Part One

The Half-Breed

The dun horse was running well, its long forelegs reaching out and dragging ground under it, the hind legs propelling the horse forward. Behind him the posse had stopped firing, probably because Sheriff Dickson had told them to stop, but more likely because they saw the futility of trying to hit a fast riding man from the heaving saddle of a racing horse.

Mort Lewis bent low along the neck of his horse, urging it on yet trying to hold back some reserve in case it was needed. The dun ate work, loved to run and would willingly run until it dropped; the posse were only just holding their own against him. One thing and only one thing was in Mort Lewis’s favor; he knew the country better than the pursuing men, knew it as only a man with Indian blood in his veins could know it. Mort Lewis was half-Indian. His father had been a man with ideals, one being that he could scratch a living from one horse spread in the hills, the other that one day people would forget he had married a Comanche girl and accept both he and his son into their society. He died without seeing either of his dreams take shape. Mort Lewis was a half-breed; it was made plain to him every time he came to the town of Holbrock. The cowhands accepted him but the other folks, people of the town, kept clear of him. Brenton Humboldt, justice of the peace and businessman, leading citizen of the town sent his daughter to an Eastern relative because she was friendly with Mort. Then ordered him from the Humboldt property, swearing that no half-breed would ever set foot in his house or on his land.

But there was no danger of that happening now with a posse behind Mort, a posse with three of Dave Stewart’s men riding in it. His only hope was to get into the thick wood over the next hill where he might hide until there was a chance to slip through and head for the Comanche country. No posse would dare to follow him into the land of those savage fighting warriors and he would be safe. Even Stewart’s three hardcases, Scanlan, Milton and Salar, would not dare to cross the river beyond Sanchez Riley’s place for that was the Comanche country, and Chief Long Walker had taken a lodge oath that no white man should enter his land.

The racing dun swung up the slope, sticking to the well-worn surface of the stagecoach trail rather than breaking over the open land where a wrongly placed foot might find a gopher hole. If the dun went down Mort would be at the mercy of the posse which was clinging to his trail like a pack of ravaging wolves. They topped the rim behind him and he heard another couple of shots, but the bullets came nowhere near him. Salar, the best rifleman of them all, was not using his Buffalo Sharps rifle yet; he would save the costly bullets until they ran the dun to a halt. Then from a range Mort’s old Spencer carbine could not reach, the Mexican would get down, take careful aim and do what his boss, Dave Stewart, wanted.

Mort’s dun rocketed over the top of the rim and down the other side. Once around the blind corner at the bottom he would have a clear run to the woods and a chance of safety. The posse was almost a mile behind him and, crowding on the trail, were slowing each other down.

The young rider was tall, well built, with a reserve of strength in his powerful frame. His hair was black and straight, telling, as did his rather high cheekbones and his coal black eyes, of his Comanche blood. The face was handsome by European standards and the cheekbones were not too obvious, but they gave sign to men who knew the West. His clothes were not those of a working cowhand; he wore a buckskin shirt tucked into levis and on his feet were Comanche moccasins. Around his waist was a gunbelt, a plain handled Army Colt butt forward at his right side. Mort made no attempt to draw either the revolver or the Spencer carbine which showed from the saddleboot under his left leg. There was no need for him to try and draw the weapons, he was out of range for both Colt and the Spencer, and he didn’t want to kill; not even the men following him. There were a couple of men in the posse who’d treated him decently; Sheriff Dickson had given Mort work as a deputy when one who could read signs was needed. The rest of the posse were men Mort wouldn’t have spat on if they were on fire; loafers from the town, men who were willing to jump into any trouble but would neither work nor wash. To them he was the half-breed and they hated him. Much of the hate was caused by envy, for Mort could excel them in so many things. Stewart’s men were along to make sure Mort was not taken alive. That was what Dave Stewart wanted and what Dave Stewart wanted he usually got.

The blind curve was ahead and Mort hurled the horse around it. Then he saw the two riders ahead of him. They had come out of the woods and were blocking his way. The dun tried to turn, but was travelling too fast, it lost footing and Mort felt it going down. He tried to throw his balance to bring the horse back to his feet but was too late. The dun went down and Mort tried to kick his feet free of the stirrups and leave the saddle. He was just too late. The falling horse caught his foot and he crashed forward. He lit down rolling to break his fall, the instinct of self-preservation acting through his winded, dazed body. His Army Colt had been thrown from his holster and he dived for it as the dun struggled back to his feet.

The two riders looked young but they reacted with a speed which showed that defending their lives was not an unusual thing for them. The small man on the big paint horse flipped his left hand across his body, the white handled Colt leaving the holster at his right side in a flickering, sight-defying blur of movement. At the same moment, the tall, dark youngster afork the huge white stallion bent forward and slid the Winchester rifle from his saddleboot, levering a bullet into the breech as he brought it up.

The rifle spat and for a fast taken shot it was either very lucky or very accurate. The bullet kicked the gun from under Mort’s hand; a second shot following to prove that skill not luck was behind the hit. The gun was knocked to one side and, as it landed, the second bullet knocked it further away.

‘Hold it there, mister!’ snapped the smaller man, bringing his horse forward to stand over Mort and lining his Colt down. ‘Lon could just as easily have downed you as hit the gun.’

Mort looked up at the two men. The paint’s rider was small, not more than five foot five or six at most, but he held the gun with the air of a master. He was a handsome, pleasant-looking young man wearing plain range clothes though his low-crowned black JB Stetson hat was expensive and his high-heeled boots were made-to-measure. His saddle was a well-made, expensive rig, and the big horse showed breeding in every line. The young man did not look the sort to own such a hat, boots, saddle or horse. He looked even less likely to be wearing a buscadero gunbelt with two holsters, and a second white handled Army Colt butt forward at his left side, mate to the revolver held in his left hand.

All in all, that dusty blond-haired youngster might look young and insignificant, but Mort was not fooled. There was that indefinable something which told one cowhand that another was a top hand. This small, grey-eyed youngster on the big paint was all of that; a top hand and one who could handle those matched guns or the Winchester carbine booted at the left of his saddle with more than ordinary skill. He was not the sort of man one could take chances with and his voice showed he expected Mort to obey.

The other man, if man could be the term for he didn’t look much more than sixteen years old, was tall and slim. There was a whipcord strength about the youngster, a wiry power which did not seem right for one so young looking. His face was tanned as dark as Mort’s own; a strangely young looking face, innocent in feature, babyish almost but with red-hazel eyes that were neither young nor innocent. They were cold, hard and menacing as they squinted along the blued barrel of the old yellow boy, lining the V notch of the backsight and the tip of the foresight on Mort’s body.

The youngster wore all black, from his hat, his bandana, shirt and levis, right down to his boots. Even the gunbelt was black leather and only the walnut grips of the old Dragoon Colt butt forward at his right side and the ivory hilt of the bowie knife at his left hand relieved it. He looked wild, alien and almost Indian as he sat the saddle of his seventeen hand white stallion. The horse was a beauty, even bigger and better than the huge paint that the other man rode, and, like the paint, was a horse that no beginner could manage. Both would take a good man to handle them.

Mort saw all this in one swift glance. He heard the posse drawing nearer and flung himself forward. His horse was on its feet but he did not try for the saddle. Instead, he flung himself towards the side of the trail. If he could beat the rifle and the Colt and get into the bushes, he might still get away.

The small cowhand acted fast. He did not shoot but his right hand brought the length of hard plaited, three strand Manila rope from the saddle horn and sent the noose flipping out. Mort heard the hiss of the rope but left it too late; even as he tried to avoid the loop, it fell over his head. The small man pulled back, tightening the loop and pinning Mort’s arms to his sides, then quickly dropped two more loops around Mort’s shoulders.

‘Give it up, friend,’ the small man drawled, his voice calm, firm and without any sign of animosity. ‘You can’t get away now.’

Mort stood still, his face as inscrutable as he could manage. The posse would be in sight any minute now and he knew that he was going to die. If so, he would try and die without disgracing his Comanche mother’s blood.

The posse came tearing around the corner, bringing their horses to a sliding halt; hands reaching for weapons as they saw Mort standing in the centre of the trails Leading the men were Stewart’s three riders; Scanlan, big, burly and heavy, his bristle-covered, scarred face split in an evil grin as he saw Mort. Milton, lean, cadaverous and a fast man with a gun, sat at the right of the trail. Salar was at the left, a tall, swarthily handsome Mexican who dressed in the height of charro fashion: a fancy, silver decorated bolero jacket. frilly bosomed white silk shirt, trousers which were tight at the waist and thigh but flared out at the bottoms and high-heeled boots with big-roweled Spanish spurs. Yet, unlike most Mexicans, he showed no sign of a knife and gave no indication of the Mexican’s affinity for steel as a fighting weapon. He was fast with the silver mounted, nickel-plated Army Colt in the low hanging holster, and a deadly shot with his Sharps Buffalo rifle.

The three men were the pick of Dave Stewart’s hardcase crew. They were supposed to be cowhands but their duties were more concerned with enforcing Dave Stewart’s will. Scanlan was Stewart’s foreman, a hard-fisted, bullying killer. The other two were his companions, and it was rare that one was seen without the other two.

Mort could see no sign of the posse’s leader, Sheriff Jerome Dickson, and knew that he would most likely be dead before the sheriff arrived. He felt the rope go slack and the horse move back slightly from him.

‘Stopped him for us, did you,’ grunted Scanlan, glancing at the two cowhands. ‘Good, the boss’ll likely give you a reward.’ He reached for the rope on his saddle and unstrapped it. ‘You should have killed him, but we’ll soon tend to that.’

‘Just what do you reckon you’re going to do?’ asked the small Texan, his voice suddenly hard.

‘Going to decorate that cottonwood up there, sonny,’ replied Scanlan and grinned at the laugh which came from the posse. ‘See how the breed looks hanging around it.’ The small man shook his head, swung from his horse and walked to Mort. The gun was back in leather, Mort saw, and wondered what the youngster hoped to do against the full strength of the posse.

‘Oh no!’ drawled the small Texan.

Scanlan swung back to face him. Then his eyes went to the Indian dark, innocent-looking boy. He was lounging in the saddle of his big white with the Winchester rifle resting on his shoulder; his right hand gripping the small of the butt, three fingers folded through the lever of the rifle and the other resting on the trigger. Slowly Scanlan studied the boy, then dropped his eyes to the small man.

‘You reckon you can stop us?’ he asked, throwing a grin at the other posse members.

‘Do you reckon I can’t?’

Scanlan did not answer for a moment. His eyes went first to the paint horse and then to the white handled guns which were butt forward in the small cowhand’s holsters. A hard grin came to his lips and he nodded understandingly.

‘Two guns, slung for a cross draw, fancy, white handled guns at that, Paint hoss and all,’ he sneered, mockingly, pleased that he’d got an audience. ‘Who do you think you are—Dusty Fog.’

‘Mister,’ the dark boy spoke for the first time, his voice hard and sardonic under the easy drawl. ‘He doesn’t think. He knows he’s Dusty Fog.’

‘Yeah,’ scoffed Scanlan, throwing a glance at the other men in the posse. ‘I reckon you’ll be the Ysabel Kid, then.’

‘How’d you all guess?’ the dark boy’s voice was mocking. ‘Or did ole Salar there tip you the wink?’

Salar frowned, his eyes narrowed as he looked harder at the young man. Scanlan clearly was not satisfied and his voice dripped sarcasm as he turned his eyes to the small man once more.

‘All right, Dusty,’ he said, waving his hand towards Milton, ‘This here’s Wes Hardin and I’m Wild Bill—’

It was at that moment that the big paint moved so the men could see the brand it carried. Burned on the hip were two letters, an O and a D, the straight edge of the D touched by the side of the O, Scanlan could read the brand, OD Connected, the brand of Ole Devil Hardin’s Rio Hondo ranch. Dusty Fog was Ole Devil’s nephew.

There was a moment of uncertainty for Scanlan, then he shrugged it off. That short runt could not be Dusty Fog, although the other might be the Ysabel Kid.

‘Tell you, Dusty,’ he went on, forgetting to complete his sarcastic introduction of the other posse members, calling each one the name of a famous gunfighter. ‘You want for us to ask real nice afore you let’s us hang him.’

‘Mister,’ the small man’s voice was still even. ‘I’d show you my card, but I doubt if you can read. One thing I do know. The only way you can hang this feller is by passing me.’

Scanlan lifted his right foot to step forward, then set it down again. His eyes were on the small man, noting the relaxed, casual way he stood; there was no fancy position taking, no sinking into the so-called gunman’s crouch. The young man stood erect, hands by his side, yet there was something latent and deadly about him which warned Scanlan more than any amount of words. Suddenly the small man was no longer small, but stood taller than any man here, or so it seemed to Scanlan.

‘Shem!’ Salar reached his decision and spoke a warning. ‘That’s the Ysabel Kid. I recognize him now.’

‘Now ain’t he the smart one,’ the dark boy’s drawl was mocking. ‘I recognized him right off at that.’

There Scanlan had it laid out before him. The dark boy was the Ysabel Kid and the other one really was Dusty Fog. The thought brought Scanlan to a halt; to hang Mort Lewis he’d have to pass the guns of Dusty Fog. Scanlan and every man in the posse knew Dusty Fog and something about him. He was a legend in his own life, the small Texas cowhand called Dusty Fog. In the War he’d been known as one of the South’s best cavalry officers. He’d been a captain at seventeen and his name was said in the same breath as John Singleton Mosby and Turner Ashby. They were names which stood at the height of the South’s fast riding, raiding light cavalry. Since the War, Dusty’s name was known as a top hand with cattle, a rough mount rider, ranch segundo, trail boss and town taming lawman. His name ranked high in each of those trades, and among the highest of the fast draw breed. They said he was the fastest gun in Texas.

This was Dusty Fog; the man Scanlan would have dismissed as a nobody, the man Scanlan was forced to face if he meant to hang Mort Lewis.

The other one, that baby-faced, mocking voiced boy on the big white stallion, he too was a living legend; the Ysabel Kid, Loncey Dalton Ysabel. Down on the Rio Grande stories were told of him from the days when he and his father ran contraband across the river. He was known as a man who could throw lead with some speed and accuracy, disproving the theory that his old four pound two ounce Colt Dragoon gun was long out of date and over-heavy. He was also known to be a fine exponent on the art of cut and slash in the traditional style of the old Texas master, Colonel James Bowie. But it was with his rifle that he was best known, with an old Kentucky rifle, then with the Winchester Model of 66, the old yellow boy. What Dusty Fog was to the handling of revolvers, the Ysabel Kid was to a rifle. There were other things about this dark, dangerous young man. It was said he could speak fluent Spanish and make himself thoroughly understood in six Indian dialects; that he could ride anything with hair and that he could follow a track where a buck Apache would not know how to begin trying.

That was the Ysabel Kid, friend, companion and sidekick of Dusty Fog. He did not need Dusty’s aid to bolster his own reputation.

Of all the men in the West, Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid were the worst possible for Scanlan’s purpose. The two Texans said Mort would not hang and they meant every word they said. Neither would back down and there was only one way to take their prisoners. If Dusty Fog said Mort was not going to hang he would back the words. He was bad enough on his own, but backed by the Ysabel Kid was more than a match for Scanlan’s two friends and the rest of the posse.

Dusty watched the crowd. Rope-fever was plain on the faces of most of the men. He could read their type as well as he could read their insane desire to see a man kicking at the end of a rope. The loafers wanted to kill, to hang this man so they could boast they’d helped in doing it. There was no desire for justice, nor just cause to wish for hanging, just rope-fever. It was a sickening sight.

Sheriff Dickson came around the corner, trying to urge a better speed from his horse. He saw everything as he came into sight of the men; Mort Lewis standing with a rope around his arms; Scanlan holding his own rope and the other men behind him. Then Dickson saw the small Texan and the youngster on the white horse, but hardly gave them a second glance. They’d not been in the posse when it left town and must have come on to Mort as he turned the corner. They were lucky Mort Lewis was not a killer, Dickson thought, or they’d have not taken him so easily.

‘What’s the idea, Scanlan?’ Dickson asked.

‘We caught Lewis.’

‘I can see that. What’s the rope for?’

Scanlan did not reply. He knew that, the sheriff was a man he did not scare. He also knew that Jerome Dickson had warned them that there would be no lynching. One of the saloon-hardcases of the posse, not knowing Dickson so well, called out:

‘We’re going to save the County the money for a trial.’

Dickson swung down from the horse. He swore he’d see the livery barn owner about giving him this wind-broke animal to ride in a posse. His own horse was tired and he’d done as usual, sending to the livery-barn for another. The horse had looked all right but showed itself unable to keep up with the rest of the posse’s mounts. He could guess why. They wanted to get to Mort Lewis before he arrived. If they’d done so Mort would be dead. Dickson was surprised that he was not dead. He felt the eyes of the small cowhand on him and gave Dusty more attention.

Dusty looked at the sheriff. Dickson was a tall, spare man of middle age, his face tanned and strong-looking. His brownish moustache was neatly clipped and his clothes were just good enough to show that he was the honest sheriff of a poor county. The gunbelt, with the plain handled Army colt showed signs of care and the holster hung just right. Dickson was poor, honest and a good man with a gun. There was a grim look on his face as he turned to the watching posse.

‘There’ll be no lynching while I’m sheriff,’ he said.

Scanlan’s sneer grew thicker. ‘Which same won’t be long, way you’re acting.’

‘Maybe, but while I am, what I say goes.’

‘What’s he wanted for, sheriff?’ Dusty asked.

Dickson was satisfied he was correct: here was a man to be reckoned with. There was the way he stood, the way he looked right at a man, the way his matched guns lay in the holsters of that belt. A man who was among the magic-handed group known as the top guns. Things would go badly if he was to side with the others in wanting to hang Mort Lewis.

‘They say he killed a man,’ Dickson replied, wondering how he had ever thought the other man was small.

‘Did he?’

‘I don’t know. When I went to question him he dived through the window of the Long Glass saloon, back in Holbrock, went afork his horse and lit out of town.’

The Ysabel Kid’s eyes went to the posse, his contempt plain as he studied the faces of the men.

‘Maybe he thought he wouldn’t get a chance to tell his story,’ the Kid said. ‘That hombre there,’ his left thumb indicated Scanlan, ‘sounded tolerable eager to have him hung.’

