Part Two

The Quartet

The Wells Fargo stage coach might be the fastest form of public transport from Dodge City, through the Indian Nations, to Texas, but it was far from comfortable.

Betty Hardin reached that decision in the first couple of miles of the trip and now, within five miles of her destination at Bent’s Ford in the Indian Nations, found no cause to change her mind. As she tried to find a more comfortable, or less uncomfortable, piece of the hard stuffed leather seat she found herself hoping her cousin, Dusty Fog, would have better accommodation waiting for her when she reached the stage station at Bent’s Ford. That was why Betty had come this way. Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid had taken a herd to Mulrooney, Kansas, and were headed down trail again; she’d telegraphed, arranging to join up at Bent’s Ford and would travel home to the Rio Hondo with them. She hoped they would have a horse for her, but even a buggy would be preferable to the hard seat of the coach.

She was a small, beautiful, shapely girl who would please the eyes of most men. Her hair was black, shining and long. Her face was tanned but not burned and harshened by the sun of her native Texas range. The skin was smooth, delicate-looking and the features as near perfect as a woman could rightly expect. Her eyes were long-lashed, black, and met a man’s without distrust or promise. It was the face of a capable, self-controlled young woman who could become grimly determined when need arose. The hands of the OD Connected ranch would have sworn that the appearance did not lie for Betty Hardin ruled the spread with an iron hand. Her figure was rich and full, the curves mature and eye-catching without being flaunting or provocative. The black bolero jacket and the frilly bosomed white silk shirt-waist emphasized her swelling breasts as they strained against the covering, but there was nothing of show about her. Her black divided skirt was long and concealed the trim hips and shapely legs without hiding them. On her feet were dainty, high heeled, fancy stitched boots with Kelly spurs strapped to them. Her hat, a snow white Stetson, lay on the seat by her left hand.

All in all, Betty Hardin was a very attractive young woman, neither cold and aloof nor warmly inviting. She looked like an extraordinarily competent and capable young woman in what was still a man’s land; asking no privilege, nor accepting any, because of her sex.

The three men travelling with her were an oddly assorted trio. They’d done little talking for the past day, having worked out all conversation early in the journey. Even the fat, loud check-suited whisky drummer no longer tried to impress Betty with his well-travelled intellect. He sat in his corner seat and puffed on his oily black cigar, blowing the smoke ostentatiously through the window. He’d tried to impress Betty with his talk of New York—until he found that she not only knew the city but was just returning from it.

Next to the drummer sat a soberly clad, stuffy-looking, prosperous business man from an Indian Nations township. He didn’t say much, tried to keep his expensive broadcloth suit from getting too dusty and failed. He’d refused, horrified, when offered a cigar and some whisky from the drummer’s flask. His conversational efforts after that were restricted to an occasional groaned complaint at the discomfort of the coach.

The third man was a lean, mournful-looking, gaunt and poorly dressed Kansas nester who looked as if he carried the worries of the world on his shoulders. He was going to a Texas town where a kinsman had died and left him a small property. His main topic of conversation was limited to the poor farming of Kansas and how little money he’d managed to scrape together from selling his place.

Betty knew the man really did have little money, he ate only sparely and was obviously very close to the blanket. Though he was a nester and she born to the richest, largest ranch in Texas, Betty felt sorry for him and hoped he would have better luck with the property in the Lone Star State.

The girl moved again; she’d done much riding and not a little on the back of a horse which an Eastern lady would have thought half trained, but this hard stagecoach seat was worse than any saddle she had ever sat. Betty turned and looked out of the window at the brush and shrub lined route; they were following the winding line which the buffalo had made on their migrations across the plains. The stage line knew that the buffalo invariably picked the easiest and best-watered route, so they followed the tracks. The coach was approaching a bend and the girl braced herself against the lurching as it went around.

Suddenly, as the coach turned the corner, the driver gave a startled curse, hauled on his reins and kicked hard on the brake, bringing his team to a halt.

‘Throw ’em high!’ a voice yelled. ‘Reach for it, guard, or we’ll cut you down.’

