“He’sh the fastesh gun in Texshush, He’sh the bravesh of ’em all, In a shreet you’d walk right by him, ’Caush he don’t sthand very tall, Comesh trouble he’sh the bravest, Fights like a Comanche dog, He’sh from the Rio Hondo country, And hish name ish Dushty Fog.”
Listening to what would have been a pleasant tenor voice if it had not had a timbre suggesting the vocal cords were loosened more than somewhat by Old Stump Blaster or some other potent liquor, Betty Hardin could hardly restrain a smile. She had heard the song rendered properly far too many times not to be aware that it was coming from the lips of the Ysabel Kid. What was more, she was just as aware that he never took more than an occasional beer, so deduced it was intended to warn her that help was on its way.
“The question is,” the beautiful little black-haired girl mused, watching by the light of the small lantern that was the only illumination showing how the four men around the room were reacting, “how does that crazy, baby-faced part Comanche intend to supply it?”
At no time during the ride to the ranch, especially after Jack Cunningham—who she sensed would be the most dangerous of them and clearly still bore her a grudge for the way she had responded to his actions during the holdup—had departed with Simcock Wilbran, had Betty felt herself in any way threatened by or in danger from the rest of the gang. Rather, they had shown great consideration for her well-being and one or another had repeatedly inquired whether she would care to take a rest. By the time they had brought her to what was obviously their hideout, for the first time in her life she was thankful for the blood-and-thunder books upon which they had based their notions of how outlaws should behave.
Betty was no middle class—middle management snob, taught from early childhood by their parents that every form of entertainment popular with the masses—and such Western-based literature in particular—was invariably of inferior quality and therefore below their great intellect. Rather, she enjoyed reading the imaginative offerings of men like Ned Buntline and never forgot how long it took her cousin, Dusty Fog, to live down having been described in the Police Gazette as “a dashingly handsome figure in long-fringed buckskins, with streaming curly golden hair and a magnificently flowing moustache.” She felt she would enjoy them even more from now on.
Studying the small and dilapidated log cabin, which had some rude furnishings, Betty had concluded that it was obviously deserted instead of having been taken over with its occupants murdered. Once inside, she had started to play upon the quartet’s attempts to prove they were the kind of outlaws they had believed Jesse James to be as the result of their readings. What was more, as any member of the OD Connected crew would have been all too willing to declare in her absence, she was the girl to get things done the way she wanted them.
Starting by refusing to enter such a hovel, as she pretended to believe Jesse James would never expect a lady prisoner being held for ransom to stay in such dirty condition, she had had her captors clean it before condescending to go in. They had also used the tarps from their bedrolls to keep out the rain that started and, she realized, was likely to wash away all traces of their tracks. Then, on finding how primitive was the way Thomas Bower began to prepare for cooking, she had taken over the task. However, before commencing to make them a better meal than they had had for many days—it being something she had been well taught by Dusty’s mother and other distaff members of the Hardin, Fog, and Blaze clan—she had insisted that they all go to wash and make themselves presentable to her demanding satisfaction before allowing them to eat.
Despite there having been numerous opportunities for Betty to escape, she had not attempted to do so. She had realized that, while allowing her to take considerable liberties in such small matters, their attitude could easily change should they feel their chances of obtaining the sizable ransom they anticipated were being put in jeopardy. With the passing of time, Jesse Wilbran had grown annoyed rather than concerned over the continued absence of his brother and Cunningham. He had blamed the latter for this and threatened to take severe measures when they finally got around to returning. Betty had wondered whether the ensuing friction would offer the chance she was willing to take to either escape or turn the tables even more completely on her captors.
Such an eventuality would, the black-haired little girl had thought with a mischievous delight, give her considerable moral and actual advantage over Dusty, Mark Counter, the Kid, and Waco if she succeeded in doing this without needing their assistance. There were times when they failed to show the deference accorded by the other members of the crew, and she liked nothing better than to gain a brief period of ascendancy. There was nothing malicious in her feelings. Rather, these arose from the free and easy relationship she had with all of them, and she would never have thought to cause any embarrassment for them by her actions.
“What the hell?” Jesse Wilbran growled. “Who’s that?” The words were a purely rhetorical question. What was more, an answer of sorts was soon forthcoming.
“Hello the housh’!” the same drunken-sounding voice yelled as the approaching hoofbeats came to a stop a short distance from the building. “The namesh Waco from Taikshush ’n’ the boysh’ve feshed me long to ride owlhoot withsh you-all.”
“There’s only one of ’em,” Frank Dobson reported from the window to which he had hurried and drawn back the flour sack that served as an extemporized curtain. “Only, he’s got Sim ’n’ Jack hanging across their saddles like they’re plumb tuckered out ’n’ sleeping.”