‘He killed old Dexter Chass, that’s why,’ Scanlan spat out. ‘Shot poor ole Dexter down without a chance.’

‘We don’t know Mort here did it,’ Dickson snapped. ‘I only wanted to ask him where he’d been—’

‘Why the hell did he run if he didn’t kill old Dexter?’ Scanlan growled.

‘Lon could have called it right,’ Dusty replied, never taking his eyes from Scanlan’s face. ‘The feller might have known that he’d never get a chance to say anything, way you’re acting.’

‘That’s been said too often,’ growled Scanlan.

‘Mister, happen you don’t like it I’ll say it again,’ the Ysabel Kid growled, sounding mean as a starving cougar. ‘Any time you reckon you can stop me just say the word and let her go.’

Scanlan gave this some thought for a few seconds. He’d built up a reputation around Holbrock as being bad medicine and a fast man with a gun, but he made no move to take up the challenge. He tried to tell himself that he refused because the Kid’s rifle was out, resting on his right shoulder, but he knew it was a lie. A fast man with a gun stood a good chance of being able to drop his hand and lift up his colt before the Kid could swing the rifle down and into line. Scanlan knew that, knew it and did not mean to gamble his luck on it, not even when backed by two other good men. There was a reason. The Ysabel Kid was also backed, if only by one man. That man was Dusty Fog and he could copper any bets made by Salar and Milton, then call ‘keno’ at the finish.

Sheriff Dickson could hardly believe his ears. The two young men were willing to side with him against the lynch-minded crowd. There were two more men in the posse who would not take part in any lynching and would side him. That made five against nine. Good odds. Odds that the men who made up the nine, would not face down.

‘We’ll take you back, and hold a hearing,’ Dickson said, taking the chance he was right about the two cowhands. ‘Will you two gents be riding into town with us?’

‘We’re headed for Holbrock,’ agreed Dusty. ‘We’ll ride with you. This is Ysabel Kid, I’m Dusty Fog.’

For a moment Dickson suspected a joke but there was no hint of amusement on the faces of the two young men. They were who they claimed to be. That was why Mort Lewis was still alive. Dickson smiled. He’d always suspected Scanlan of being a big-mouthed show-off who would dog it if faced by a good man. Now there was proof and confirmation of the suspicion.

‘Be pleased to have you along, Cap’n Fog,’ he said and he meant it.

Dusty went to look at the dun horse. It was unhurt by the fall and would be able to carry the man back to the town, not more than four or five miles away. Turning he walked back to Mort and removed the rope.

‘You’re coming back, friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you my word that you’ll get a fair hearing. If you try and run, the Kid’ll cut down your horse. If you didn’t kill the man you’ll have nothing to fear.’

‘Won’t I?’ Mort answered. ‘I’m a half-breed, Cap’n—.’

‘So?’ Dusty drawled. ‘I thought the question was whether you killed a man, not who your mammy and pappy were.’

‘I’ll go with you, Cap’n,’ said Mort, knowing that Dusty did not care whether he was a half-breed or not, and would see fair play. ‘I won’t try to run for it again.’

Dickson nodded in approval: Mort Lewis was a man of his word. If he said he would ride in then he would do just that and there would be no more attempt at flight. The sheriff bent, picked up Mort’s revolver and turned it over in his hands. The loading lever under the barrel was badly buckled and the walnut grips broken but the gun was still in working condition. There’d been some close called shooting on the weapon, Dickson saw, and thanked his stars that it was Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid who had met up with Mort. There were many men who would have shot to kill in the circumstances, not waiting to see what was wrong. Almost any of the posse would have done so, cutting Mort down just to boast they’d done it. His eyes went to the sullen faced posse as he thrust the revolver into his waistband. The men looked uncomfortable at the scorn in the sheriff’s eyes.

‘Mount up, all of you,’ Dickson said.

The Kid, his rifle still resting on his shoulder, eyed the posse with cold distaste. His voice was cutting and menacing as he addressed them:

‘You bunch ride a piece in front of us,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you—but I don’t.’

Scanlan’s scowl deepened, but he found himself lacking the courage to go against the Kid. His idea had been to get alongside Mort’s horse; a quick kick in the dun’s side would cause it to leap forward, then Mort could be shot down. A volley would bring him down, there would be no proof that any one man fired the fatal shot and less about how Mort came to try and escape. The Kid’s order would cancel any chance of doing the kicking or shooting.

Once more Scanlan thought of trying to call the Kid’s hand, If he could make the first move, others of the bunch at his back would join in. Nine to five—Scanlan knew two of the men would not back him—was good odds. The sheriff and the others could be cut down by sheer force of numbers. There was only one thing wrong: Scanlan knew he would not be alive to see it. He would be the first target for the Ysabel Kid and for Dusty Fog.

His eyes met the Kid’s, reading the mocking challenge and the supreme confidence in them. More than ever he knew the Kid would welcome any attempt to start something and was ready, willing, and more able to finish whatever was started.

The rest of the posse watched Scanlan, knowing everything hinged on him. The men who did not work for Stewart were thinking things over; Salar and Milton just waited for their friend to call the play. Scanlan knew it, knew the others expected him to do something. It hurt to know he dare not make a move. With an angry growl he turned and mounted his horse, wrenching cruelly at its jaw as he rode through the other men.

It was a silent and sullen posse which headed towards the town. There was no talking by anyone; the men in the posse watching Scanlan, the leader who had failed to come through, and wondering what made them think he was tough. The sheriff was watching Mort Lewis and the two Texans. There was relief on Dickson’s face as he glanced at the small Texan; with Dusty Fog at his back he could conduct a proper inquiry into the killing of old Dexter Chass. There was not much to go on so far. The only hard fact against Mort was his running away, and even that could be explained as Dusty had already explained it. There was much circumstantial evidence against Mort, but it could be blasted easily enough.

The town of Holbrock was small, sleepy-looking and peaceful. It was the sort of town which existed in hundreds through the cattle country of Texas; a small place which never received the publicity of Fort Worth, Dallas or other cow land hot-spots. It was doubtful if Holbrock was known beyond the county line; nothing much ever happened there and the town went along its peaceful way.

The scattering of houses backed off the main street, an untidy straggling double line of stores, a couple of saloons, a dance and gambling hall and the county offices, a large building, the most expensive building in the town, containing the county office, sheriff’s office, jail and town marshal’s office. The latter was never used as the town found they could not afford to hire a full time marshal after paying for the splendid building. The leading citizen, Brenton Humboldt, boasted that his project, a vaguely defined idea, would bring money pouring into Holbrock, making the town boom; this building would then be of great use to the county seat.

The return of the posse attracted interest and there was a rapid gathering of men at the Long Glass saloon, a small, undistinguished, clapboard building with one of the big side windows smashed and glassless. Most of the posse carried on riding towards the saloon, but Scanlan and his two friends halted their horses in front of the county offices and dismounted. They swung up on to the side-walk and watched Dickson’s group dismount at the hitching rail.

‘Mind if we come in with you, Jerome?’ Scanlan asked. ‘Just to make sure the breed don’t cut rough.’

Dickson did not argue. He could hardly stop the three men entering his office after they’d ridden on the posse. He led the way through the double doors into the office of the County Sheriff. The office was a large room with a desk in the centre and a few chairs as furnishings. There was a stove in one corner and a big iron safe in another. The back of the office opened to the cells, but was separated from them by a set of folding doors which were open as the party entered. On one wall was a big cupboard and on the other side, facing it, a rack of rifles and shotguns. It was no different from any other sheriff’s office, Dusty thought, looking around: the same worn desk, the same wanted posters. It might easily have been his father’s office back in Polveroso City.

‘I’ll take the gunbelt, Mort,’ Dickson said. ‘Best hold you in the cell, too. Call it resisting arrest and damage to property.’

‘Sure, Jerome,’ Mort agreed, knowing the sheriff was only doing his duty.

Taking the gunbelt Dickson put it and the broken revolver into the cupboard and took Mort into the cells, locking him inside the nearest. The other men waited in the office, none of them talking. The Ysabel Kid watched Scanlan, a mocking smile on his face, his yellow boy in his hands.

A big dog came through the door at the rear of the jail. A lean, gaunt and shaggy animal which looked to have more than its fair share of buffalo-wolf blood. With its long tail wagging it started forward towards the cells and Mort Lewis came to the door, grinning. The dog brushed against Scanlan’s legs, barely touching them, but the man snarled and drew bask his foot. Instantly, the dog leapt around snarling low in its throat. Scanlan’s hand dropped. He brought the gun out and fired, the heavy bullet smashing into the dog’s head.

The dog yelped once and went down. Dickson gave an angry shout and started forward as Mort Lewis flung himself at the bars of the cell. Dickson went at Scanlan but fast as he moved, Dusty was faster.

Dusty hurled forward like a living projectile, his right fist smashing into Scanlan’s bristle covered jaw. For a small man Dusty was packed solid with steel hard muscles. He hit with every ounce of weight and strength he’d got. Scanlan, taken by surprise both by the speed of the attack and Dusty’s unexpected strength, was knocked staggering. He crashed in a sitting position under the cupboard. Dusty came after him not letting the other man get to his feet before attacking again.

Up drove Dusty’s right hand in a brutal backhand slam, the second knuckle catching Scanlan’s top lip, crushing and splitting it and sending waves of agony welling through him, Dusty’s hand swung up with the force of the blow, then smashed down, driving into the side of the man’s face, snapping his head over. Scanlan was unable to defend himself against the fury of the attack. He was no mean hand in a roughhouse brawl but this time was taken completely by surprise.

With an angry snarl Milton jumped forward, in an attempt to help his friend. The lean man came fast, with a wild rush which was calculated to take Dusty unawares. Dusty’s left hand shot up, jerked open the cupboard and sent it smashing into the gunman’s face. Milton met it head on, the wooden edge of the door smashing his nose. Before Milton could get up, and even as his hand fell gunwards and tears of pain half blinded him, Dusty’s right foot lashed up, kicking with the grace of a French savate fighter. Caught in the middle of his stomach by the high heel of a riding boot Milton doubled over, his head narrowly missing the open cupboard door on the way down. Dusty’s fist whipped up, driving with all his strength. The knuckles caught Milton’s face as he bent over, jerking him erect. His head smashed into the bottom edge of the door, splintering the wood and tearing it from the hinges. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, a passive look on his face and a trickle of blood from his Stetson brim.

Salar let his hand fall to his side. No gentleman of noble Spanish blood would sink to such a barbarous practice as fist fighting. His hand was curling around the ornate butt of his gun when he felt something resting lightly on his wrist. All ideas of drawing the gun ended. Resting on the wrist, just where the fancy white cuffs of the shirt showed from the jacket sleeve, was the eleven-and-a-half inch long, two-and-a half wide blade of the Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife, razor edge ready to rip home. Slowly Salar looked up at the mocking red-hazel eyes of the Ysabel Kid.

‘I don’t do no fist fighting, neither, Salar,’ warned the Kid in a gentle tone which did not fool the Mexican. ‘So leave her lie, afore I spoils them nice lace cuffs.’

Salar removed his hand. He was proud of the lace cuffs and did not want them torn, nor his wrist cut to the bone.

Scanlan forced himself upwards against the savage, battering fists, bracing himself against the wall and snarling threats through his bloody lips. He forgot his gun, forgot everything to get at this small Texan who was smashing blows at him, rocking his head from side to side. He got one foot into Dusty’s stomach and pushed hard, hurling him across the office. Dusty slammed into the wall and bounced forward as, with a roar of rage, Scanlan charged, meaning to smash Dusty by brute strength.

For an instant Dickson thought he should help Dusty. Standing transfixed, amazed by the strength of the small Texan and the fury of Dusty’s attack, he saw the huge man charge and expected to see the small Texan smashed to the ground by sheer weight.

Dusty went straight forward, as if to meet the rush. At the last moment he swerved, caught Scanlan’s wrist in his hands, and threw him at the wall. He was out of all control and crashed hard enough to jar the reward posters from their hook. Scanlan staggered back dazed but Dusty was on him again, turning him and sinking a fist almost wrist deep into his stomach. Scanlan croaked in pain and bent forward to meet the other punch Dusty was throwing, a beautiful left uppercut, timed to perfection to meet the down swinging jaw. The huge man was lifted erect, his arms flailing wildly as he went over and landed flat on his back.

Still Dusty had not finished. The sight of the dead dog, wantonly and needlessly killed, filled him with a cold and murderous rage. The Kid watched, he had never seen his friend so angry and hoped Dusty would remember that the deadly ju-jitsu and karate techniques, taught to him by Ole Devil Hardin’s Japanese servant, could easily kill when used with full strength.

Gripping the front of Scanlan’s shirt Dusty dragged the man into a sitting position and slammed home another punch, smashing his bead to the floor. The big gunman was limp and unconscious but Dusty hardly noticed. He pulled the man half erect once more and his fist smashed home. He took hold of the shirt for another blow but Dickson decided it was time to intervene.

‘Easy, Cap’n Fog,’ he said worriedly. ‘You’ll kill him if you keep hitting him like that.’

Slowly the anger left Dusty’s eyes, the cold rage seeping out of him. He let go of Scanlan’s shirt and the man flopped back limply to the ground. Then Dusty straightened up, his hands were clenched but he opened them, moving the fingers to get them working again. He was breathing heavily as he stepped clear of Scanlan and looked at the dog. Then his eyes went to Salar and there was cold, bitter hate in the gaze.

‘Whose dog was it?’ he asked.

‘Mine,’ replied Mort Lewis, there was deep grief in his voice. ‘I’ve had him for years. He was about the only friend I ever had. If I get half a chance I’ll kill Scanlan for doing that.’

‘He’s not far from being dead now,’ Dickson put in grimly. ‘And, by gawd, he asked for it.’

Dusty swung to face Salar. ‘Pick the dog up,’ he ordered.

‘It is beneath the dignity of a—’

‘Mister,’ Dusty’s voice dropped to hardly more than a whisper. ‘You pick up that dog and carry it out of the door.’

‘And if I don’t?’ replied Salar.

The Ysabel Kid knew these race-proud Spanish Mexicans, they would rather die than submit to something beneath their dignity. Salar would willingly face Dusty with a gun, even if he knew he would die, rather than submit to an indignity. The knife point moved, dropping and before Salar realized had slit the holster from top to bottom. Before the Mexican could move his gun was gone, held by the Ysabel Kid. The Kid nodded to Dusty, knowing his friend could handle things.

‘You’ll either pick him up or I’ll give you worse than I gave the other two.’

For an instant Salar stood immobile. He could face death without flinching, risk his life for his perverted sense of honor. But he could not risk being beaten into a bloody, marked hulk like Scanlan. Salar was proud of his good looks, he would not risk having them battered by the hard fists of the small Tejano. There was hate and worse on the man’s face as he walked forward and lifted the dog. He carried the dog out through the rear door of the jail and found there was worse to come.

‘Get a shovel,’ Dusty ordered. ‘I want a grave digging.’

Before Salar could decide if even a savage beating was worth the final and highest blow to his dignity there was an interruption. He was saved from making the choice by the Kid, looking out of the door.

‘We’ve got us some trouble, Dusty,’ said the Kid. ‘Regular deputation for the sheriff. All righteous, upright and soberly solid citizens.’

Dusty turned and walked back into the jail. Salar looked down at the dog, then at the loosened dog hairs which marked his elegant black coat. His hate for Dusty Fog grew by the minute, swelling to an almost maniacal rage. Then sense returned to him. He felt the slashed edges of the holster and knew his revenge would be delayed until he could get a new holster and make practice with it. He was fast with a gun, but only when drawn from a holster. He’d always used one and knew that any attempt at drawing from his waistband would be fatal for him. He must wait, have a new holster made, learn its hang and ways, and then take this accursed pair of Tejanos who had humiliated him.

The office was quiet as Dusty and the Kid went back. The Kid picked his rifle up, ignoring the two men who were just beginning to move. He glanced at the cell and gave Mort a reassuring nod, then joined Dusty at the side of the door, listening to what was going on outside.

The men out front were a mixed looking bunch, a fair cross-section of the town and county population. There were solid citizens wearing expensive or near expensive broadcloth jackets and the latest town-style trousers. There were cowhands from the local spreads; cheery, happy-go-lucky young men who were along to see what was happening. There were the saloon loafers who’d made up the posse and others of their kind. The rest were poor business men, trying to scratch a living in the town, a couple of poorly dressed professional gamblers and an odd assortment of less definable men, men who wore the cowhand dress, but were not cowhands, or Dusty did not know the signs.

The leaders of the deputation appeared to be a tall, handsome young man wearing expensive range clothes; a range-land dandy, arrogant, successful and used to having his own way, and a shorter, thick-set townsman, the best dressed of the townsmen in the crowd. He was a pompous-looking, well-padded man, his side-whiskers and heavy moustache outward and visual proofs, as was his suit and the heavy gold watch chain across his vest, of his success and affluence.

The handsome man watched Dickson step from the office glanced at the shotgun resting across the sheriff’s arm and dropped his hand to fondle the butt of the pearl handled Army Colt in his holster.

‘You brought the half-breed in?’ he asked, his voice tough, the voice of an important man dealing with an unimportant official.

‘I brought Mort Lewis in,’ agreed Dickson.

‘We’ve come for him, Jerome.’

‘There’ll be no lynching, Stewart,’ warned Dickson.

‘Lynching, sheriff?’ Dave Stewart replied, looking indignant for the benefit of the crowd. ‘We don’t aim to lynch him. We’re going to give him a trial.’

‘Without a judge, or counsel for his defense?’

‘Mr. Humboldt here’s a justice of the peace, he can take the trial,’ Stewart scoffed. ‘We’ll give the breed a fair trial, then hang him.’

‘Not so fast, David,’ the other man put in hastily. ‘We’ll see he gets a fair trial, Jerome. Even a half-breed gets fair treatment in our town.’

‘I’m holding Mort for questioning, pending inquiry into Dexter Chass’s killing,’ Dickson answered. ‘There’s not enough evidence yet, not to bring a murder charge against Mort Lewis!’

‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ Stewart growled. ‘Won’t we, boys?’

There was a low rumble of agreement from a section of the crowd. It was the starting rumble of a lynch mob but as yet not more than half of the men present would be willing to take the law into their own hands.

‘Mort’s held for questioning, nothing more. There’ll be no trial.’

Stewart smiled, his face hard and vicious. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of trying to stop us, would you, Jerome?’

