraw rode on the wagon, Murphy went to his horse. Swinging into the saddle, he lashed the rope securely to its horn. By crouching low over the horse’s neck, he could keep out of sight and turned his horse so that he was able to see the tree. While his range of vision was necessarily restricted, he saw enough to be able to judge his moves correctly.
At last the wagon approached the bend and started to turn. Murphy suddenly thrust his spurs into the horse’s ribs and the animal lunged forward. Snapping tight, the rope jerked the clamp from the tree’s trunk. Freed of restraint, the tree quivered for a moment before tilting over and falling down on to the wagon. Murphy heard a startled yell from Sandy, followed by Sarah’s scream and the sound of splintering timber.
Standing in the livery barn which had housed their horses during the stay in San Antonio, Betty Hardin completed saddling her mount. She looked to where her two cousins also made preparations for their departure.
‘Well, Sandy and Sarah are off to their new home,’ she said.
‘Maybe we should have gone along with them,’ Red remarked, drawing the double girths of his low-horned Texas saddle tight about the body of his claybank viii stallion.
‘Sandy didn’t want it that way,’ Dusty pointed out, making the final adjustments to his paint’s rig. ‘Anyways, there’s been no sign of that killer around town or I’d’ve insisted he let us at least send Kiowa and Billy Jack along.’
‘Do you really think young Finwald hired him, Dusty?’ Betty asked.
Before Dusty could reply, a boy entered the barn. Hero-worship showed on the youngster’s face and he clearly felt that his social standing improved due to delivering the buff-colored telegraph message form to the famous Dusty Fog.
‘Sorry I didn’t get it to you sooner, Cap’n,’ he stated breathlessly. ‘Only I took it to the hotel and they told me that you’d already left.’
‘Thanks, boy,’ Dusty answered, taking a fifteen cent piece from his pocket and exchanging it for the paper in the youngster’s hand. ‘Here’s a long bit for your trouble.’
‘Gee thanks, Cap’n,’ enthused the boy.
Opening up the form, Dusty read its message.
‘Captain Fog. Alamo Hotel. San Antonio. Dusty. Return home immediately. Ole Devil.’
‘What is it, Dusty?’ Betty demanded, seeing her cousin’s lips tighten.
‘Read it,’ he suggested, handing over the paper. ‘We’re going to do some fast riding, Cousin Red.’
‘Grandfather never sent this!’ Betty stated flatly after reading the message and passing it to Red. ‘He never calls you anything but “Dustine”, Dusty.’
‘I’ve heard him call Dusty something else,’ grinned Red. ‘Me too.’
‘You both probably deserved it,’ Betty snorted. ‘Any ways, he never signs anything “Ole Devil”.’
‘It’s maybe a joke,’ Red said in a tone that implied he did not believe the suggestion.
‘The boys might play jokes, but they’d not ride out to the nearest telegraph station to send it,’ Dusty replied. ‘Where’d be the nearest place they could send a message, boy?’
‘Lone Elk station out on the San Garcia trail, Cap’n,’ the youngster replied, his chest swelling with pride at being called upon to assist the Rio Hondo gun wizard. He could see that his information meant something to his audience.
‘Let’s ride, Red!’ Dusty barked, taking hold of his saddlehorn and vaulting astride the paint’s seventeen hands’ high back.
‘Look after our gear until we come back,’ Betty instructed the barn’s owner, nodding to the loaded packhorse. ‘I’ll come with you, Dusty.’
‘You go to the Bull’s Head and collect Billy Jack and Kiowa,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Bring them after us along the San Garcia trail.’
‘Yo!’ answered Betty without arguing.
‘Reckon that message’s from the feller who tried to kill Sandy?’ asked Red as he and Dusty rode from the barn.
‘I’d bet on it. Who else would want us on our way home that badly?’
‘Nobody I can think of offhand.’
With that Red stopped speaking. Side by side the two cousins, each superbly mounted, set their horses moving at a good pace. Once clear of the town, they allowed their mounts to pick up speed. Three days resting in the livery barn, with grain feeds, made the horses eager for exercise and they strode out fast along the San Garcia trail.
Neither Dusty nor Red wasted breath in talking until they came into sight of the wagon. Instead they concentrated on conserving their horses’ energy without slackening off their pace. At last they saw Sandy’s wagon ahead, approaching a corner on which grew a single tree.
‘They’re all ri—!’ Red began.
Even as he spoke, the tree quivered and began to tilt over in the direction of the passing wagon.
‘What the hell!’ Dusty ejaculated, for he could see no reason why the tree chose that particular moment to fall.
Then he caught sight of Murphy as the killer burst out of the bushes and galloped up the slope. Telling Red to go see to the wagon, Dusty swung his paint off the trail in the direction of the fleeing man.