“Liquored out, more like,” Graham Taylor guessed in an envious fashion, having been an unwillingly acquiescent recipient of some of Betty’s treatment.
“There’s something don’t seem right about this!” Wilbran growled, and pulled a jackknife from his trousers pocket to open its main blade.
“What’s up, Jess?” Bower inquired.
“I’m not surprised as how they’d fetch along somebody else, happen they got liquored up someplace ’n’ ’llowed as how he wanted to join up with us,” Wilbran answered, and moved swiftly to Betty’s side before she realized what was intended. Grasping her by the right shoulder with his left hand, he drew her to her feet and, keeping her in front of him by passing his other arm across the front of her upper torso, held the blade of the knife against her neck. “Keep quiet and don’t make no fuss, ma’am. I’ll ’pologize should I be wrong. Only, I don’t reckon as how Sim in particular’d forget to let him know about our secret signal’s has to be give’. Go out there ’n’ see what’s doing, Frank, Tom.”
“Sure, Jess,” Dobson assented.
Having extracted the information that was required, the Ysabel Kid and U.S. Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen had quickly decided upon a plan of campaign.
The strategy was based upon the conclusions both had reached with regard to the quality of the men they were going up against, plus what they had been told by Flint Major—whose judgment they respected—about the way the holdup was carried out.
“They’re playing at being gentlemen road agents like they reckon Dingus James to be,” the shotgun guard had assessed. “That showed in everything they did. Which being, Miss Hardin’ll be safe and treated right—just so long as nothing happens to spook them. Once that happens, they’ll be dangerous as stick-teased rattlers ’n’ twice as unpredictable.”
Arranging for Cunningham to be held for him by Big Win, who he knew would do as he required, the peace officer had asked Eph Tenor to continue being of assistance. The offer was accepted as willingly as the others had been, even without the stocky Texan waiting to find out what would be required of him. When told, he had not changed his mind or done more than hint that he considered a comfortable pillow of suitable dimensions would make the part he played considerably easier. Without inquiring why it was needed, as she had not heard what was intended, the massive woman had sought to give a further example of her willingness to help the law by producing one that met with Tenor’s requirements.
Guided by Sim Wilbran, who lacked the courage to do otherwise despite certain misgivings he was feeling, the trio had been brought across the range. On being told they would very soon be coming into sight of the house, there had been a pause while he was gagged and had his legs fastened together by a pigging thong the Kid had produced. His wrists already being secured by the peace officer’s handcuffs, he was draped belly down over the saddle of his horse. Declaring that doing so would plumb ruin him socially, happen it was heard about in Denton County, Texas, Tenor had adopted a similar posture with his fine-looking bay gelding, the mare to which he had referred having been left at Bent’s Ford. With that done, although Madsen stopped as soon as the house came into view, the advance was resumed to the accompaniment of the Kid’s “drunken” singing.
At first, everything seemed to be going as planned.
Then, however, Sim decided to do something to make amends for having helped cause the predicament for his brother and the rest of the gang.
The thought had been with the young outlaw ever since he had discovered that, far from having been tortured to death, Jack Cunningham was suffering from nothing worse than being stripped to the waist and having a bloody nose. He had intended to warn his remaining companions in some fashion before they could be captured and rely upon Jesse, for whose intelligence he had a very high regard, to save him. The way he had been treated made doing so more difficult, but he thought he had a way out.
“Looks like Sim ’n’ Jack’s been having them a good time, Jess,” Dobson called as he and Bower emerged from the building each carrying a revolver. “That’s hell of a fine hoss the Texan’s afork. Likely Jess’ll take it for his own afore he lets him join up with us.”
“We’d best get ’em off ’n’ inside,” Bower supplemented, sounding equally envious but failing to notice that “Cunningham” was hanging over the saddle of a much finer animal than previously. Tucking the revolver into his waistband, he walked forward, with the other outlaw duplicating his actions. A thought struck him as he realized that only “Belle Starr” had received a share of the loot, and he went on without drawing any particular conclusions on the matter. “Where the hell did they get the money from?”
If Libby Craddock had been alive to hear the question, she would have discovered that she was given less than the sum of money sent to her by Jesse.
With Dobson walking by toward where Tenor was hanging limply, Bower began to get an impression that something was not quite as it should be. Belatedly, he realized that Sim was behaving in a fashion different from “Cunningham” by grunting loudly and writhing around. Next he caught a glimpse of something metallic glistening on the waving wrists of the younger brother and he was filled with a sensation of alarm.
“Look out, Jess’!” Bower screeched rather than just yelled, and he grabbed for the butt of the revolver.