‘If I have to.’

There was something in the way Dickson spoke which warned the men in the crowd that they would have to come openly against the sheriff if they wanted to take the prisoner. Many were willing to go along with the ‘trial’ thereby gaining spurious legality for the proceedings. This same faction were not willing to gain even the good will of Dave Stewart and take the prisoner by force. Then the affair would carry the taint of a lynch mob and be against the law.

Dave Stewart knew the way the crowd was thinking. He knew that some of the loafers and hardcases would follow him, but they were not the people he must have behind him. He needed the support of the solid and influential citizens before he could stir up any outright attack on the sheriff; the support of the men who could cover the incident up after it was done; for their reputations and their necks, they would be compelled to keep quiet. He must go slowly, move the crowd gradually up to the point where they would not back down.

‘Have it your way, Jerome,’ he said, knowing every man in the crowd was waiting on his words. ‘Folks feel bad about letting a half-breed kill a nice old man like Dexter Chass. Shoot him in the back and leave him out at his house like that. Why, old Dexter might have laid there for days, suffering, with that bullet in him and nobody’d have known. And you telling us that you’re not going to let justice be done?’

‘I’m telling you that I’m not satisfied that Mort’s guilty.’

‘What’d you want? Him to admit it?’ Stewart replied. ‘Let us talk to him for a spell, we’ll soon get the truth out of him.’

‘Mort stays where he is,’ Dickson answered.

‘You wouldn’t use that shotgun, not against your friends, Jerome,’ Stewart mocked. ‘You aren’t going to shoot down your good friends to save that—’

‘Any man who tries to take a prisoner from me’s no friend of mine,’ Dickson replied, ‘You’d best break it up and go to your homes.’

‘You’re only one man, Jerome,’ warned Stewart. ‘One man, a man the town appointed to defend them and their property from murderers like that half-breed. Now, one man’s not going to stop us seeing justice done. Is he, boys?’

Put that way it was a challenge to the citizens; they had to stand up for their rights as freeborn Texans. They were mumbling among themselves, the more restless spirits preparing to take action. The odds were very good, one man against a crowd. Then the mumbles died as the jail door opened. It suddenly became more plain that it was three against the crowd.

Dusty stepped out, moving to Dickson’s left side and stood with his hands resting at waist level, thumbs hooked in his belt. The Kid came out to the right side, looking meaner than hell. The old yellow boy held negligently in his right hand the butt plate resting on his hip and the muzzle pointing into the air. His right hand moved, flipping open the lever and closed it again, then he stood without a move. His voice was cold and sardonic as he spoke to the crowd.

‘Reckon you didn’t take the trail count close enough, mister. Try again.’

‘Who are they, Dickson?’ Stewart growled. He could feel his hardcase, saloon loafers fading away from him, weakening before the two handy-looking men who flanked the sheriff. With men like that to back him Dickson could inflict more than a little damage on the crowd.

‘Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid.’

‘Captain Fog,’ Stewart growled and the crowd repeated the names in a low rumble of sound. ‘You mean Dusty Fog?’

‘As ever there was,’ replied the Kid, his mocking eyes on the rancher. ‘You gents still fixing to take the prisoner?’

Before Stewart could reply, the fattish, pompous-looking man by his side moved forward holding out his hand to Dusty trying to raise a welcoming smile which looked sincere.

‘Captain Fog,’ he said, his unctuous voice full of respectful greeting. ‘My name is Humboldt. I believe your Uncle asked you to come and see me on his behalf?’

Dusty’s hands stayed where they were, he made no attempt to take the proffered hand. ‘That’s right. Uncle Devil sent me along to look into that idea of yours.’

Humboldt coughed modestly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it most satisfactory—’

‘What’s all this about?’ Dusty cut through the gushing words with his cold drawl. ‘You’d best tell it.’

‘Mort Lewis killed his neighbor,’ Humboldt replied. ‘We merely wanted to see that justice—’

‘You sure he did it?’ asked the Kid.

‘— er—I—’ Humboldt began, then faltered. It did not look as if Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid approved of their actions, and they were two men he needed for the successful fulfillment of his plans.

‘Sure we’re sure,’ Stewart growled. ‘The breed’s been feuding with poor old Dexter for years.’

‘You know what these half-breeds are, Cap’n,’ Humboldt went on, smiling ingratiatingly at the Kid. The dark young man was only an employee of Ole Devil Hardin but he was also reputed to be one of captain Fog’s closest friends. The small Texan might resent any snobbish objections to his friend, so the Kid rated very civil treatment. ‘You can’t trust any man with Indian blood, can you?’

The mocking gleam in the Kid’s eyes grew more in evidence. ‘Was the hombre scalped as well as shot?’

‘Er—no. Not that I know of,’ replied Humboldt, clearly disappointed that he was unable to answer in the affirmative. ‘Why?’

‘You know what Injuns are,’ grunted the Kid. ‘Course, the hombre’d only be half scalped, seeing as Mort’s only half Injun.’

The crowd were watching the three men on the porch. The cowhands staring with admiring eyes at a master of their trade a man they hero-worshipped. No cowhand would willingly go against the wishes of Dusty Fog. The rest of the crowd knew that there was no chance of their getting the prisoner and any attempt at doing so would be dangerous.

Humboldt licked his lips. He wanted to make a good impression on Dusty and said, ‘My house is, of course, at your disposal. I hope both you and the Kid will consider yourselves my guests.’

‘Not until this business is settled,’ replied Dusty. ‘Have you held an inquest on the killing?’

‘Why no, we haven’t,’ replied Humboldt, brightening. Here was a way to settle this business without offending Captain Fog. Humboldt was sure that the young Texan would accept the evidence at its face value and there was much that was damaging to Mart Lewis. ‘I think we’d better do so, Sheriff.’

‘Yeah, it could do with a bit of airing,’ Dickson said dryly.

‘Tell Warren we’ll start in half, an hour. Down at the Long Glass, Captain,’ he went on for Dusty’s benefit.

Dusty nodded. There was nothing unusual in holding an inquest in a saloon. Often in a small town like Holbrock the saloon was the only place large enough for a court. The bar would be closed down and the inquest held in an air of sober respectability. Even ladies could enter the saloon at such a time, a thing never permitted under normal circumstances.

‘It would be best,’ Humboldt managed to get a boom of civic righteousness in his voice. ‘After all, none of us wish to take the law into our own hands.’

The other townsmen, the more sober citizens of the crowd, gave their enthusiastic agreement to the words. None of them wished to become involved in a lynching. The Texas Rangers nosed out such things, no matter how well they were concealed. Somebody always talked and word got out. Once the Texas Rangers got to hear of the lynching, even as a drunken rumor, they would investigate and probe deeper until they got at the truth. Money, social position, local standing meant nothing to the Rangers when a crime had been committed. No man connected with the lynching would be safe again. So most townsmen were pleased that there was no immediate danger of lynching.

Stewart’s face was hard, no longer smiling as he felt his support ebbing away. He wished he’d brought his ranch crew to town with him and wondered where Salar, Milton and Scanlan were. With them on hand he would chance facing the three men on the side-walk before the jail.

The wish was partly granted. The jail door opened and Milton staggered out supporting Scanlan. Stewart stared, he could hardly believe his eyes at the sight. Milton’s mouth was swollen and bruised, and there was a trickle of blood running from under his hat. He could barely stand, and the weight of Scanlan was making him stagger badly.

But Scanlan’s condition was worse. Stewart knew his foreman’s skill as a rough-house fighter and could hardly believe that he was seeing correctly. Scanlan’s face was never anything to be proud of, but it looked far worse now. His top lip was swollen to almost four times its usual size, split and bloody; his right eye was slit and the rest of his face was marked to almost the same extent. Whoever had handled Scanlan in such a manner must, if lone-handed, be a veritable giant, Stewart thought. He knew Dickson too well to think the sheriff had organized and helped in a mass attack on the two men.

‘What the hell?’ Stewart growled. ‘Who did that?’

‘I did,’ Dusty replied.

It was on the tip of Stewart’s tongue to snarl out a denial, but he saw that to do so would be tantamount to calling Dusty a liar. In Texas there was only one reply to such an accusation, a fast drawn Colt.

‘That’s the living truth,’ Dickson went on. ‘Scanlan killed Mort’s old Pete dog in there and Cap’n Fog took exception to it.’

There sounded an angry, savage growl from the listening cowhands. Amongst the riders who worked around Holbrock the big dog was a firm favorite. It could outfight any other dog within miles and could run down a coyote which no other dog could do. There’d been considerable money won betting on the dog in both capacities and the cowhands were riled by the wanton killing. If Mort Lewis himself had been killed by the posse the cowhands would not have worried. He was one of them, friendly with them, but that was all. There would have been no demonstrations either for or against the man who had done the shooting. The dog was different and Stewart knew he’d lost the support of the cowhands for Scanlan was his man.

‘You stood by and let him do that to one of my men?’ Stewart snarled at the sheriff.

‘That’s right, I did,’ agreed Dickson evenly. ‘I’d have done it myself but Cap’n Fog licked me to it. You’d best get them to the doctor. Dave, happen you want to be on hand to give evidence.’

Stewart took the hint. He turned on his heel and a couple of the loafers helped his men to the doctor’s house. The rest of the crowd began to move away. There was nothing more to be done now, except wait for the result of the inquest.

Humboldt and a couple of his partners moved forward. There was an air about all of them which amused the sheriff who knew them to be snobs of the first water. He knew that none of them would have thought of speaking to an insignificant looking cowhand like Dusty Fog unless there was something in it. They would have been even less friendly to the Kid under other circumstances, for there was a dangerous and most disrespectful air about him which would not go down with men like Humboldt.

‘I hope that you’ll find our little proposition quite to your satisfaction, Captain Fog,’ Humboldt gushed. ‘I’ll expect you and your friend to dinner tonight, unless he’d rather I arranged alternative entertainment for him.’

The Kid grinned. He knew that Humboldt would never think of inviting him to visit the house wider normal circumstances and would have been only too keen to avoid the sort of dinner Humboldt would give. This time he intended to go along with Dusty, just for laughs.

‘We’ll see about it, after the hearing,’ Dusty replied. ‘I want to know what’s happening hereabouts before I make any decisions.’

‘It’s simple really,’ Humboldt said. ‘Mort Lewis is a half-breed. He’s supposed to run a small cattle spread in the hills but he spends a lot of time away from it. He acts as guide for hunting parties and things like that. His neighbor, old Dexter Chass, and he don’t—didn’t get on well together—’

‘We’d best get to the Long Glass,’ Dickson put in. ‘Will you and the Kid act as special deputies, Cap’n?’

‘Sure will,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Go fetch that gent along, Lon.’

The Long Glass saloon was quiet, soberly quiet. The bar and tables were cleared of glasses, bottles and decks of cards, and there was an air of expectancy among the all-male crowd, a silent awareness of dramatic happenings.

‘If you’d care for a drink, to refresh yourself after your long ride, I think it could be arranged, Captain,’ Humboldt said in a confidential whisper.

‘No thanks,’ Dusty replied, watching the door of the saloon. He saw the Kid approaching with Mort Lewis and glanced at Stewart who was sitting at a table at the side of the room.

Dickson took a seat at the same table as Dusty and Humboldt, in the centre of the room. The Kid, still carrying his rifle, followed Mort to the bar just behind the table. Humboldt looked down at Mort, then gulped for he was not fastened in any way. He was about to raise the matter when Dusty spoke:

‘Start from the beginning, sheriff. What’s this all about?’

‘Are you setting up as judge, or something?’ Stewart asked.

‘Nope, just wanting to hear why you want this man hung for a murder. Do you object, mister?’

Stewart’s snort could have meant anything but he made no reply, nor did he offer to take up the challenge. He sat up straighter in his chair, his lips tight and unsmiling as he watched what was happening. Before the arrival of the small Texan he would have been at that centre table, running things. Now he was shoved back and the men who would have supported him were siding with Dusty Fog.

‘First off, Captain,’ Dickson replied, speaking so that his words carried to the listening men. ‘Like you were told, Mort and Chass were neighbors. It’s not good grazing up there in the hills and Mort allowed Chass was driving his stock on to the Lewis land. Got to hard words over it and Mort threatened to shoot any more of Chass’ stock he found over the land.’

‘We all heard Lewis threaten old Dexter,’ Stewart yelled. ‘Right in this saloon he said he’d gun down any more of Dexter’s cattle he found over the line. And shooting a man’s cattle’s a sure way to get him riled up and shooting back.’

‘Only there wasn’t any shooting back, way you told it,’ Dusty answered, ‘What happened next, sheriff?’

‘Couple of days back, Dave there came in asking if anybody’d seen Dex Chass around. Nobody had, they’d not given it no thought, he didn’t often come into town. So yesterday Dave went to see Chass and found him dead.’

‘That’s right,’ Stewart put in. ‘He was lying face up. I didn’t find the bullet hole until I went to look at him. He’d been shot in the back; been dead for ten, eleven days.’

‘How’d you know that?’ Dusty asked, watching the rancher.

‘I saw him eleven days back. Come to think of it, the date was the eleventh and it’s the twenty-third today. Was over to talk a deal with Dex; he wanted to sell out, sounded real scared of Lewis. I told him to come over to my place and see me the next day but he never showed. We had that cloudburst, remember, Jerome. It kept me busy for the next few days and I thought Dex must have changed his mind. Then, when I heard nobody’d seen him around I went out to his place. He was either killed soon after I left or during the storm.’

‘You certain sure about the date?’ inquired the Kid.

‘I am. There were no tracks around the house and the rain left some real soft earth all around. The killing took place either before the storm, or during it; that was what washed the sign out. If it’d been done after the storm, there’d have been plenty of sign,’ Stewart replied.

‘Was Chass good with a gun?’ Dusty drawled.

‘Naw,’ scoffed Stewart, seeing a chance to blacken the evidence against Mort Lewis even more. ‘Old Dex wasn’t any sort of hand with a gun. Didn’t even own a handgun, only a worn out Kentucky rifle. He wouldn’t have stood any kind of chance in a gunfight against the half-breed.’

‘That’s strange.’

‘What’s strange about it,’ growled the rancher, seeing Dusty was holding the crowd’s attention.

‘Why Mort’d shoot a man in the back and take a chance of getting hung, when he was in the right and could have taken the same man in what’d be classed as a fair fight,’ Dusty answered. ‘It doesn’t figger to me.’

‘Hell, you all know what half-breeds are,’ Stewart answered. ‘He wouldn’t stack up against any man in a fair fight.’

‘That’s a lie and you know it, Stewart,’ Mort Lewis growled, he was quivering with anger but controlling it for he knew that if he attacked Stewart the rancher would shoot him down, pleading self-defense. ‘I’ll face you any time you haven’t got your hired guns at your back.’

‘Sounds like a fair offer,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Want the loan of my old Dragoon, Mort?’

‘Cut it, Lon,’ barked Dusty. ‘Let this gent have his say, then we’ll hear what Mort’s got in answer to it. I haven’t seen anything which makes me think that Mort did the killing.’

‘All right, I’ll tell you why,’ Stewart replied. ‘I went across Lewis’ land on the eleventh, looking for him. I saw about a dozen head of Chass’ stuff over the Lewis line. I never saw a sign of Lewis but one of my boys reckoned he saw the breed skulking around the Chass place.’

‘One of your men?’ Dusty put in. ‘How many did you have along?’

‘Just a couple or so. Thought we might find some of my stock up there and be able to bring them down. It was Scanlan who thought he saw the breed.’

‘Did he see him?’

‘Shem allowed he did,’ Stewart replied. ‘He could have come down after we’d gone and cut old Dex down.’

‘Who could have?’ inquired Dusty mildly.

‘Lewis. Who’d you think?’

‘Way you said it, I’d have thought your man came back,’ Dusty drawled. ‘So you allowed that Mort must have done the killing. How about the body?’

‘Brought it in with us, left it down at Doc Harvey’s place for burial.’

Dusty nodded. He turned in his chair and looked at Mort Lewis. ‘It looks like you’d best tell us where you were on the eleventh, Mort.’

The young man frowned, then he looked relieved. ‘I wasn’t anywhere near to Holbrock. I’ve been away for near three weeks.’

‘Where were you?’ Dusty asked again.

‘Took an Eastern newspaper woman and her artist out to Long Walker’s camp.’

‘That sounds real likely!’ Stewart yelled.

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Mort answered. ‘I’m part Comanche and don’t mind who knows it. Least, they never hold white blood against me. I took the young woman and this feller who done the drawings for her; they offered good money and I can always use that. Five days back I brought her out and down to Fort Worth, so’s she could get a stage East with her story. When we got to Fort Worth she found that she’d left a book in the Comanche camp, one she used to write what happened each day in. Wanted me to go back for it, said she’d make it worth my while. I was going to head out when she said she’d heard from her paper; they wanted her to go some place and get another story. She paid me and told me to get the book, make it a package and mail it to the New York Tribune.’

‘And did you?’ Humboldt asked, sounding as if he did not believe a word of what Mort had said.

‘Came home first. I aimed to go out to my place, then make for Long Walker’s village again.’

‘How about the woman?’ Dusty put in. ‘What was her name?’

‘Clover, Miss Anthea Clover, got it all down on a piece of paper in my warbag out to the spread.’

‘When did you get back?’

‘Late afternoon, yesterday, Cap’n. I came into town this morning.’

‘Why’d you light out and run when the sheriff started to ask you about the killing?’ Dusty went on.

‘I saw Stewart and his boys watching. I didn’t figure that anybody who counted would listen to me, or believe me. I didn’t even figure I’d get a trial.’

‘Nonsense!’ Humboldt barked. ‘I don’t hold any man’s blood against him. If the case came up—.’

‘I lit out as fast as I could, Cap’n,’ Mort interrupted. ‘You saw what happened when they caught up with me.’

‘I saw,’ agreed Dusty, then looked at Stewart. ‘Your men wanted to lynch Mort as soon as they caught up with him.’

‘Dex Chass was a real popular man.’

‘Was he?’ Dusty drawled, his eyes on the rancher. ‘That still doesn’t mean Mort killed him,’

‘Dex didn’t have no enemies,’ growled Stewart.

‘Knowed a real friendly man, one time,’ the Kid said. ‘Allus inviting folks into the house, feeding ’em and acting kind. Man he took in one night killed him for the bit of money he’d got.’