While guiding his racing claybank towards the wagon, Red studied the situation. Spooked by the tree’s collapse, the team horses reared and plunged, dragging the wagon towards the edge of the trail. From the trailing reins, Red concluded Sandy no longer was in any condition to control the team. So they must be halted—and fast—before they went over the edge of the slope and the wagon’s weight drove them downwards to destruction.
There was no time to do more than glance at the wagon’s box in passing. Red saw, however, that the main weight of the tree had hit the canopy. Seeing the danger, Sandy had flung himself on top of Sarah, bearing her down and covering her with his body. They both appeared to be pinned to the seat by at least one branch, so Red could expect no help from that source.
Reining in his claybank, Red left its saddle and landed alongside the team horses. Carried forward by his impetus, he swung to face the frightened animals and lunged to their heads. Powerful hands clamped hold of each horse’s reins, strong but reassuring as he fought to bring them under control. Avoiding the slashing hooves, he felt himself forced back until his heels struck the springy grass at the side of the trail.
Hooves thundered, drawing closer, and a familiar voice yelled, ‘Stay with it, Red!’
Up tore Betty accompanied by Billy Jack and Kiowa. Leaving their horses at a run, the two men lit down ready to help Red halt the wagon. While Billy Jack ran forward to lend a hand with the horses, Kiowa flung himself at the wagon’s brake. Riding by on her fine-looking roan, Betty gathered up the three men’s horses and led them back in the direction of their owners. Once stopped, the range-bred horses could be trusted to stand without needing tying to anything, their trailing reins being the only inducement they needed. So Betty dropped from her saddle and ran towards the wagon.
Even with Billy Jack lending his capable assistance, Red could not have halted the horses in time had it not been for Kiowa hauling back on the brake handle. With the back wheels locked immobile, the drag of the wagon’s bulk reinforced the two men’s efforts and brought the team to a standstill.
‘Get on to the box, you two!’ Betty suggested. ‘I can manage them now.’
‘Leave ’em to me,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘They’re still restless.’
Realizing that Billy Jack spoke the truth, Betty did not argue. Skilled horsewoman though she undoubtedly was, the two big animals might prove too much for her should they take it into their heads to run again. So she followed Red towards the wagon box.
After applying the brake, Kiowa swung up on to the wagon box. He slid the long-bladed bowie knife from its sheath at his left side and began to hack at the branch which still held Sandy and Sarah pinned. Although the girl wriggled and struggled, Kiowa could see no sign of movement from Sandy. Cursing savagely, the lean scout increased his efforts. Only the superb quality of the knife’s steel allowed it to stand up to such treatment. Wood chips flew as the shining steel bit into the branch. Then it separated from the tree and Red helped Kiowa raise it off the newlyweds.
Almost before the branch went over the side of the wagon, Sarah wriggled from under Sandy. Although frightened, her main concern was for her husband’s welfare. Either when struck by the branch, or as the spooked horses jerked the wagon, Sandy’s head had struck the box hard enough to knock him unconscious. He lay limp and still, but Sarah retained sufficient control over herself not to move him.
‘How is it, Sarah?’ asked Red gently, standing on the box behind the girl.
‘I’m all right,’ she replied. ‘See to Sandy.’
‘We’d best get him off the box, I reckon,’ Kiowa put in.
‘Sure,’ agreed Red. ‘Reckon you can manage the team, Betty? It’ll take the three of us to do it.’
By that time the two horses appeared to have recovered their normal placid natures sufficiently for Betty to control them. Relieving Billy Jack, Betty kept hold of the horses’ heads and remained alert for any signs of nervousness. None showed and the removal of the unconscious Sandy went by without incident. Between them, the three men carried their still burden to a safe place and set it down. Immediately Sarah was on her knees at Sandy’s side, fighting down her fears and the hysteria which threatened to make her burst into tears.
‘Billy Jack, you and Kiowa get the wagon free,’ Betty called.
‘Yo!’ replied Billy Jack and ambled over to obey.
‘Let me see to Sandy, honey,’ Betty said to Sarah, joining the other girl. ‘You go and sit on the grass.’
At that moment they heard the distant sound of shooting.
‘Can you handle things, Cousin Betty?’ Red asked, staring in the direction of the sounds.
‘Well enough,’ she replied. ‘If you reckon that Dusty can’t take care of himself.’
‘I’d say he can, most time,’ Red answered. ‘Only there’re two rifles firing up there—and Dusty doesn’t have one with him.’ Saying that, Red raced to his patiently waiting claybank. He went astride the horse with a bound, scooped up the reins and started the animal moving, pointing it in the direction from which the guns still roared.