Before the draw could be brought anywhere near completion, the young outlaw might have considered himself fortunate that he was treated in such a comparatively harmless fashion. Coming from its stirrup iron, the Kid’s right foot rose to kick him under the chin. The attack came unexpectedly and with a force that caused him to topple backwards. Almost as soon as he alighted, his assailant was plunging down to kneel astride his torso. Topped by the most savage face he had ever encountered, he saw an enormous knife pass before his amazed gaze to rest its razor-sharp blade against his neck, which was already sore from having been compelled by Betty Hardin to be subjected to a much closer shave than it usually received. Nor, although he did not notice at that moment, was Dobson being treated in too different a fashion.
“Surprise!” Tenor drawled quietly, and delivered a blow from the barrel of the Colt Peacemaker he had held unseen to the top of the bare head presented so admirably for such treatment. The other outlaw went down to be treated in the same fashion as the first, except that the gun’s muzzle was used to enforce a desire for silence. Then, knowing his companion, he went on with some urgency, “We don’t need us no bloody nose this time, Lon!”
Unfortunately for the rescuers, they had not moved quite quickly enough.
“You out there!” yelled a voice filled with more alarm than menace from inside the building. “I’ve got Miss Hardin with a knife to her throat. I’ll kill her ‘less’n you turn my men loose and ride the hell away from here!”
Standing rock steady, Betty Hardin listened to the warning given by the leader of her captors. She realized that the moment of danger was rapidly approaching. There was a note of something close to panic in Jesse Wilbran’s voice, and she knew that, regardless of his pose as the noble and gallant outlaw, he was quite capable of carrying out the threat should he feel driven to do so.
“Don’t be loco, hombre!” the Ysabel Kid’s voice came back. “Give it up. We’ve got the place surrounded and you can’t get anywhere near the hosses you’ve got out here, much less getting the hobbles off ’em.”
“I’ve got her!” Jesse repeated, while Betty was wondering whether the black-dressed Texan had seen or was just guessing at the way in which she had insisted the horses were given attention before their users carried out her instructions for them to wash and shave before allowing them to eat. Looking out through the open door, she discovered with relief that she could see what was happening outside and was sure the same applied to her rescuers where the part of the room’s interior that mattered was concerned. Failing to duplicate her observations, her captor was going on, “So either you do what I say, else—!”
At which everything began to go wrong for the outlaw leader.
Giving what sounded like a heartrending groan, Betty started to slump a trifle in her captor’s grasp. Feeling this, he was unable to prevent himself from relaxing both hold and position of the jackknife’s blade. A moment later, the top of his right boot was subjected to a painful stamp. Then his left arm was grasped ,by two surprisingly strong little hands. Then the black-haired girl began to bend her knees as she had been taught by the man who had given her instruction in how to do such things. xxxiii The leverage she was able to apply caused him to turn a half-somersault over her shoulder and alight with a resounding thud on the floor with all the breath being driven from his lungs.
Although Betty had set herself free, she realized that the danger to herself was not yet at an end.
“Stand still!” the remaining outlaw yelled, pointing his revolver at Betty as she straightened up and started to turn his way.
“Come on, now, Ham,” the girl said quietly yet calmly, making no attempt to reach for the Remington Double Derringer that she was carrying in its concealed holster under the left side of her bolero jacket without its presence having been even suspected. “You aren’t going to shoot me, so drop the gun before something really bad happens to you.”
Letting out something close to a sob, Taylor did as he was told.
“Why hello, Lon,” Betty said in tones of well-simulated surprise as the Kid burst into the cabin with his left hand holding the bowie knife and his right grasping the butt of the Dragoon Colt. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“Did any of ’em —!” the Kid demanded savagely, although he could see that the contingency to which he was referring had not taken place.
“Good Lord, no,” Betty replied. “They’ve all treated me like perfect gentlemen from the beginning. I’ve never even once had to take my little old John D out.” Rapidly approaching hooves drummed and, a few seconds later, the other two rescuers came into the room. “Why, heavens to Betsy, it’s you, S—!”
“Shucks!” the Kid exclaimed. “I’d clean forgot as how you knowed Eph Tenor from up Denton way.”
“Oh, I do,” the girl replied, and something in the way she spoke caused the Indian-dark Texan to look hard at her. “I most certainly do. Would you take me outside, please, Marshal? I feel a little faint.”
“I tell you, gents,” Taylor said, watching the peace officer and Betty leave. “I’m not sorry to see her go. That is one mean-natured li’l gal. On top of all the a-cleaning and a-dusting out she made us give this place, would you believe she not only made me shave so close I thought I’d peel my hide, but she made me go out ’n’ wash my hands agin ’cause she allowed I didn’t get ’em clean enough first time.”