‘It’s possible a stranger did the killing here,’ Humboldt put in, brightening slightly at the chance of getting Mort Lewis out of trouble without antagonizing Dave Stewart.

‘Sure, there’s no evidence that Mort did the killing. Only thing we know for sure is that he and Dex didn’t get along,’ Dickson remarked. ‘And the same could be said about Dex and near on everybody he came in contact with.’

‘I daresay a good half of the town didn’t really care for Dex at that,’ Humboldt said thoughtfully. ‘An unpleasant man, I always found.’

The Ysabel Kid gave a laugh entirely without mirth. ‘Sounds like Mr. Chass wasn’t so all-fired popular as we was led to believe. Half the town didn’t cotton to him and he didn’t have no enemies.’

There was a guffaw of laughter from the cowhands. The Ysabel Kid had a reputation amongst them as a disrespecter of persons who would thumb his nose at the devil if he felt so inclined. Dusty Fog and Mark Counter might be regarded as top hands, and leaders of the cow land society, but the Kid was a wild heller with no respect for pomp and dignity. He was proving it here for Stewart was a bad man to cross and should be accorded every respect.

‘Reckon Dave gave us the wrong impression—unintentionally of course,’ the sheriff remarked, grinning broadly. ‘Ole Dex was a cantankerous, mean old cuss at best. He wouldn’t get shot by anybody he took in for a meal, because he wouldn’t offer to take them in in the first place. I don’t reckon you could have found three people to give him a good word—afore he was killed.’

‘Got to be tolerable popular after he was dead,’ grunted the Kid. ‘But I still haven’t seen anything to prove Mort did it.’

‘He ran away!’ Stewart snapped.

‘Sure, and he just told us why,’ Dusty replied evenly. ‘You and your crew would have been reaching for a rope before Mort could open his mouth and tell where he’d been.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You’ve been acting all-fired eager to get Mort blamed and hung ever since he was brought in,’ Dusty said, without raising his voice. ‘Why’re you so eager?’ He paused, then went on. ‘It wouldn’t be because there’d be a chance of buying up two ranches, instead of one?’

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Stewart snarled.

‘Neither do I.’

Stewart’s eyes locked with Dusty’s, but it was the rancher who looked away first. He was faced down and did not like the feeling, for he was the biggest rancher around Holbrock. He’d also built up a reputation as a fast gun hardcase but knew he didn’t stack knee-high against that small, insignificant cowhand called Dusty Fog. Stewart’s ranch might seem big to Eastern eyes, but the OD Connected, the spread where Dusty was foreman, would swallow three ranches as big as Stewart’s. Stewart’s outfit boasted they were tough, hard and never curried below the knees, but the OD Connected did not boast. They were acknowledged as being without peer for salty toughness and Dusty Fog was the toughest of them all. Scanlan’s face was mute testimony to that fact.

‘All right,’ Stewart said finally. ‘I suppose you’re taking the breed at his word about not being around here?’

‘No, we’re not,’ Dusty replied. ‘Where’d you stay at Fort Worth, Mort?’

‘Outside, sage-henning most all the time,’ Mort answered. ‘I took Miss Clover in to the Bull’s Head Hotel, then moved out. Used to meet her on the edge of town each day and show her what she wanted to see, while she was waiting for the stage.’

‘She works for the New York Tribune,’ the sheriff remarked. ‘Could they get word to her?’

‘Sure, I reckon they might. She tells me she’s been to other Injun villages. This new chore was to one out in the Dakota country. They might be able to get word to her.’

‘Which leaves that diary at Long Walker’s camp,’ Dusty said thoughtfully. ‘That’d prove you’d been there, if it could be found.’

‘It’s in my tipi,’ Mort replied.

‘Which same means it’ll still be there,’ the Kid went on. ‘It’ll prove that you was there, I reckon.’

‘Who you got in mind to go and fetch it back?’ Stewart growled, ‘Lewis? A white man’d be plumb loco to go in there.’

‘Sure would, Cap’n,’ a grizzled old-timer agreed. ‘Long Walker don’t cotton none to white men going into his land.’

‘It’s all right for young Mort there, he knows them.’

Dusty smiled, then turned to the Ysabel Kid. ‘How about it.’

‘Dusty,’ replied the Kid, ‘you’re looking at a real plumb loco man.’

‘There’s no need for that, Captain,’ Humboldt spoke up. ‘We’ll take Lewis’ word for—’

‘No, you won’t,’ Dusty barked. ‘Not just to keep on the right side of me. We aim to clear Mort, or find he’s been lying.’

Stewart grunted, coming to his feet. ‘So you aim to go and try to find Long Walker’s camp, Kid?’ he asked. ‘Hell, there ain’t a white man in the State could do that.’

‘Waal, I’ll surely give her a try,’ replied the Kid. ‘I’ll be back by noon, seven days from now, Dusty.’

‘If you come back,’ Stewart sneered.

‘I’ll try, mister. I’ll surely make a try.’

‘Then it’s settled, gentlemen,’ Humboldt said, pleased that the inquest was over and hoping to get Dusty to talk business. ‘This inquest is postponed for seven days and will meet again at noon on the thirtieth to hear the evidence of the Ysabel Kid.’

The bartender reached under the bar and brought out a bottle of whisky as a sign that the official business was over. The crowd made either for the door or the bar. Humboldt turned to Dusty, beaming with satisfaction.

‘Would you care for that drink now, Captain?’ he asked.

‘Later, thanks. I’m acting as deputy for the sheriff and I’ve got to take the prisoner back to the jail.’

‘I thought you was so sure he was innocent,’ Stewart sneered. He’d come up and was near enough to have heard what Dusty had said.

‘What difference does that make?’ replied Dusty, and looked at Mort. ‘The sheriff’s holding him on a charge of damage to property and he can’t afford to pay either for the damage or his fine. Can you, Mort?’

‘Sure can’t, Cap’n,’ Mort answered. He did not know what Dusty was getting at but was willing to go along with it. ‘I’ll just have to stop in jail until I can work it off.’

Stewart did not reply. He could see what Dusty was doing. With Mort Lewis out of jail there was a chance of stirring up trouble, of pushing him into some foolish move. He turned and left the saloon, slamming through the batwing doors in a cold rage.

Humboldt rubbed his hands together. He was relieved that the Kid was to be away for a few days. He did not like the idea of that soft-drawling, mocking-eyed young man coming to his house. He was a wild cowhand and not the sort Humboldt would willingly invite. Being with Dusty Fog gave the Kid certain advantages but Humboldt was not sorry he was going. Now an offer to Captain Fog could be made; he could live at the Humboldt house instead of in the best room at the hotel as planned by Humboldt when he saw the Kid.

‘My home is at your disposal, Captain,’ he said.

‘Why, thanks, Mr. Humboldt. Trouble being I’m still working for the sheriff and I’ll be staying at the jail until the Kid comes back. We’ll be ready to move in for a few days when he gets back.’

That was not what Humboldt had meant at all, but he did not say so. Before he was able to say anything more he was too late. Dusty, the sheriff and the Ysabel Kid had escorted Mort Lewis from the saloon and along the street to the Jail. For a moment Humboldt stared at the swinging doors, then followed the others out, heading along the street.

Five hard-looking riders came into town, passing by the sheriff and throwing surprised glances at Mort Lewis. Dusty studied the men: they were not cowhands, even though they wore the clothes. Four looked experienced men in their late twenties and early thirties, but the other was a brash-looking youngster, who would need watching. They passed on towards the other saloon, further along the street. Stewart was about to enter the saloon but stopped and waited for the men, saying something which made them look at Dusty’s party with more interest.

‘Stewart’s bunch,’ Dickson remarked. ‘Calls them cowhands but I don’t reckon any of them’d know a bull from a yearling heifer.’

The Kid ran a hand along the neck of his white stallion. The horse snorted and swung its head to bite him. Grinning, the Kid gripped the saddle horn and swung afork his horse with a lithe bound. He looked down at the other three, then raised his hand in a mocking salute to Humboldt who was puffing along the street towards the jail.

‘I’ll see you in seven days at most, Dusty,’ he said. ‘Don’t take any wooden nickels while I’m gone.’

‘Will you put the prisoner away, sheriff?’ Dusty inquired. ‘I want to go out to the Chass place, happen you can find me a guide.’

‘Reckon Humboldt’d be more’n pleased to show you the way, only he doesn’t know it,’ Dickson replied, grinning broadly, looking at Humboldt, deep in conversation with one of his cronies. ‘He must think a tolerable piece about you, way he acted to the Kid.’

‘Could be our charm,’ drawled Dusty. ‘Or the fact he wants Uncle Devil to sink some money into an idea he’s got. One thing, though, the name’s Dusty.’

‘Best call me Jerome, though why my pappy wanted to tie me with a handle like that I’ll never know. Might be he was trying to get revenge on me for keeping him awake for the first three weeks I was born. I’d like to go out to the Chass place with you, but one of us had best stop in town and watch out for Mort.’

‘Be best,’ Dusty agreed.

A cowhand left the Long Glass saloon, mounted his horse and rode slowly along the street. From the dejected way he slouched in the saddle it was plain to both Dusty and Dickson what was wrong.

‘Howdy Wally,’ Dickson greeted. ‘You spent your pay already?’

‘Waal, not exactly,’ replied the cowhand. ‘Don’t you ever draw one card to an inside straight, Jerome. Or if you do, don’t bet on it when the other man stands pat. You cain’t win.’

It explained why Wally was heading back to his ranch. He’d lost his pay trying to fit a card into the centre of a running sequence at poker, a thing not advocated by the most skilled players.

‘Like to earn five dollars?’ Dusty asked.

‘Depends who I’ve got to kill,’ grinned Wally.

‘Nobody. I’ve got a herd of sheep outside town. Wants a man to care for them.’

‘Sheep!’ Wally bellowed. ‘Me, tending damned woolies?’

‘All right then,’ Dusty answered, showing nothing of the amusement he felt. ‘If you don’t want that chore, how about taking me out to the Chass place?’

‘Don’t know as how I wouldn’t herd sheep,’ grunted Wally. ‘All right, Cap’n, you hired yourself a man. Wally’s tours of the old West, see the sights of Holbrock County, smell the rare, sweet-scented Chass place. You want to go out to it right now?’

‘Just one call to make,’ replied Dusty.

Dickson took Mort to the cells and placed him in one, not bothering to lock the door; then returned to Dusty. He looked at the small Texan and asked:

‘Do you believe Mort’s story?’

‘Sure. It’d have to be true. A man lying’d make up a better story than that.’

With this Dusty turned and with Wally by his side rode slowly along the street. At the Bella Union saloon he halted his horse. This was the second of Holbrock’s saloons and Stewart was inside. Dusty left his horse at the sidewalk and with Wally on his heels went inside.

Stewart looked up as Dusty entered. The rest of his men were seated at the table and all flashed looks at the youngest member of their group. The youngster grinned back and dropped his hand to loosen his gun. He’d been laughing at Salar for failing to take Dusty Fog and boasting what he would do if given the chance. Now it would appear his chance was on hand. He was primed for trouble, egged on by the rancher and the other men.

Halting at the table Dusty looked at the rancher and spoke, his voice carrying to every man in the saloon.

‘Mr. Stewart, I’m riding out of town for a spell. When I come back I’ll expect to find Mort Lewis alive and well.’

‘And what if he isn’t?’

‘I’ll kill you on sight.’

The words were spoken with complete assurance. Stewart’s face lost some color and he tried to keep his voice hard as he growled:

‘I wouldn’t want to think you’re threatening me.’

‘Why not?’ replied Dusty. ‘That’s just what I’m doing.’

‘Hold i—!’ began the young gunman, starting to his feet. Then he stopped, halfway up, his chair scraping back behind him. He looked as if he’d turn to stone. Dusty’s hands had crossed, made a sight-defying flicker of movement and both matched guns were out, lined, the hammers drawn back to set lead flying. It took him barely half a second from the start of the move to reach his position of readiness.

‘Sit down!’ Dusty’s drawl cut like a knife, sending the youngster back to his seat. The matched guns seemed to be picking out every man at the table, choosing each one as the first mark. ‘What I said goes, Stewart,’ Dusty went on. ‘Remember it. And the next time don’t have a green button to do your fighting for you.’

With that the guns went back to leather and Dusty turned contemptuously out of the saloon. Wally stood with his mouth hanging open, not knowing what to make of the scene, then followed Dusty out. Not a man at Stewart’s table made a move: they hardly appeared to breathe until the doors swung closed on Dusty. Then Stewart let out his breath in a long sigh and looked at the others. His face was pale under the tan.

‘What now, boss?’ asked the biggest of the men, a hard case called Smith.

‘Leave Lewis alone. Dusty Fog’s got friends. They’d be here if anything was to happen to that short runt. We’ll wait for the trial, there’ll be enough on the breed to convict him. I’ll send to Lawyer Rollinson from Dallas to come and prosecute. He’ll get Lewis tried and convicted for us.’

‘I don’t know, boss,’ Smith replied. ‘You told us about that diary. Mort Lewis would’ve made a better story’n that if it warn’t true.’

‘Sure,’ agreed Stewart, looking thoughtfully at the others. ‘Do you reckon the Ysabel Kid could find that Comanche camp?’

There was no reply for a moment, then Salar spoke: ‘I’ve seen the way the Kid walks, way he rides a hoss, way he talks, way he looks at a man. He’s Indian enough to find it.’

‘Then get after him!’ Stewart snapped. ‘All of you. Get him, Salar.’

‘How do you want him, senor?’

‘Dead! If you get him near the Comanche lands make it look as if they killed him. But get him one way or another.’

Dusty and the young cowhand made good time to the Chass place. It was a small, untidy, badly cared for building, the windows covered with dirty sacks. The moment Dusty came near enough he could see why Wally did not care for the place. There was a stench of dirt and decay about it, rotting food and filth pervaded the air and almost masked the sickly smell of death.

The house was just as dirty as Dusty had expected from outside appearances. It was just a one-room building and was filthy beyond belief. The furnishings were poor and rickety, the table lay on one side and a chair broken in a corner. Dusty went in, his face wrinkling with distaste. He struck a match and looked around; there was no need to search the man’s belongings. Dusty was looking for more than clothing or gear, something he could not explain. He’d a hunch about this business; something said at the trial had caught his attention and he wanted to check his theory.

‘Hold the door open, Wally,’ Dusty said, ripping the sacks from the window as he spoke to let more light into the room. ‘I want to look at the floor.’

Dusty examined the floor, there was a shape marked out in the dust and dirt; the shape of a human body. It was blurred and indistinct but told him all he wanted to know.

Turning, he walked to the door. Wally stood outside. ‘Back to town now, Cap’n?’ he asked.

‘I’d like to see the Lewis place first.’ Dusty replied. ‘Would we have time afore nightfall?

‘Be dark afore we get back to town,’ Wally replied.

‘See you get double time after midnight,’ grinned Dusty. ‘It’s a funny thing about the blood, Wally.’

‘I didn’t see no blood.’

‘Yeah. That’s what’s funny about it.’

They rode on across country, forded a shallow stream and reached the Lewis place as the sun was setting. Mort’s house was no bigger, although better cared for, than the other cabin. As they rode up, Dusty noticed that there was only one set of tracks but he could not tell anything about them. He was not skilled at reading tracks and wished he’d got the Kid along. To the Ysabel Kid they would have told a complete story. It was the same at the other place; there was a sign, but Dusty could not tell if it was recently made or not.

The inside of the house was fairly clean. A warbag was lying on the bed and Dusty took it up. He opened the neck and tipped the contents out. The first thing he saw was a slip of paper. He opened it and read Miss Anthea Clover’s name and address, written in a neat feminine-looking hand: that proved part of Mort’s story and should be enough to clear him, for they could find the woman and get her evidence. There was Mort’s spare clothing in the bag and a powder flask, bullet-bag and bullet mould. Dusty picked up the bullet mould and examined it. It was the same as the one Dusty used and looked like a nutcracker except the crushing end was solid in two pieces, with two small holes in the centre. The two holes allowed the molten lead for the bullets to be poured into the moulds inside the metal end. Dusty opened it and noticed something straight away. The two moulds allowed a man to make either round ball or the conical, elongated bullets which were used as a load for the Colt 1860 Army revolver. But with this one, only round balls could be made; the elongated mould was broken through at the pointed end and would be no use.

Putting the rest of the gear into the warbag, Dusty shoved the mould into his pocket and went to the door. Wally stretched and yawned showily, then grinned and mounted his horse. Dusty swung afork the paint and they rode away from the cabin, heading for town.

The clock was touching ten when Dusty rode up to the corral which formed the civic pound and the sheriff’s stable, It was empty, so Dusty turned his horse in through the gate. He cared for the big stallion, paid off Wally and then went to the jail. Mort Lewis and Dickson were playing checkers in the office when Dusty came in.

‘See all you wanted to, Dusty?’ Dickson asked.

‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty, going to the cupboard and taking Mort’s revolver out. He looked down the chamber front, seeing the rounded heads of the .44 balls used for the load. Taking the mould from his pocket he went on. ‘How long’s the conical shaper been broken, Mort?’

‘Shucks, six month or more. I dropped the damned thing and a piece broke out of it. Would have writ and complained to Colonel Colt but I never used the shaped bullets anyway.’

‘You’re like the Kid—pour a load in raw and stick a round ball on top?’

‘Sure. I tried the combustible cartridges one time but the charge in them’s too light.’

Dusty replaced the gun, his face showing nothing of the interest he felt. He came to the table and moved one of Dickson’s men to, another square, allowing Mort to clear the board in a series of jumps.

‘Whyn’t you go out and look up Mr. Humboldt?’ Dickson growled. ‘He’s been here about every ten minutes, wanting to know if you’re back.’

‘I’ll likely do just that,’ replied Dusty. ‘Who’s your coroner?’

‘Doc Harvey. Doctor and undertaker both. He gets them coming and going.’

‘Let’s go see him,’ suggested Dusty. ‘Shut your cell door as you go in, Mort.’

The sheriff rose and followed Dusty from the office. Mort rose, cleaned the checkers, cigarette butts, burnt matches and coffee cups from the table. Then he turned and went back to his cell, closing the door behind him and lying on the hard bunk.

The doctor was annoyed at being called into his office at half past ten. He was a thin, miserable-looking man wearing a sober black suit, a white shirt without a collar and slippers. His pleasure was even less as he listened to the reason for the visit.

‘Sure, I shoved old Dexter under as fast as I could get the hole dug,’ he grunted. ‘Did it as fast as I could.’

‘You examine the body, doctor?’ asked Dusty.

‘Nope. He’d been dead at least eleven days. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant chore.’

‘It won’t get any better either,’ Dusty replied gently. ‘Sheriff wants him out and the bullet dug out before morning.’

‘What?’ Harvey howled like a stuck goat at the words. ‘I can’t rightly do that. I buried him—’

‘And you’re going to have to dig him up again,’ Dickson replied. ‘You’re County Coroner, Doe, and get paid for handling things like this. There’s been some talk around the County Commissioners’ about stopping paying you as there’s not been any work for you to do.’

‘He’s buried proper. I don’t reckon I could dig him up without an order from the Justice of the Peace.’

‘All right, Doe,’ Dickson answered mildly. ‘I’ll go see Mr. Humboldt now. He was asking me if I’d found out where that fifty dollar consignment of coroner’s gear had gone. Saw Big Maisie down to the Flats yesterday. She’s got a necklace that looks like it cost all of fifty dollars.’

Harvey’s sallow face looked even paler. He shot a nervous glance at the door which led to his living room. ‘Hold your voice down, Jerome,’ he ordered quickly. ‘You know there ain’t nothing in that story. It’s just that the wife wouldn’t understand and I hates to see her worried, When do you want that bullet?’

‘We’ll lend you a hand,’ Dickson replied.

‘Doc,’ Dusty remarked as the men left the room, heading for the graveyard. ‘It’s right you can tell which way a body was lying by where the body blood’s settled down, isn’t it?’

‘I heard something about it,’ Harvey growled back. ‘See, Jerome, the blood clots down. If he’s been lying on his stomach it settles in the front or vice versa.’

Dickson nodded. He knew how blood settled and wondered if the doctor had made any of the tests he was supposed to do as Coroner. It was understandable if he had not, Dickson decided, as they uncovered the coffin, raised it to the surface and opened the lid. Harvey, muttering miserably, pulled a bandana over his face and went to work.

Dusty and Dickson drew back, allowing him to work, and stood in silence. Then they replaced the body and reburied it in the shallow grave. Harvey licked his lips nervously and held out his hand with a piece of lead in it.

‘Here you are, Jerome,’ he said ‘This’s the bullet. He’d been lying on his back, from all the signs.’

Dickson struck a match and looked at the bullet. It was elongated, the tip just a little bushed by the impact with flesh. Dusty took the bullet and nodded as if he’d been expecting it.

‘Thanks, Doc,’ Dickson said.

‘That’s all right,’ Harvey answered. ‘Er—Jerome—about that fifty dollar consignment that was lost!’

‘I don’t know a thing about it, Doc,’ the sheriff drawled. ‘Send me a written report of what you found.’

The doctor went his way, leaving Dusty and Dickson to go towards the jail. The sheriff watched Dusty, then remembered something that was bothering him.

‘Stewart’s men left town soon after you did.’

‘So?’

‘They were headed out the same way as the Kid,’

‘Likely. I thought they might. Keep them out of our way,’ drawled Dusty.

‘What’d you find out at the Chass place?’

‘Nothing much. Only that Chass wasn’t killed in the house at all.’

Dickson stopped, his worries about the Ysabel Kid fading as he faced Dusty. ‘What did you say?’

‘Chass wasn’t killed in the house. He was lying on his back, according to the doctor and Stewart. But there was no blood on the cabin floor. The bullet was still inside, too.’

‘So what?’

‘Chass lived in a small cabin. Had he been shot across the width of it, the bullet would have gone clear through him. He was lying in the centre of the room, so the bullet should have gone through. It didn’t.’

‘You know something?’ Dickson growled.

‘Nope, Suspect a mite but I’m not talking about it, yet.’

They walked on together and at the jail Dickson stopped. ‘Dusty! There’s six men after the Kid. Stewart’s boys must be looking for him.’

‘Likely,’ agreed Dusty, sounding unconcerned.

‘What’s Stewart playing at?’ growled Dickson. ‘Why’s he want Mort killed, or the Kid for that?’

‘I don’t know about Stewart unless he wants the Lewis place as well as Chass’. In that case he wouldn’t want the Kid to come back with proof that Mort was at the Injun camp.’

‘I’ll jail him first thing tomorrow,’ Dickson snapped. ‘And he’d walk out as soon as he’d got a lawyer,’ drawled Dusty. ‘We’ve no proof that Stewart’s men went after the Kid.’

‘Aren’t you worried?’

‘Sure, they might catch up with Lon. That’d be real dangerous.’

‘Sure it would, The Kid—’

‘I mean dangerous for them,’ replied Dusty, with complete confidence in his friend’s ability to take care of himself. ‘How’d you like to come to the Humboldt house for lunch tomorrow?’

‘I’m not likely to get invited, not until nearer election time,’ Dickson answered with a grin.

Dusty grinned back. ‘You wouldn’t want to bet on that?’

~*~

The Ysabel Kid turned in the saddle of his big white stallion and looked back across the range. The woods were well behind him now and he was headed through the rolling, broken, open range country. He gave the land behind him a thorough scrutiny, missing nothing: not even the small cloud of dust some two miles behind him. It was a small cloud for the ground did not give off much dust and a less keen-eyed man might have missed it, but not the Kid. One horse could not cause so much dust-stirring, that was for sure.

Equally for sure, the riders were following him. He’d changed direction twice since first discovering he was being followed and each time the dust cloud had changed where he’d turned.

‘Still coming, old Thunder hoss,’ he said, with quiet satisfaction. ‘They got a man with ’em as can read sign. Waal, we can make that same sign—and hide it some, too.’

The pursuit did not unduly worry the Kid. The men were a good two miles behind him and travelling slower, reading his sign. While they were following him, the Kid was making more tracks ahead of them. It would be dark soon and the Kid knew he was in no danger. He would make a dry camp ahead and they would never find him in the darkness. There was no chance of the men riding up on him, his senses were too alert for that. There was no chance of their finding him by accident; his horse was trained to remain silent at such times; a thing of great use to a man when he was smuggling, and hiding in the dark from the contraband-hunting Border Patrol.

He twisted back and slouched easily in the saddle, allowing the big horse to make a gentle pace across country. He was out in the open and the men might be able to see him but that was no danger. They could not run him down before it was dark and would only tire their horses trying, while he could hold this even walk and keep the white stallion fresh for a run if they closed with him. The men would know this and would keep to his tracks, trying to avoid being seen. If they knew the country they’d head for a waterhole or stream near to the Kid, working on the assumption that he would camp near water.

Just before darkness the Kid found a stream, watered his big horse, filled his canteen, then rode on for another mile before making a dry camp. He was indifferent to hardship and just as at home sage-henning under the stars as in a bed at the OD Connected ranch house. He ate some hardtack from his saddlebag, drank sparingly, and cared for his horse; then with his saddle for a pillow and his old yellow boy close to hand, the Kid went to sleep.

His guess proved correct. Salar and his men made for the stream, reaching it in the darkness and trying to locate his camp. They gave up the attempt in the end and went to sleep, waiting for the morning when they hoped to re-locate the Kid’s tracks. It would cause a considerable delay.

Before dawn the Kid, refreshed by a good sleep, was riding on. He estimated that he’d increased his lead on the pursuing men and still knew a trick or two to confuse them. The man who was reading sign back there was good, and would be hard to throw off the track. Then the Kid remembered that Salar was known as a skilled reader of sign. The Kid thought of this as he rode on, keeping his eyes open for a certain type of country. He had to prevent the other men getting too close now. Salar was known as a fine rifle shot and there’d been a Buffalo Sharps rifle in the Mexican’s saddle boot when he rode with the posse. If Salar was to get within half a mile of the Kid and find a clear shot it was doubtful if the Kid would know what had hit him.

Luck favored him for just ahead he saw what he wanted, an arroyo~ He rode towards the steep sloped gash where rains and flowing water had eroded the land, biting down deeper and deeper until the slopes were over ten feet high. The Kid hoped the bottom would be a fast flowing stream over hard rock but found instead there was no water at all. The rains of almost a fortnight earlier had swept along the arroyo bottom, leveling the sandy soil and leaving it soft. A horse would leave plain tracks down there, marks which a half-blind Digger Indian could follow.

Curiously, the Kid was not over-disappointed at the sight. He turned in his saddle and, while the horse picked a way along the edge of the arroyo, unstrapped his bedroll and got two blankets out. He saw a place ahead where the steep slopes were cut back to allow an easy way down to the bed of the arroyo. Before turning the big white stallion the Kid gave the surrounding land a careful glance. The men following behind must be at least three or four miles back and travelling slow. They were nowhere in sight and he doubted if they could see him.

The horse knew what to expect and halted at the top of the slope. The Kid dismounted and spread the two blankets end to end, down the slope. The horse stepped on to the blankets, walking forward over the first, and halted before leaving the second.

The Kid worked fast. He brushed away any signs of his progress and lifted the first blanket, carrying it ahead of the second. The white moved forward and the process was repeated. Each time the Kid moved a blanket forward the horse stepped on to it. Even on the soft sand of the arroyo bottom the horse’s weight was distributed and there was no sign of its passing.

It was slow work; the Kid turned downstream, in the opposite direction to which he wanted to go. For almost half a mile he followed the base of the arroyo until he found a place to leave. He’d passed other places but hoped the men trailing him were going to have some trouble in locating which way he’d gone.

Reaching the top of the arroyo the Kid made sure his departure was not too obvious. Then, rolling the blankets once more, he headed across country. Now he kept to every bit of cover he could find, sticking to low ground and never crossing a rim without making a searching examination of the surrounding land.

Eventually he reached a spot where he could not keep hidden, he had to ride across nearly half a mile of open land. The big white stallion, with the Kid dressed all in black, would stand out like liquorice on a snow bank. A man on a high place miles back might see him and that would spoil all his work in the arroyo. The riders would head for the spot, then find his tracks.

Stopping his horse in the shade of a clump of scrub-oaks, the Kid dismounted and opened his warbag. He took out a light grey shirt and a pair of blue jeans, then changed into them. Next he took a package from the warbag, placed his black shirt and trousers in and turned back to the horse. The Kid opened the package and dropped a hand into it looking at the black powder which was smeared on his fingers. He rubbed his hand along the horse’s neck and watched the black mark left behind. Working fast the Kid turned his white into what appeared to be a piebald, Then, packing his gear, he fixed it to the saddle and rode forward into the open.

Far behind, riding the trail left by the Kid, Salar and the other five men were worried. They’d failed to find where he had camped on the previous night and had wasted time trying to locate his tracks the following morning. The gunmen did not like the way things were going. The Ysabel Kid apparently knew they were after him and if he decided to make a fight of it they must see him first or some of them would be dead.

Ahead of the others, riding slowly and watching the ground all the time, was Salar. There was enough sign for him to be able to follow the Kid without any great trouble, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew much both at following and hiding his trail.

Suddenly Salar brought his horse to a halt. The tracks they’d been following along the top of the arroyo were no longer to be seen. He halted and stared at the ground. Swinging from his horse he bent closer, his eyes examining every inch of the earth before him.

‘What’s wrong, Salar,’ Smith asked.

‘The Kid’s playing clever,’ Salar replied, looking around him.

The young gunman, eager to make up for his failure with Dusty Fog at Holbrock, rode to the end of the arroyo and looked down. ‘He never went down there,’ he announced. ‘It’s clear, ain’t no sign of a track.’

Salar stepped forward, his eyes on the gentler slope which led to the bottom of the arroyo. There was a twisted smile on his lips; he knew what the Kid had done. It was going to take some hard work to find out in which direction the Kid had gone and even more to know where he had left. Salar knew that he was matched by a man who knew as much about tracking as he did himself. He also got the feeling the Ysabel Kid knew who was doing the trailing.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Smith growled. ‘He didn’t take wing and fly off.’

‘That’s right, he did not,’ agreed Salar. ‘I know what he did, the blanket trick. I wondered when he would try to throw us. We’ll have to try and find where he left.’

‘On the other side most likely,’ Smith suggested.

‘Most likely, but not certainly. The Kid knows we’re after him and he might come up this side again, then follow the arroyo until he can cross without our seeing his sign.’

‘What are you fixing to do, Salar?’ asked one of the other men.

‘Go down to the bottom and find out where the Kid left. It’s going to take some time.’

Smith slouched in his saddle and fumed at the delay. The Kid was ahead and still covering ground. If there’d been a point high enough one of the men could have tried to see some sign of the dark boy on the white horse. It would have been possible to spot them a good distance away. But there was no piece of land high enough for them to make use of it.

So the gunmen waited, resting their horses while Salar made a careful search. It took the Mexican all of an hour and a half to locate where the Kid had left the arroyo and pick up the trail. Salar could not hurry: the Kid knew they were after him and was taking some trouble to make his line as awkward as he could.

At last Salar brought his horse to a halt. He sat looking round him, remembering just where he was. Smith watched the Mexican and asked:

‘What’s holding us up now?’

‘I have a—what you call it—hunch,’ Salar replied. ‘The Kid’s making for Sanchez Riley’s place.’

‘Could be at that,’ agreed Smith. Sanchez Riley’s store saloon-hotel lay near the edge of Comanche country. The gunman knew of the place, but had no idea where it was. ‘If he hasn’t we’ll have lost him for good.’

‘We have now,’ reminded Salar. ‘He’s got such a lead on us that he’ll be over the Salt Fork of the Brazos and into Comanche country. I don’t think we’ll follow him over the river.’

Neither did Smith. It would be highly dangerous for a white man, or a party of white men, to enter the domain of the Comanches. There was much to be said for heading for Sanchez Riley’s place. The man knew what went on in the Comanche country and might hear if the Kid slipped in. There was also a chance the Kid would stop off at Sanchez Riley’s and they might catch up with him there.

‘Let’s head for Riley’s, then,’ grunted Smith. ‘How come you know where it lays, Salar?’

‘I worked up this way once before,’ replied the Mexican, but did not say who he had worked for or what he had done. ‘I know the way.’

It was night as the Ysabel Kid rode towards Sanchez Riley’s place. There was only one light showing in the big T-shaped building which housed a store, a saloon and a hotel. He was almost to the building when he remembered something which made him worried about his decision to come this way.

‘Damn it, Thunder hoss,’ the Kid said, as he rode nearer the three big corrals a short way from the building. ‘I done forgot ole Salar used to ride for Thomas Riveros’ Comanchero bunch. He’ll know how to find this place. Us’ns best sleep easy.’

The horses in the corrals moved around. In two of the corrals were several animals; the Kid looked them over with care. In the first corral were Sanchez Riley’s horses, in the second some half dozen or so really fine looking animals. The Kid studied them; they were good, fast stock, better than the average cowhand would be riding. Such horses would be owned either by a party of Texas Rangers or a bunch of outlaws. One was as likely as the other to be staying at the house.

In the other corral there was only one horse. The Kid looked at it and a grin split his face, his teeth showing white against his dark skin. The horse was a white, a fine looking animal and almost as large as the Kid’s Thunder. Seeing it gave the Kid another idea. He’d meant to leave his horse in a corral if one was empty, but not now.

About a hundred yards from the building was a large clump of scrub-oaks. The white could stay there; it would find plenty of good grazing and water and would not stray. The Kid headed to the clump, removed the saddle and laid it carefully in the protective cover of a thick bush, leaving his rifle in the boot. Earlier in the day he’d washed the black coloring from the horse and resumed his normal clothing. Now he was pleased he’d done so. The black clothing merged into the darkness and he could move on silent feet, almost invisible in the night.

The light came from the dining-room on the hotel side of the building and was the only part of the big house which showed any sign of life. The Kid made for one of the two doors but took the precaution of looking through the window before entering the room.

A big, fattish man and a tall, slender, black-haired girl sat at a table, but they were the only occupants. The Kid relaxed, pushing open the door and walking in.

For one so fat-looking the big man was not slow. He came to his feet as the door opened, a Dragoon Colt lined on it. He was a cheery-looking man, his face a mixture of Spanish and Irish blood. He wore a dirty white shirt, open at the neck, cavalry blue trousers and his feet were bare. Yet there was nothing dirty or unkempt about him.

‘Cabrito!’ the man yelled, lowering the gun, as he recognized an old friend, ‘Long time since we was seeing you last.’

‘Howdy, Sanchez,’ replied the Kid, holding out his hand to the man. ‘You get fatter every time I see you.’

‘Tis praising me you are,’ Riley said, his voice seemed to be warring between the brogue of old Ireland and the gentler accents of Spain.

The girl was also on her feet. She was pretty, tall and her sleek black hair was as dark as the Kid’s own. She was dark-eyed and there was something wild about her which might have resulted from her Comanche mother. She was Rosita Kathleen Riley, the big man’s only child.

‘Hola cabrito,’ she said, coming forward with her arms held out to the Kid. Then in Comanche she went on, ‘And how many girls have you kissed since we last met?’

‘Not one, Little Bird,’ replied the Kid, speaking Comanche just as faultlessly, then returning to English again, ‘I’ve got to be going on tomorrow, good and early, Rosie gal.’

‘Huh!’ she pouted. ‘I bet you’re going to see another girl. You and that big, white haired gringo, Mark Counter, there’s not the one a girl might trust.’

The Kid laughed. Sanchez Riley’s daughter would not speak to any other man in this manner. No other man could have come in and kissed her without her father to contend with, but the Kid was exceptional. He ruffled the girl’s long hair, then turned his attention to Riley:

‘You all got a room, Sanchez?’

The big man shook his head, looking distressed. ‘Cabrito, son of my oldest and best friend, I must tell you I have not. All my six bedrooms are being used by guests. Would you care to share my room?’

‘No thanks, I’ll be lighting out early and don’t want to disturb you. Say, Rosie, how about some food? Then I’ll hunk down here on one of the tables.’

The Kid was mildly curious about the guests who’d taken all Riley’s bedrooms but he did not ask. The men were most likely outlaws either going to or coming from a job and curiosity about such might only bring trouble. A man’s private business was his own, so the Kid asked no questions.

The girl flitted into the kitchen and came out with a plate of stew. The Kid sat at a table and ate with the appetite of a healthy young man. He ate well, and drank the coffee the girl brought, for he did not know when he would get another meal.