“Yep, that’s our boss lady,” the Kid declared in genuine sympathy, glancing around the unexpectedly neat and tidy room and deducing how this had been brought about and wondering if there was any condition in the whole wide world that could make her even a little faint. “She’s sure enough mean!”
“By the way, Marshal,” Betty was saying at that moment, as she looked to where Dobson and Bower were sitting on the ground looking scared. “What are you going to do with them?”
“Take ’em afore Judge Parker at Fort Smith for trial,” U.S. Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen replied. xxxiv
“Is that necessary?” the girl inquired.
“They’ve bust the law even worse’n holding up the coach to Bent’s Ford when they took you to hold for ransom,” the peace officer pointed out.
“I know,” Betty admitted. “But is it necessary to take them before him? Couldn’t it be handled at local level?”
“Well, I—!”
“They never harmed me, or were even in any way disrespectful. And I’m willing to bet that, after the fright they’ve just been handed, they’ll never try anything like it again.”
“It’s the way—!” Madsen began.
“I wonder how folks would feel if they knew you’d been riding all day long without knowing you had Sam Bass as a member of your posse?” Betty queried. Looking as if butter would be hard put to melt in her mouth, she went on, “These bunch don’t know him, and I know Lon won’t tell. Nor would I, not deliberately, but I do declare I’m such a li’l ole blabbermouth I might let it slip out, by accident, of course.”
“All right, Miss Hardin,” Madsen said with a grin, envisioning the amusement that would arise if it should be heard by the other two “Guardsmen”—who he guessed would be the only persons to be told—how he had had the well-known Texas outlaw accompany him and the Kid. As had many another man when trying to oppose the will of the beautiful and very competent granddaughter of Ole Devil Hardin, he concluded he might as well surrender with good grace. “You win. I’ll let Duke Bent hand them their not-deserved needings as justice of the peace down this way. Then I’m going to tell Mr. Eph Tenor that we’d sooner he didn’t stick around racing that Denton mare he’s allus boasting about.”
~*~
“And now, Mr. Loncey Dalton Ysabel,” Betty Hardin said as she and the black-dressed Texan were standing in the room she was given on being returned to Bent’s Ford a short while earlier. “What’s the game?”
“Huh?” the Kid inquired, genuinely puzzled.
“Why do you keep acting so all-fired eager to please me?” Betty explained, looking distinctly suspicious.
“It’s all on account of my loving ’n’ respect—!”
The words were brought to an abrupt end by something that only three men in the world could have done without very quickly having regretted the decision to do so.
“I want the truth, like you reckon your Comanche side always tells,” Betty declared, grasping the Indian-dark Texan’s left ear to give it a twist. “So start to spitting it out, pronto!”
“Easy there, boss lady!” the Kid protested. “It’s fastened onto the side and not meant to be turned upside—!”
“The truth!” Betty demanded.
“Calf rope!” the Kid yelled. “I should’ve knowed there was something bad coming when Waco was so all-fired eager to take them stud hosses to Mark’s uncle’s spread up north of Mulrooney. Sneaky young cuss!”
“And was there?”
“There sure as sin’s for sale in Cowtown was. A young feller as had helped us out more’n somewhat when we was running the law got hisself set for marrying to the next-richest family in town, Freddie ’n’ Dusty being the first.”
“Go on!” Betty commanded, releasing the ear. “Get to the white meat!”
“Well, we floating outfit boys was all invited to the wedding,” the Kid obliged, looking distressed and shamefaced. “And real fancy ‘n high-toned it was going to be. We was told by Freddie—who I allus took for being as good a friend of mine as you are—!”
“Keep going!” the girl ordered. “Trying to butter me up won’t work.”
“Well, she said’s how we was going to have to dress up,” the Kid obliged, and gave a shudder at the recollection of what was to follow. “It’d mean wearing a frock coat, shirt with a collar and cravat or some such, ’n’ even worse, a high silk hat.”
“So you ran out on Dusty and Mark?” Betty guessed.
“Wasn’t that ways at all,” the Kid protested with what he hoped would sound like indignation but was more indicative to the girl of his having a guilty conscience over his behavior by deserting his amigos in such a craven fashion. “Hell, Dusty’s used to wearing such fancy doodads and I allus reckon Mark even likes doing it. Which I’d still’ve stood by ’em like a man, ’cepting I remembered as how you’d said you’d be waiting down here to Bent’s to get us safe back to home ’n’ concluded I’d best put aside my pleasuring to come ’n’ do it.”
“I’ll accept that, although thousands wouldn’t” Betty said with no sign of the merriment bubbling inside her. “But I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when Dusty and Mark get here after what you did to them.” xxxv