While the Kid was eating, Riley sat with him, bemoaning the poor quality of the Rio Grande smugglers and comparing them unfavorably with the Kid’s father, Sam Ysabel. To Sanchez it was cheaper to buy the goods legally than from the men who now ran contraband across the big river.

‘It was a terrible blow when you retired, Cabrito,’ he finished.

‘You could be right at that,’ grinned the Kid. He might have been a successful and prosperous smuggler had he not thrown his lot in with Dusty Fog after the death of Sam Ysabel. There were times when the Kid missed the thrill of running smuggled goods, but they were very rare. His life at the OD Connected, as a member of Ole Devil’s floating outfit, was rarely dull enough for him to have time to spare in fruitless day-dreaming.

‘I wish you’d take my room, old friend.’

‘No thanks, Sanchez. I might have some callers looking for me and I don’t want you getting into no fuss.’

Sanchez Riley snorted angrily. ‘Your father and I went into the Comanche country as friends. If you are in any trouble—’

‘I’m not. There’s a bunch after me but I might have shook them. I left my old Thunder hoss out back there. Saw a white in the corral, who’s it belong to?’

‘Rosita. Long Walker sent it to her as a birthday present,’ Riley replied, a worried note in his voice. ‘I’m a mite unsettled about having it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s got a 7th Cavalry brand on it.’

‘That’s that loud mouthed Yankee General Custer or something they call him, he runs the 7th,’ the Kid replied. ‘He still pushing trouble, like last year on the Washita at Black Kettle’s village?’

‘Sure, got his patrols crossing into the Comanche lands.’

The Kid grunted angrily. Men like Custer were a menace to the peace of the West. They repeatedly broke the peace treaties other men had risked much to make with the hostile Indian tribes. This infringement on the land of the Comanche would make the other shore of the Brazos River’s Salt Fork unhealthy for the white man. There was only one bright spot about the whole business, it would be likely to halt any further pursuit of him.

‘One of these days that loud mouthed, long haired Yankee’s going to learn what a riled, hostile Injun can do,’ the Kid prophesied, and his guess was to be proved correct in a few years time on the banks of the Little Bighorn River.

Rosita returned, carrying a couple of blankets and a pillow. She put them on the table, then went to blow out all but one small lamp which stood on the mantle over the fireplace. The Kid poked the pillow with a finger, tossed his hat on to the table and grinned at the girl; he looked about fourteen years old in the light of the lamp, but Rosita was not fooled. She knew that here was as dangerous a man as could be found anywhere in the West.

‘That’s a tolerable hard pillow you’ve given me, gal,’ he said.

‘Hard like your heart, Cabrito,’ she answered in Comanche. ‘Sleep well.’

‘And you. Sleep deep and dream happy.’

Riley and his daughter left the Kid alone in the dining-room and he put the pillow at the edge of the centre table. It would be a good deal softer than the saddle which he would be using for the next few days. He drew the blankets up around his ears, slid his hat to one side of his head, and went to sleep. The Kid could sleep anywhere, any time and not even the faint lamp glow could keep him awake.

The lamp was left for a purpose. If a chance traveler came on the building in the dark he could enter the dining room and sleep on one of the tables, or the floor, without waking Riley or any of the other guests. This was the reason the Kid took the centre table; anybody coming in could use one nearer the door without having to disturb him. There was another reason, anyone trying to sneak up on the Kid would have a longer walk, giving more warning noise to his keen ears.

Six riders came slowly through the darkness, towards Sanchez Riley’s place slouched in the saddles like tired men, their horses leg weary from hard riding.

Coming to a halt Salar looked at the white gelding in the corral with some interest. It was too dark for him to see much so he could not tell the difference between the gelding and the Kid’s big stallion.

‘Is it the Kid’s hoss?’ Smith whispered.

‘I think so. He would never leave that white devil of his with other horses,’ Salar replied, no more loudly.

‘He’s up at the house then,’ hissed Smith, swinging from his horse. ‘You stop here and watch the corral, Tonk, Sundon. The rest of us’ll go up and look for him.’

Four of the men started towards the house; the other two took up position to watch the corral. They drew and checked their guns; if the Ysabel Kid got by Smith and the other boys they would be on hand to stop him when he came for his horse.

Smith and his party darted for the house, they did not draw their guns at first for there was nothing to be gained by charging into the building, gun in hand. Sanchez Riley might not be asleep and he was known to be a fast hand with a gun. He wouldn’t take kindly to armed men charging about his place in the dark hours.

The men reached the wall of the dining-room and moved along it. Salar halted by the window the Kid had looked through earlier, peering into the dining-room. The lamp’s light was fading as the oil in it burned away but there was enough to show the shape on the table.

‘Is it the Kid?’ Smith hissed, holding down the whisper to a pitch where it was only just audible.

‘I’m nearly sure it is,’ Salar replied. ‘That looks like his hat and it was his horse in the corral. He’d sleep in here if he came after Riley was in bed.’

‘I’ll go in and down him,’ suggested the young gunman, still trying to redeem himself for his failure to take Dusty Fog.

‘That’d be real smart,’ Smith answered sarcastically. ‘We fire a shot and Sanchez’ll be on us afore we can get out of it. We don’t know who owns them horses in the corral, and they’re not cowhosses. They might belong to a bunch of Rangers and we don’t want to tie in with them.’

‘You’re right at that,’ Salar agreed, remembering that the Kid had many good friends who would investigate his disappearance. ‘The less witnesses the safer it will be.’

‘Sure,’ hissed Smith. ‘You take Amp to the door there, Salar, and I’ll go in the other with the button here. I’ll sneak up and try to buffalo the Kid. If we get him like that we can tote him across the river and make it look like the Comanches got him.’

Salar did not care for the idea, but could not think of a better one so he moved into operation. Smith removed his boots and in stocking feet went through the door. At the other end of the room he could see Salar and the other man. The young gunman was behind Smith, gun out and cocked, his breathing sounding loud in Smith’s ears.

Motioning the youngster to remain where he was, Smith moved forward. He lifted each foot with care and placed it down slowly, making sure there was no board to squeak a warning to the sleeping shape on the table. There was no move from the blanket wrapped shape, other than the steady rise and fall as the Kid breathed.

Nearer moved Smith; his Dance Brother’s revolver heavy in his hand, and his palm sticky. There was still no movement other than the Kid’s steady breathing as Smith lifted his gun. Even with his hat over his head a hard blow from the barrel of the revolver should slow him down. Then they could all pile in, grab the dazed man and drag him outside.

The gun came smashing down with all Smith’s strength. Then he gave a startled yell. The Kid was moving, rolling off the edge of the table. Smith’s gun barrel smashed on the wood of the table top; his arm went numb with the force of the blow and the loading rammer burst from its retaining catch.

The Kid had wakened when the doors opened, laid waiting for the right moment, then moved. He took blankets and pillow with him as he rolled from the table away from Smith. As he fell the Kid threw the pillow at the lamp. His arm was good and the feeble light flickered out, throwing the room into complete darkness. He hit the floor and rolled under the table, gripping Smith’s ankles and heaving. The gunman let out a wild yell as he was pulled from his feet, sprawling backwards to crash into another table and knocking it over.

There was confusion amongst the other three members of Smith’s party. They were in complete darkness and faced by a dangerous man who had the advantage of being able to shoot, or knife, any man he came across in the room, without the risk of injuring a friend.

Salar licked his lips and stood without moving; then lifted his gun from his waistband but did not cock it. The click would sound too loud in the silence. The Mexican was a night-fighter of some skill but did not care to take his chances in such circumstances. He hoped the others would have enough sense to remain motionless until the Kid betrayed himself, or until Sanchez Riley came with a light.

Slowly, silently, the Kid came to his feet. In the darkness his black clothing made him unseen. There was only one way out of the room, and that was through the window. It was not a pleasant thought. The window showed just a little lighter than the surrounding blackness so a man going through would make a good target for the guns.

Seconds ticked away slowly, then a sound reached the Kid, a low sound but one which told him all he wanted to know. Someone was moving towards him, sliding his feet along the floor, feeling carefully for any obstruction. The man could know little about night-fighting, or he would never have started moving so soon.

The young gunman moved forward, inching his way along the floor. He was sure his progress was undetected and meant to get close to the Kid. How he would know it was the Kid he never thought. This was his chance to make up for missing Dusty Fog in the Holbrock saloon. He cocked his Colt, the noise loud in the stillness. Vaguely he guessed there was someone near him and opened his mouth to whisper Smith’s name.

A hand gripped the youngster’s throat, clamping hard and stopping the involuntary yell which welled up. Then another hand gripped his shirt front and he was pushed backwards, hard. With a violent heave from his unseen attacker he was reeling towards the window.

The Kid attacked in complete silence and with all his speed. He sent the youngster staggering towards the window then went sideways, flattening against the wall. He was only just in time.

The young gunman reeled, his shoulders crashing into the window. At the same moment there were three flashes of flame, two from the other end of the room; one from near at hand. The young gunman gave a single, shrill scream as the force of the bullets threw him backwards. His shoulders went through the glass, wilted over and crashed out into the nights He was dead before he hit the ground.

The flashes of gun-flame in the pitch blackness temporarily blinded the three remaining gunmen, but not the Ysabel Kid. He had known what to expect and his eyes were closed, missing the blinding effect when powder ignited and flared from the barrels of the guns. While the other men were blinded he was sliding along the wall, and opened the door just as Smith yelled:

We got him, Salar! Light out!’

Salar and the other gunman turned to dash out and run for their horses. Smith saw the door open and thought that for once the youngster was acting correctly. There was no time to lose, already overhead were the sounds of men jumping out of their beds. The big gunman turned and left by the door, running towards the horses and not noticing that the youngster was not in front of him. He mounted and saw that one horse was still without a rider. He also saw whose it was and growled an angry curse.

‘Roy,’ he yelled. ‘What the hell’re you fooling at?’

‘Where is he?’ Salar snarled, watching the lights appear at the upper windows of the building over the dining-room part they’d just left. ‘We’ve got to get away from here, and pronto!’

Then Salar guessed what had happened. It lent an urgency to their departure. The Mexican had been considerably surprised that the Ysabel Kid had made such an elementary mistake as to be sky-lined in the window. Now he knew that it was the young gunhand who lay dead outside the dining-room windows There was a second, even more unpleasant point. The Kid was alive, unharmed and on the prod. At any minute his rifle or the old Dragoon might throw lead at them.

‘Let’s go,’ Salar hissed. ‘We didn’t get the Kid.’

The words brought instant departure. The other men knew of the skill of the Ysabel Kid and didn’t want him in a fight. He had not returned for the white horse, but that meant nothing to them. They turned their horses and headed off into the night, drawing rein only when they’d put almost a mile between themselves and Sanchez Riley’s place.

Salar brought his horse to a halt and the others stopped around him, straining their ears to pick up some sound which would warn that the Kid was in pursuit.

‘We’ve lost him now,’ Smith growled.

‘I ain’t sorry, about that,’ put in another man. ‘That damned Kid’s too much like an Injun for me.’

‘What we going to do about him?’ Salar inquired. ‘Dave wants him dead and it’ll go bad for some of us if he isn’t. We can’t get him before he crosses the river and I’m not going after him.’

‘We’ll have to wait and see if he gets back.’

‘He’ll get back, Señor Smith,’ Salar replied. ‘We might stay around here but it would do little good. There are so many ways the Kid could get back towards Holbrock without touching here. Besides, Sanchez Riley’s the Kid’s friend. He would be on the look-out for us.’

‘The Kid’ll have to head back to Holbrock when he’s done though,’. Smith remarked thoughtfully. ‘Which means he’ll come through the woods, follow the trail. We could lay for him either in the woods, or where the trail comes out of them. That would be the best place, plenty of cover and less chance of the Kid getting hid down, with that damned yellow boy of his’n going.’

‘Is good thinking,’ agreed Salar. ‘One man could get on that rim beyond the woods and be able to see the Kid far off. Then we could lay for him. It will be the best way to get him.’

‘Mean sage-henning out there,’ Smith replied. ‘But it’ll be worth it. We’ll stay out and not let the folks at Holbrock know we’re back. Then when the Kid comes through we’ll be ready.’

‘He might come through in the night,’ the man called Tonk pointed out.

‘Sure, but there’ll be some moon in a few days and that white stallion’ll show up real well.’

With that Smith turned his horse and started in the direction they’d come. The other men followed him, riding away from Sanchez Riley’s place.

The Ysabel Kid lay in the darkness away from the house for a time, listening to the sound of the departing men. Then he heard voices shouting from the opened windows of the bedrooms.

‘What’s the shooting, Frank?’ called a voice as a man, keeping clear of the lamplight, came to the side of his bedroom window.

‘I don’t know, Jesse,’ came the reply. ‘You all right, Cole?’

‘Sure, I’m all right,’ a third voice replied.

‘Is all right, Señor James,’ Sanchez Riley’s voice sounded from the ground floor. ‘A private matters I apologize that your sleep was disturbed.’

~*~

The Ysabel Kid was a day-and-a-half into Comanche country. He’d crossed the Salt Fork of the Brazos before daylight on the morning after his visit to Sanchez Riley’s and was now riding through the wild, open country of the greatest of the horse-Indians, the Comanche.

In that time he’d seen tracks of small hunting parties, not new enough to worry him, and sign of a large band but no warriors. He did not expect to see the Comanche until they wanted to be seen. He expected a Comanche scout had spotted him early that morning. The scout would have seen him and gone haring off to warn others that a white man was in the land of the Comanche, or might still be watching to find out what folly brought a lone man into their land.

The Kid held his Thunder horse to the same easy walk; there was no need for hurry now and no chance of Salar’s bunch following him. He studied the range around him, examining every inch for the first sign that the Comanche wanted him to be aware of their presence.

It was fine land here, rolling slopes, hills, valleys; rich and well watered. The grass was deep, fully capable of supporting and fattening vast herds of cattle. But the Comanche ruled this land and did not want cattle; only the great, shaggy buffalo, the mule-deer, the pronghorn antelope and the wild horse grazed on the rich grass. It was wild, beautiful, wide open and free from the corrupting influence of the white man. This was how all the plains must have looked before the white man came. Looking at it, the Kid felt a vague stirring, a half-wish that the white man had never come, bringing great herds of cattle and the rest: the town, the farmer, moving in and driving the free-roaming Indian from his land.

That would happen here, the Kid knew. The White Father in Washington might give his word that no white man would move across the Salt Fork of the Brazos, but that word would be broken. Pressure would be brought to bear on the Senate, more land would be needed, then it would happen again. The Army would move in and the Comanches would be driven from this fertile land to whatever useless bit of soil the white men did not want. That was the way of the white man; it was no wonder the Indians fought so savagely against it.

While he was thinking, the Kid was riding along, his every sense alert as he rode. He knew now he was being watched by cold eyes that followed his every move. But he made no attempt to draw either the Winchester or the old Dragoon revolver. He was here in peace and wanted to give no sign of war. Resistance would be out of the question and useless, for he was surrounded, watched, and the Comanche would show themselves only when they were ready, not before.

The big white horse snorted, throwing back its head as the wind brought the scent of hidden men.

‘Easy, ole Thunder hoss,’ the Kid said gently. ‘I know they’re about.’

For another ten minutes he rode on, giving no sign that he knew the hidden watchers were around him, closing in all the time. It was the deadly war of nerves the Comanche liked to play on a man. One faltering move could bring an arrow or a bullet for the Comanche had no use for a coward or a man who spooked at shadows.

Then there were Comanches ahead of him. They came over the top of the rim he was climbing, to his right and left. Although the Kid never changed his easy position he knew there were others behind him.

The group were squat, thick-bodied, hard-faced warriors, with lank black hair framing their faces. They were naked to the waist, a breech-cloth and calf-high Comanche moccasins being all they wore. To men who didn’t know the Indians in general and Comanche in particular, these warriors looked poorly dressed and armed. They did not wear fancy doeskin war shirts, feathered headdress or any of the war-wear affected by other tribes, nor did they show signs of either repeating rifle, war bow or revolver. Their sole weapon appeared to be the lance. Each man held the needle pointed, razor edged, seven foot war lance, and wore a knife at his belt, but there was no sign of a firearm amongst them.

The Ysabel Kid was a man who knew Indians in general and more than a little about Comanches. The sign was plain enough and told a grim and savage story. Those warriors were Dog Soldiers, members of the bravest, finest, supreme Comanche war lodge. They carried the weapon of the chosen, the lance: it was the only weapon a Comanche Dog Soldier needed. His knife was not used to kill, but only as a means of taking a scalp, or ending the life of an enemy who did not deserve the honorable thrust of the lance. They used no bow, no rifles, no revolvers; but they’d be fighting long after lesser Comanches had been driven, off and gone from the battle.

There were eight men in the group ahead of the Kid. Seven of them were old hands; battle-tried warriors with scalps hanging before their lodges. They sat their horses, faces expressionless and inscrutable, looking for all the world as if they were carved from stone.

The eighth Comanche was a youngster, just initiated to the Dog Soldier Lodge and without trophy or scalp taken in war. He watched the approaching rider, then lifted his lance, shook it in the air and let out a war-yell which was savage enough to scare the hair out of a silvertip grizzly. He sent his wiry pony forward, changing from rock-still to a gallop in a split-second and hurled down the slope at the Ysabel Kid.

The lance point, held along the neck of the racing pony, was ready to split through the Kid like a needle through a piece of cloth. The Kid stopped his horse for an instant, then started it forward again, still lounging in the saddle. For all his nonchalant appearance he was tense and ready and felt the big white horse moving more lightly now. Old Thunder always knew what was expected of him. The Kid kept on riding, making no attempt to draw a weapon but watching the young Comanche all the time.

At last, with the lance point driving full at him, the Kid moved. His right hand slapped down, knocking the lance to one side; his knee gave the white a signal. The big horse sidestepped the charging pony, allowing it to shoot by. The young brave was off-balance and he did not get a chance to recover. The Kid lashed up a backhand slap full into the face of the onrushing Comanche, knocking him from the racing war-pony. As the young brave fell, the Ysabel Kid came out of the saddle of his big white. The Comanche lit down hard, lost his lance and lay winded on the ground. The Kid landed astride the brave, then knelt over him, the sun glinting on the blade of his razor sharp bowie knife as it came out of the sheath to the brave’s chin, resting in position to slit the brown throat.

‘You live or you die,’ said the Kid in the deep-throated Comanche tongue, looking down into the brave’s amazed eyes. ‘Choose!’

The young brave looked up taking in the dark face above him and reading no sign of hesitation. A refusal would bring the knife slashing across his throat, biting through to the neck bone. That was the Comanche way; the way of a Dog Soldier who took a prisoner in such a manner. The young Comanche hated having to choose life at the hands of a white man, no matter how well the white man spoke the Comanche language and knew their customs. Then he remembered. There was no disgrace in falling to the hands of this dark-faced Texan who rode the huge white stallion.

‘I live!’ he said.

The Kid came to his feet, stepping clear and sheathing the knife. From all around came the shattering yells of the Comanche braves and the thunder of hooves. They came down towards the Kid, riding with that superb skill which made them the supreme horse-Indians. It made an awe-inspiring sight: racing ponies, each ridden by a savage-faced warrior, armed and painted for war.

Suddenly, when it seemed that all the horses would collide and crush the Kid under their weight, they stopped as if some giant hand held them, halting their horses and sitting like statues again. The dust churned up by the hooves of the horses settled again and the circle broke to allow a grey-haired man to ride through. He came forward, face inscrutable, his eyes on the black-dressed young Texan. Sitting his huge horse the Indian looked at the Kid, not speaking.

Slowly the Kid lifted his right hand in a peace sign. The Comanche dialect rolled from his tongue again:

‘Greetings, Long Walker. I have ridden many miles to see you.’

~*~

‘He’s coming!’ Salar yelled, bringing his horse to a halt by Smith’s side. ‘I saw him in the distance.’

‘No mistake is there?’ Smith replied.

It was the day the Kid was due back, nine in the morning, and the men were tired of waiting. They’d been camped out in the thick brush on the Holbrock side of the dense woods for the past few days, since losing the Kid at Sanchez Riley’s place. It was no fun, for they were short on rations and could not get any more from town. They did not dare risk going into Holbrock for food for Dusty Fog was no fool and would guess what they were doing. Handling the Ysabel Kid was dangerous enough, without the added hazard of Dusty Fog and the sheriff.

‘There’s no mistake,’ Salar replied. ‘I didn’t wait, but came as soon as I was sure it was the Kid.’

Smith grunted. There’d been several false alarms over the last two days and nights. They’d turned out once in the darkness when a rider on a light colored horse approached, only to discover they’d made a mistake. Now they were all bad-tempered and irritable, wanting this business over and done with.

‘Get hid out, then,’ Smith snapped. ‘Both sides of the trail.’ They knew where to go for they’d already picked out the best spots for their ambush. Smith and two of the men took cover amongst the rocks at the side of the trail where they’d been camped, while Salar and the other men darted across the trail and flattened down amongst the bushes and trees at the other side. Salar slid behind a rock, his Buffalo Sharps in his hands, a bandolier, with the long .45 rifle bullets shining dully in the loops, around his shoulders. It was a weapon he favored above any other and could guarantee to hit a man-size target at half a mile. The range would be much less here. He set the adjustable rear sight, then looked around. He lay at the edge of a shallow gully, hardly more than the dried out bed of a long departed stream. The edge of the water-course and the bottom were lined with bushes and the stream-bed ran back to the wood.

The men lay in the places they’d picked, rifles ready, lining on the trail as it emerged from the woods. Because of their failure to catch up with the Kid, the men had come to regard him as almost a supernatural being. The feeling was playing on their nerves when they heard the faint sound of a man singing: a pleasant, untrained tenor voice.

 

‘A Yankee rode into ole Texas,

A mean kind of cuss and real sly,

Who fell in love with Rosemary-Jo,

Then turned and told her, “Goodbye”.’

 

Smith looked across the trail to where Saltar was lying ready. The Mexican could read the angry, unasked question and nodded: he’d heard the Ysabel Kid sing before and knew the voice. The Kid must be thinking there was no danger so close to Holbrock, that he’d thrown off the pursuers and was safe. He certainly did not sound to be worried as he rode through the woods singing on:

 

‘So Rosemary-Jo telled her tough pappy,

Who yelled, “Why hombre, that’s bad.

In tears you left my Rosemary-Jo,

No Yankee can make my gal sad”.’

 

Sweat was pouring down Smith’s face; ever since the young gunhand was killed at Riley’s there’d been doubt in his mind. He knew he was lucky to be alive, the Kid could easily have used his bowie knife when he dragged Smith down. There’d been no noise when the Kid moved in the darkness. Just that silent rush which sent the young gunhand sprawling backwards into the window to his death. Not one of the men knew how the Kid got out of the room, or if he’d stayed in until they left. It was almost uncanny that a white man could move in such silence.

The song was going on, an old range ballad the men had heard many times before. They could imagine the black dressed rider coming through the woods; he would be unprepared for the ambush and they’d have no trouble in bringing him down.

 

‘So he whipped out his ole hawglegs,

At which he warn’t never slow,

When the Yankee done saw him a-coming,

He knowed it was time for to go.

So he jumped on his fast running speed hoss,

And fogged it like hell to the West,

Then Rosemary-Jo got her a fortune

The Yankee knowed he loved her best.’

 

The voice was coming nearer now, the lilting song sounding over the beating hooves of his horse. The waiting men tensed, caressing the triggers of their rifles, hoping they’d hear the end of the song before they cut off the singer.

 

‘ “No, no,” she cried in a minute,

I love me a Texan so sweet,

So I’m headed down to ole Dallas town,

This bold Texas cowhand to meet.

So the Yankee rode down to the border,

He met an old pal, Bandy Parr,

Who run with the carpetbaggers,

And a meeting they held in a bar.

So Rosemary-Jo got word to her pappy,

He straddled his strawberry roan,

And said, “From that ornery critter,

I’ll save Rosemary-Jo, she’s my own”.’

 

‘One more verse, that’s about all, Kid,’ Smith hissed under his breath. ‘It sure is a pity; I never heard the song sung all the way through.’

The sound of the song and the hooves were closer now. The men lined their rifles, sighting on the opening from the woods. They’d let the Kid into the open, then send a volley which would tear him from the saddle.

 

‘Now the Yankee done went to Dallas,

Met the Texan out on the square,

His draw was too slow and as far as I know,

The Yankee’s still laying out—’

 

The horse came into sight, travelling at a fast lope. The song ended just an instant before the big white appeared. Smith’s sighting-eye, along the blued barrel of his Henry rifle, took in an empty saddle. He let out a startled curse and was about to come to his feet. The Kid was not in his saddle, nor was there any sign of him.

The Ysabel Kid was no man’s fool. Nor was he exactly unused to handling such situations as this. He’d returned to Riley’s place after concluding his business with Chief Long Walker and Riley had told him what he knew; one man was dead, and the others had gone, their tracks headed back in the direction they came. The Kid guessed what might happen on his return journey to Holbrock and this place was the most logical for the ambush. It would be out in the open and not in the thick woods the men would lay in wait, for Salar would want to be in the open where he could get the best use from his Buffalo Sharps.

So, with this in mind, the Ysabel Kid was very alert as he came into sight of the woods for the first time. He’d seen the watching man, even recognizing Salar, and knew what was happening. This made him ready for trouble as he came through the woods, but knew how to handle it. His singing was to lull the waiting men’s suspicions, making them believe they were going to get him served up like a plate of hominy grits.

The Kid left the saddle just as the horse came out of the woods. He lit down at the edge of the trail, his old yellow boy in his hands, ready to make some real fast war. A shrill whistle left his lips and the big white’s even lope changed to a racing gallop, carrying it through the ambush area before the men could fire at it. Once clear, the horse swung to one side, into cover, and stood waiting for the Kid’s next order.

Then the Kid erupted through the opening, racing for safety and the shelter of a pair of close growing cottonwoods. One of the men yelled, let loose of his rifle with one hand and pointed to the black dressed shape of the Kid. The Winchester flowed to the Kid’s shoulder and he fired without breaking his stride. The man stopped pointing, his hand flopped to his side, his rifle from the other hand; then he crumpled and went down, a bullet between the eyes.

The other four gunmen brought up their weapons, swinging to the new line. The Kid hurled over a small bush and lit down rolling. The first shots missed him, although Salar’s bullet had nicked his neck as he lit down. Smith made a mistake; in his eagerness to get at the Kid he rose and brought his rifle to his shoulder.

‘Get down, Smith!’ Salar screamed.

It was too late. The Kid’s roll ended behind the desired shelter of the two cottonwoods. The rifle appeared for an instant, cracked once, then disappeared again. It was out a bare two seconds, but in that time Smith was dead, hit in the head with a flat-nosed Tyler Henry forty-four bullet. He was dead before his body hit the ground. He’d achieved one thing before he died: he’d heard all but the last word of the Rosemary-Jo lament song.

Salar licked his lips. That was Smith and Amp down, leaving Tonk on the other side of the trail, but Tonk was not the most staunch of men. He would dog it, if things got any stiffer. The man with Salar was looking worried too, things were not going as he’d planned. The Kid was not dead and could only be dislodged with considerable risk. There was also a chance that the wind might carry the sound of shooting to the town. If that happened Dickson would be headed out to investigate.

‘We got to get him, Salar,’ the gunman called, showing his shoulder and jerking it back as the Kid’s rifle cracked. The shirt was torn and a bloody furrow burned across the man’s shoulder.

Salar’s Buffalo Sharps bellowed back, kicking a four-inch splinter of wood from the tree behind which the Kid was hiding, but doing no damage. It was a very fair piece of shooting, for Salar did not take a careful aim.

‘Keep him busy,’ Salar answered. ‘I’ll try and get through the woods behind him.’

Before the other man could either agree or object, Salar had rolled down into the bottom of the stream bed and started to move along it. His idea was to keep out of the Kid’s sight, effect a complete surprise and avoid getting killed, The Winchester 66, with its comparatively weak, 28-grain load, was not a long range weapon, but Salar was still well within range for the Ysabel Kid to make a hit.

From behind him, he heard the crack as the gunman fired at the Kid. Then from the other side of the trail Tonk opened up a bombardment which would help hold the Kid down and might even drown any slight noise Salar made when moving through the woods! The Kid was not firing back. Unlike the gunmen, whose ammunition was paid for by Stewart, the Kid had to buy his own, and did not intend to waste any needlessly, He watched the two men who were firing at him, keeping an ear cocked for any unusual noises and waited. His attention held by the gunmen caused the Kid to miss Salar’s departure, The Mexican was not shooting but the Kid expected that: a Sharps bullet was a costly thing and Salar would not waste any, even if someone else was paying the bill.

The Mexican rolled down into the stream bed and moved along it. He tried his best to combine speed with invisibility and was relieved when he saw the woods closing in on him. Carefully he climbed out of the stream bed and faded into the woods. He paused to get his bearings, then headed on silent feet towards the trail. At the edge he paused and made sure the Kid could not see him before darting across to the shelter of the other side. Then he stopped, sinking to the ground and lying still. There was something wrong, he could almost feel it. He remained still, listening, but could hear nothing. The woods, were as silent as a grave; the only sound was the crackling of the rifles down trail. Yet Salar could not throw off the feeling that things were not as they should be.

At last he rose and moved on, but went with some caution for he was dealing with a dangerous man. Salar knew how keen the Ysabel Kid’s senses were, a slight noise would warn him. Then he would move and fade into the woods like a shadow. Salar was good in the woods, but he was not willing to match skill with the black dressed gringo devil.

Salar moved on, testing each piece of ground before setting a foot on it and moving the other. He held his rifle ready for use but it was an awkward weapon in a fast-moving fight, especially in thick cover like this.

Suddenly Salar halted, his right foot poised in the air. He lowered the foot with infinite care. Here was luck, such luck as he never expected. It was only by sheer chance that Salar saw what he did: another second and he would have moved by. Through a narrow gap between the twisting undergrowth and tree trunks, Salar could see the Ysabel Kid behind the two cottonwoods. It was blind chance that he could see through to the edge of the woods. The gap was narrow, but it would give Salar the chance he wanted. There might even be thin branches in the way but that would make no difference for Salar’s Buffalo Sharps rifle. The .45 caliber, 550-grain bullet, powered by the explosive force of one hundred and twenty grains of powder, built up an energy of around 2,300 pounds per square foot and left the barrel at something like 1,400 feet per second. It would tear through the thin branches in Its path as if they were not there at all, going straight into the’ Kid’s back, killing him before he knew what had hit him.

So Salar rested his rifle on the side of a tree, taking a firm grip on it and laying his sights with all the care he could manage. The picture was perfect, Salar’s fingers caressed the trigger, starting to make the squeeze which would loose the bullet. He would accomplish what several men before him had tried unsuccessfully to do; he would kill the Ysabel Kid.

Then Salar relaxed slightly. A chance breeze moved a tree branch and partially obscured the Kid from view. Salar held his fire, the branch was thick enough to deflect the bullet: it might only be a slight deflection, but would cause the bullet to miss. If the bullet did miss, Salar knew where he would be tangled in the Ysabel Kid’s kind of country with a long, heavy and awkward rifle, a single shot rifle at that, against the Kid’s handier Winchester. The instant that bullet missed, the Kid would be moving. He’d be back into the woods, hunting for the man who had fired. That Salar did not want.

That branch moved and Salar laid his sights again. This was the moment, the Mexican’s breathing halted as he sighted. Then he stiffened up. The rifle barrel tilted into the air and slid through his fingers. He clutched spasmodically at the tree and slid down. The hilt of a knife rose from the centre of his back.

A brown hand reached forward, gripped the knife and plucked it out. A second hand lifted the rifle, stripped the bandolier from the dead man’s shoulders and moved them away. Then the hand took the Mexican’s sombrero and threw it to one side and gripped the lank black hair. The wailing howl of a buffalo wolf rang out and the knife ripped around, biting into the flesh of Salar’s forehead.

The Ysabel Kid’s eyes flickered at the two men. He glanced up at the sun and estimated the time. They would need displacing fast if he was to make it back to town. He knew he must deal with them now for he could not have them hanging on his tail much longer. They would have an easy target with the Kid riding along the trail in open country. He missed Salar down there: the man wasn’t doing much at all. Yet the Kid did not know the danger he was in.

The wailing call of a buffalo wolf came to the Kid’s ears. He turned his head to look back at the woods, then gave his attention to the men down the slope. Even as he watched, there sounded the flat bark of a rifle from the edge of the woods and the man who’d been with Salar jerked upright, staggered and went down once more.

Tonk saw the other man go down and stared for a moment, trying to see some sign of the Mexican. Panic hit him: Salar wasn’t anywhere. He’d taken a Mexican stand-off, lit out when the going got dangerous. That was all Tonk wanted to know, he wasn’t facing the Ysabel Kid alone. Turning, he backed away, then leapt to his feet and started running for the horses.

The Ysabel Kid saw what was happening; his rifle followed the man, lining on him, then spat once. Tonk felt as if someone had run a red-hot iron through his thigh. He gave a yell of pain and staggered, hit into a tree and tried to force himself on.

‘Hold it!’ yelled the Kid plunging forward from behind his tree and bringing up the rifle.

Tonk saw the black dressed young Texan, saw the raised rifle and knew he was done. The range was such that the Ysabel Kid could hardly miss, or wound, again. If Tonk did not yell ‘calf rope’ fast he would get a bullet.

‘Don’t shoot, Kid!’ he screamed back, holding on to the tree for support. ‘I’m done, don’t shoot me.’

Then Tonk’s eyes bulged as he saw the dark shapes at the edge of the woods behind the Kid. He tried to yell a warning but the words would not come, so he raised a shaking finger and mouthed out vague, gurgling sounds.

‘That’s all right,’ the Kid replied, not turning to look behind. ‘I know all about them. Me’n you’s going to make us some talk.’

‘They’ll kill us, Kid!’ Tonk wailed. ‘I’m hurt bad—’

‘Sure you are,’ answered the Kid without sympathy. ‘Bind your bandana around that leg; do it tight. Toss your gun this ways while you’re about it.’ He paused and watched his orders carried out, whistling a loud note which started his horse back towards him. Then he looked down at Tonk. ‘Who killed that Chass hombre?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Tonk replied, biting down his pain.

‘Don’t, huh?’ grunted the Kid. He kicked Tonk’s weapons well away, then turned to walk to his horse, gripping the saddle horn. ‘Waal, adios.’

‘Kid. You can’t leave me!’ screamed Tonk, eyes on those grim shapes at the edge of the woods. ‘Kid, don’t leave me here. You can’t!’

‘You wouldn’t want to be betting on that, now, would you?’

‘I’ll talk, Kid. I’ll tell you everything. Don’t let them get at me.’

The Kid turned and walked back. Tonk babbled out the full story of how Dexter Chass died, talking fast, eagerly, spilling all he could to the interested Kid. When the story came to an end the Kid grunted his satisfaction, then asked where the man’s horse was.

‘Over the rim. Don’t leave me, Kid. They’ll kill me.’

‘They won’t,’ replied the Kid, grinning savagely. ‘You’re born to stretch a hanging rope.’

Tonk stared in terror as the Kid rode over the rim, then returned with a horse. The leg wound hurt badly but Tonk managed to mount his horse. He had to, for the Kid made no attempt to help him. In the saddle he gripped the horn with both hands, waiting for orders.

‘Me’n you, friend,’ drawled the Kid, ‘we’re going into town by the back way. You’re going to take me to the sheriff’s pound. Don’t try nothing funny. Then you’re going to tell the sheriff all you told me. Happen you don’t, me’n you’re coming out here again. I’ll be safe enough—don’t know if you will.’

~*~

There was a three-handed game of poker going on in the sheriff’s office. The players, Dusty Fog, Sheriff Dickson and Mort Lewis, were engrossed in their game and looked up with some annoyance as a man looked in through the door, and peered around at them.

‘Folks’re gathering down at the Long Glass, Jerome,’ he said. ‘Reckon it’s about time you was getting the prisoner down there.’

‘What prisoner?’ Dickson replied. ‘It’s an enquiry that was started a week back. We’ll bring the Kid down when he gets back and we can start.’

‘I’ll tell them,’ the man answered. Looking pleased to be the bearer of bad tidings, he went on. ‘Dave Stewart’s come back, got Scanlan and four more men with him. He’s been to see Humboldt about starting the trial and I reckon he’s going to get his way.’

‘All right, Tom,’ Dickson drawled easily. ‘Go back and tell them we’ll be along at twelve o’clock and not before.’

The man closed the door and left the sheriff looking at his fellow players. He met Dusty’s eyes and they looked at the wall clock. It was quarter to eleven.

In the week he’d been waiting for the Kid’s return Dusty had learned much about the town of Holbrock. He’d seen Stewart taking the two battered gunmen out of town, heading for his ranch. The rancher had not made another appearance in town, until his arrival this morning. He’d come in alone but Scanlan and the other men could quite easily have returned to town without being noticed.

Dusty’s stay gave him a chance to learn something about the people of the town. He’d spent some time with Humboldt, talking about the proposition which had brought him to the town. Dusty was satisfied the proposition would pay off for his Uncle but was not satisfied with Humboldt. The man was a shrewd businessman, but he was also an errant snob. It took Dusty only one visit to the man’s home to know this. He’d also learned about Humboldt’s dislike for Mort Lewis. The townsman hinted regularly that he didn’t think the Kid should have taken the risk of going to the Comanche country, but Dusty knew the concern was mostly to make a good impression on him.

‘Reckon Humboldt might try and make you start the hearing early?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Humboldt’s being pushed to get the money for this notion of his. I reckon he might try to please Dave Stewart, not knowing how you feel about it, Dusty,’ Dickson replied, for he knew of Dusty’s reason for being in town. ‘That’s unless you’ve given him something definite to go on.’

‘Which I haven’t yet,’ Dusty answered. ‘I wanted—’

Whatever Dusty wanted was never said. The rear door of the room was opening. Dusty came to his feet; hands crossing and the matched guns coming from his holsters, his chair flying backwards. At the same moment Dickson flung himself sideways from his chair, hand fanning to the butt of his gun and Mort went over backwards, throwing his chair and rolled towards the wall rack of weapons. None of them knew who was entering through the door, but were taking no chances.

‘Sure didn’t know I rated a civic reception,’ remarked a familiar voice.

The Ysabel Kid stepped into the room, a broad grin on his face, and pushing a limping, scared-looking man ahead of him.

‘You damned crazy Comanche,’ Dusty growled, holstering his guns and eyeing his friend grimly. ‘I near on killed you.’

‘You near on done it afore,’ replied the Kid. ‘I tell you, Dusty, it’s like to scare a man bald, living round you.’

Dickson holstered his gun as he got to his feet and rubbed his hip which had hit the floor hard. His eyes went to the Kid, then to Tonk who staggered to the desk and sank into Dickson’s empty chair.

‘What happened to you?’ asked the sheriff.

‘He got his leg hurt a mite,’ the Kid answered for Tonk. Then he took the thin book from his belt, holding it out. ‘This here’s what you want. And this lobo’s got something he wants to tell you.’

‘No, I ain’t!’ Tonk yelled, then winced in pain as the Kid caught him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. ‘Where you taking me, Kid?’

‘Back out’n town a piece,’ drawled the Kid, grinning meaner than the snarl of a buffalo-wolf.

Tonk tried to struggle, but he was too weak from loss of blood and pain. On his face was a look of terror far beyond the pain he was suffering, a look the other men were hard put to explain. Dickson watched, frowning; he was not a man to allow needless cruelty, or the torturing of a prisoner. Then he remembered Tonk was one of the six who’d left town after the Kid, there were many questions which needed answering.

‘I need a doctor, Jerome,’ Tonk whined. ‘I’m hurt bad.’

‘Sure,’ grunted the Kid unfeelingly. ‘That leg’ll likely have to come off, happen it don’t get seen to, and fast. But you aren’t going no place until you tell the sheriff all you told me out there.’

So Tonk talked, the words flooding out of him. What he said confirmed Dusty Fog’s theory and threw a lot of light on the murder of Dexter Chass. Dickson looked at Mort Lewis for a long moment and opened his mouth to say something.

From the street came an ominous rumbling and tramping of feet. Dickson went to a window and looked out. Practically every man in town was coming along the street. In the lead was Humboldt, Stewart and three or four of the leading citizens of the town. Behind them, at the forefront of the crowd came Scanlan and Milton, with two other hard-faced men.

‘We could have trouble, Dusty,’ he warned. ‘Stewart’s been using his time to get them bunch all stirred up.’

Dusty went to the window. He’d handled crowds in tough towns and knew the signs of a mob as well as did Dickson. This was one coming, orderly yet, but a mob for all of that. They were here to enforce their will on Dickson and did not aim to be stopped by words this time.

‘Let’s just you and me out first, Jerome. Learn what they want. You and Mort stay on inside, Lon. Keep this hombre quiet,’ Dusty snapped, then stepped up close to Tonk, dropping his voice to a grim, urgent note. ‘Mister, you need a doctor real fast. Just remember one thing. The longer we are the less chance you’ve got of keeping both legs. So when I call for you, come out and tell the truth.’

Dickson went to the cupboard and lifted Mort Lewis’ gun-belt out, passing it to the man, then he opened the desk drawer and lifted out an Army Colt. ‘She’s all loaded and capped ready, Mort.’

Quickly Lewis strapped on his gunbelt, settled it down on his lean waist, then dropped the Colt into the holsters, making sure it was loose enough for a fast draw. There was grim determination in his eyes as he looked at the others. One thing Lewis was sure, if it came to shooting he’d something to settle with Scanlan.

‘We don’t want any shooting if we can help it,’ Dusty said, glancing at the neat handwriting in the diary and reading what he wanted to know. ‘Remember, you two stop in here until I give the sign. Bring this diary with you when you come out, Lon.’

With that, Dusty and Dickson went to the door. Dusty drew it open and they stepped on to the sidewalk, closing it again before any of the advancing crowd could see into the office.

The mob slowed down uncertainly as they saw the two standing before them. Dusty was well enough known n the town to pause any man who meant to force trouble with the sheriff. But Stewart came on; his face held a vicious smile. Humboldt looked distinctively uncomfortable as he stepped forward with the rancher, while the rest of the leading citizens halted in confusion, allowing Scanlan and the other four men to move by them and fan out around their boss.

Humboldt stopped at the foot of the sidewalk, licked his lips and looked at Stewart who nodded in encouragement. The pompous-looking townsman coughed then began to speak, his voice wavering, and far from its usual booming note.

‘Sheriff Dickson, as Holbrock’s justice of the peace I demand you bring your prisoner, Mort Lewis, for trial.’

‘Right now?’ Dickson gently enquired.

‘Right now!’ Humboldt agreed; and there was a rumble of agreement from the rest of the crowd.

‘Before the Ysabel Kid gets back?’

‘The Kid said seven days and he’s not back yet,’ put in Stewart. ‘I don’t reckon he’ll be coming back again.’

Dickson watched the crowd, they all appeared to have been drinking, maybe not much, but enough to make them willing to go along with a strong leader. All too well the sheriff knew how persuasive Stewart could be when he started talking. He could easily bring this crowd to believe they were being fooled by the law and that a plot to allow a murdering half-breed escape justice was afoot. Some in the crowd would believe it, others would go along just for the pleasure of raising hell.

‘You said we’d hold off until noon today, when the Kid should be back,’ Dickson reminded them. ‘And Mort doesn’t come for the hearing until the Kid shows.’

Stewart nudged Humboldt, causing the townsman to start nervously, and lick his lips. Then Humboldt gave a warning:

‘Sheriff, the County Commissioners have held a meeting on your conduct and actions in this affair. We find them most unsatisfactory and are obliged to serve notice on you that unless you hand Lewis over for trial, we will be compelled to remove you from office and appoint a man who will do so.’

‘Just like that?’ asked Dickson softly.

‘That’s right, Dickson,’ agreed Stewart. ‘Just like that.’

‘Didn’t know you were one of the County Commissioners, Dave,’ remarked Dickson. ‘You must have been elected real recent.’

‘You might say that. So how about it, Dickson. We may as well call off all this foolishness. The Ysabel Kid’s dead . . .’

The office door opened and a mocking voice said, ‘Lordy, they don’t tell a body anything these days.’

The Kid stepped through the door, leaving it open. He leaned his left shoulder against the jamb, the diary hanging in his left hand; his right hand hung negligently near the walnut grips of his old Dragoon gun.

Humboldt looked down and gulped as he saw the thin booklet. ‘Is that the diary, Kid?’

‘Surely is, Judge.’

‘And you went to Long Walker’s camp in the Comanche country to get it?’ Stewart jeered, his disbelief plain.

‘You reckon I didn’t?’

Stewart’s sneer grew broader, but the triumph was gone from his eyes. ‘You, one lone white man, went to the Comanche camp and brought it back with you?’

‘Where else would I have got it from?’

‘Could have been out at the breed’s place.’

‘All right,’ drawled the Kid mildly, but there was nothing mild about the wolf-savage way his lips twisted in a grin. ‘What’d you want to show I’d been to Long Walker’s village?’ The grin was more twisted and savage than ever. ‘You mebbe want to see Long Walker his-self?’

‘Yeah,’ sneered Stewart sarcastically. ‘We want to see old Long Walker.’

The Kid threw back his head and from his throat came the wild, ringing imitation of a buffalo-wolf’s howl. From the rim which overlooked the town came an answering howl. There were startled yells as the crowd turned and saw that the rim was lined with Comanches, fifty or more of them, looking down at the town with cold, impassive eyes.

A grey haired man rode his horse slightly ahead of the others, then halted without movement. Across his arm lay a Buffalo Sharps rifle which, even at that distance, Stewart recognized. The rancher licked his lips, that was Salar’s rifle and he wouldn’t have traded it off to the Comanche. That meant one thing and one thing only; Salar was dead and so were the other five men who had rode with him. On the whole Stewart hoped they were dead, for it was trite but true to say dead men told no tales.

‘That’s Long Walker,’ an old-timer in the crowd shouted, pointing to the grey haired Indian. ‘I saw him when he signed the treaty four years back.’

‘And like I said, I brought back that there diary,’ the Kid drawled. ‘It was in Mort’s lodge, like he said it was.’

‘And it shows that Mort was at the Comanche camp on the eleventh,’ Dusty went on. ‘So he wasn’t anyplace near where Chass was killed with the bullet from a combustible cartridge.’

A cowhand in the crowd yelled, ‘Mort never used them sort. He used to laugh at us and say we couldn’t handle a man-sized load, like he used.’

‘Don’t listen to all this claptrap, Humboldt!’ Stewart bellowed. ‘If you and your bunch want me to back that idea of your’n.’

Humboldt gulped. He was in a real tight spot and didn’t know how to get out of it. Dusty had not given him anything definite. He needed money urgently and had listened to Stewart’s offer to finance them. They’d been warned that the trial of Mort Lewis was the condition for the money, so Humboldt had come along with the demand for the trial to commence. Now there was no need to try Mort and he could sue the town for false arrest if they tried it.

‘You’re in a hell of a spot, Judge, aren’t you?’ asked the Kid, mockingly.

‘Yes, I am,’ Humboldt replied, speaking before he realized what the Kid had said. His face turned redder and he spluttered, ‘I mean—er—that is—’

‘Hold it, all of you!’ Stewart yelled. ‘That don’t mean Lewis didn’t kill old Dexter Chass. Harvey might have been mistaken about how long Chass’d been dead. Mort Lewis could’ve sneaked around to the Chass cabin the day he come . . .’

‘Chass wasn’t killed in the cabin, Stewart,’ Dusty. interrupted. ‘He was killed when he found a bunch of men pushing some of his stock on to the Lewis range.’

‘Yeah?’ Stewart replied, hand falling to his side. ‘Now who’d do a thing like that, and why?’

‘To stir up trouble between Lewis and Chass is why,’ drawled Dusty, watching the rancher all the time. ‘As for who, the way I heard it, Tonk, Salar, Milton and Scanlan.’

The crowd caught the drift of the words and knew what the next move was going to be. So, with one accord they started to back off, one eye on the group before the jail, the other searching for a safe place for when Colt magic was made.

‘Which of ’em shot Cass, if any?’ Stewart asked.

‘None of them. You did. Came up behind him and shot from a distance. The bullet didn’t go through, as it would have with the width of the cabin. Then you moved the cattle over the line, came back, picked up Chass and toted him to the cabin; left him face up on the floor. What you forgot was that the bleeding’d stopped and there was none on the floor. That told me what’d happened. Tonk confirmed it for me.’

‘Tonk?’ grunted Stewart.

‘Sure, the Kid got him alive, killed the rest of the bunch sent after him. He talked.’

‘Did, huh?’ Stewart said. He knew Tonk would talk if captured. From what Dusty said, Tonk was a prisoner and screaming loud enough to spill it all over the county. ‘Just fancy that.’

Humboldt stood staring at the men, not knowing what to do or say. He was no fighting man and his reactions were far too slow for what was coming next. He stood as if fixed to the spot, his mouth hanging open as he realized that Stewart was accused of murdering the old man in the hills. It was all like a crazy nightmare, only far more dangerous than any nightmare could ever be.

Stewart grinned; a bitter, hate-filled grin. Then his hand lifted, fingers curling around the butt of his gun. At that moment the group before the jail broke into sudden movement.

Dusty Fog’s hands crossed. Before any others, the matched guns were out, flame tearing from the barrels, throwing lead into Stewart before the man’s Colt cleared leather. Even as Stewart spun around the rest were in action and gun thunder rocked the street of Holbrock.

Humboldt was trapped. His feet would not answer the terrified commands of his brain. He was in the line of fire and a serious hazard to Dusty’s party. This could have been why the Ysabel Kid acted as he did, although Humboldt would always attribute it to the strength of his personality winning over a savage young man..

Whatever the cause, the Ysabel Kid moved fast. He flung himself forward, knocking Humboldt out of the way and bringing the fat, pompous man down in the street. Then, as they landed, the Kid rolled over Humboldt’s well-padded body, hitting the dust of the street, and throwing lead into one of the two new Stewart men.

Milton was second off the mark, in this whirlwind blur of action. His gun was flaming slightly before the sheriff’s Army Colt threw down on him. Dickson felt the burning pain of a near miss as lead slashed across his ribs. His own aim was better; Milton rocked back on his heels, fell backwards, sending one more wild shot from his twitching hands before he dropped the gun.

Scanlan’s gun was out, lining on Dusty Fog when the door of the jail was thrown open and Mort Lewis hurled out with a Colt in his hand.

‘Scanlan!’ Mort roared; and his gun lashed flame sending a bullet into the big gunman’s body.

Scanlan rocked under the impact of the lead, staggering and trying to shift his aim. Mort Lewis landed flat on the sidewalk, fanning the remaining five bullets up into Scanlan’s body, shooting with savage speed and throwing him, limp as a rag doll, to the ground. Mort Lewis watched the man go down and his grim smile told that the death of his dog was avenged.

The last gunman lined on the rolling body of the Ysabel Kid, his first shot sending dust flying into the young Texan’s face and blinding him. The Kid fired by sheer instinct, the heavy old Dragoon booming and sending lead into the man. The bullet struck an instant too late. Up on the rim, Long Walker saw the Kid’s danger and showed that he was still tolerably fast for an elderly Comanche gentleman. The Buffalo Sharps came to his shoulder and bellowed out. The heavy bullet smashed into the centre of the gunman’s back, burying itself within inches of Humboldt’s scared face. The gunman was thrown forward, full into the slamming power of the Ysabel Kid’s Dragoon gun. He was dead before his body even hit the ground.

Then it was over. The thunder of shots died away and smoke drifted from the scene. Less than five seconds had elapsed since the first movement but Stewart was down, badly hit. Milton, Scanlan and the other two gunmen were dead. Dickson lifted a hand to his bloody side, knowing the wound was not serious or he would never have kept his feet to shoot back.

Slowly the crowd started to emerge from their cover; Humboldt came to his feet, face smudged with dirt and scared. He looked at the Kid who was standing up, rubbing the dust and grit from his eyes and cursing. This was the time for the leading citizen of the town to make a speech, praising the sheriff for an adroit job of work, but the words would not come.

Dickson looked at the crowd, cold contempt in his eyes. He stepped towards Humboldt, removing the badge from his shirt. ‘Here, you wanted this, now you’ve got it. Find another sheriff.’

Humboldt stared as the star was thrust into his hand. ‘But . . . but . . .!’

The ex-sheriff didn’t even look back, he turned to Lewis. ‘I know a town that wants a marshal and deputy Mort. Reckon we could take it on?’

‘Reckon we could surely make a try,’ Lewis agreed. ‘Let’s get your side fixed, then we can pick up my duffle and ride over to see.’

Without even another word the two men entered the jail office and closed the door behind them. Humboldt watched them go, saw the impassive line of Comanches who were still watching the town and gulped down the words of apology he’d been ready to give, unwillingly, to Mort Lewis. Then he looked at Dusty Fog.

‘Er . . . now this is all over, Captain,’ he began, the words rushing out, ‘I hope you and the Kid will be my guests until you leave. My daughter is coming home on tomorrow’s stage. She’s quite musical and I hear the Kid sings well. We might have a pleasant musical evening.’

‘Reckon it’d be all right?’ inquired the Kid. ‘You didn’t like having Mort Lewis around.’

‘That’s different,’ snorted Humboldt ‘He’s a half-breed. I mean, you know about these people with Indian blood.’

‘Do we?’ asked Dusty gently, without moving from the porch, his eyes flickering to the Ysabel Kid.

 

‘That was why I suspected him from the start,’ Humboldt babbled on, not knowing what to make of this reaction. ‘It was wrong this time, but you know what these people with mixed blood are. He was part Indian and you can’t trust a man with Indian blood, can you?’

There was a bitter smile on the Kid’s face and a cold gleam in his eyes as he replied, his voice sardonic and unfriendly:

‘Reckon you can’t . . . say, how’d you like to meet my grandpappy?’

Humboldt was not a discerning man, he noticed nothing unusual in the way the Kid spoke. If it would put him in with Dusty Fog, Humboldt was willing to meet and entertain all the Ysabel Kid’s kin.

‘I’d admire to meet your grandfather,’ he boomed warmly. ‘But he doesn’t live in Holbrock, does he?’

‘Nope,’ replied the Kid, raising his hand in a salute to the old Comanche chief who was following his men off the rim. ‘He’s up there, my mammy’s father.’

Humboldt stared at the dark, babyishly innocent, handsome face and the meaning of the words sank into his numbed brain. ‘You mean . . . you mean . . .’

‘Sure,’ agreed the Ysabel Kid. ‘That was Grandpappy Long Walker up there on the rim.’