There were five masked men standing in the trail, all holding Winchesters. The guard remained still, his shotgun across his knees. He left the weapon and raised his hand shoulder high, not offering to make a fight. He was a guard, but not paid to commit suicide or endanger the lives of the passengers. That was Wells Fargo’s orders, the guard must never risk getting a passenger killed. If there’d been less men he might have taken a chance, but a shotgun was a slow weapon and he would be cut down before he could shoot.

‘Throw it down,’ the tallest of the outlaws barked. ‘And your belt guns.’

The shotgun was tossed to one side followed by the revolvers belonging to guard and driver. Then the tall man laid his rifle to one side of the trail and drew his revolver, ordering the two men on the box to climb down.

In the coach, Betty Hardin watched her fellow passengers. Her right hand rested just under the left side of her coat, but she remained seated. Her eyes went to the drummer; he was armed, wearing a Tranter revolver in a stiff holster which would effectively prevent a fast draw. Betty knew something of guns and gun handlers; she hoped the drummer would not try anything foolish in an attempt to impress her or save his wealth.

The other two men did not appear to be armed. The business man looked flushed, angry and indignant at the outrage of being held up and robbed. The nester showed even more misery as the door of the coach was jerked open and the masked man looked in.

For an instant the outlaw seemed shaken to see a woman passenger. He ordered the men to climb out, stepping back to allow them to obey. Then he returned, holding out his hand to the girl.

‘My apologies for disturbing you, ma’am,’ he said with exaggerated politeness. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d step out here with the others. Us honest road-agents have to make a living.’

Betty stood up and accepted the man’s hand as she climbed down. She saw the guard and driver were unarmed and altered her plans. She gave the five outlaws a glance which told her plenty, then joined the men who were standing in a line under the guns of the gang. The tallest of the outlaws advanced, keeping out of the line of fire and held out his hand to the drummer.

‘Shell out, fatty,’ he ordered. ‘And don’t try to pull that gun.’

The drummer, face pale and his bluster gone, produced a thick wallet from his inside pocket. The outlaw accepted the wallet and tucked it into his waistband and went to the prosperous-looking man.

‘Now you, senator,’ he said.

The business man gave an angry snort, but produced a wallet. The young outlaw hefted it in his hand, flipped it open and shook his head.

‘Sorry, senator. I can’t see a rich gent like you travelling this light. You going to fork it over or do we take your pants with us when we go.’

‘This’s an outrage,’ spluttered the business man, but he reached under his shirt, fumbled and finally managed to pull out a thick, well padded money-belt. ‘I warn you, you ruffians. I’m a personal friend of Marshals Tilghman, Thomas and Madsen. They’ll bring you to book.’

‘I bet they will, senator,’ laughed the outlaw, stuffing the money-belt through his belt and moving to the nester. ‘We wouldn’t have took your pants, senator. Not with you having a lady along. Now, friend, how much you going to donate to this here deserving charity?’

The nester gulped, dipping his hand into his pocket and bringing out a thin chain purse. He held it out nervously, expecting to be beat over the head with a revolver for having so little wealth~

‘This all you’ve got, friend?’ the outlaw inquired, glancing into the purse at the five-dollar pieces. The nester nodded and the outlaw looked away. ‘Ben come here and search him. And watch how you do it.’

Another of the masked men came forward, ran his hands over the nester’s body then straightened and said, ‘Cleaner than a hound’s tooth, Jesse.’

The outlaw called Jesse grunted. He stepped back and holstered his gun. Then took the drummer’s wallet, opened it and extracted two ten-dollar bills, slipping them into the nester’s purse before handing it back! Then he glanced at the driver and guard.

‘What’s in the box, boys?’

‘Nothing, she’s empty,’ the driver replied.

‘No offence meant, but we’ll just take a look,’ Jesse said. ‘Climb up and see, Ben.’

The other man went behind and climbed up to the boot. He grunted in annoyance as he found it empty, then started to examine the luggage piled on top.

‘Now, ma’am,’ Jesse spoke to Betty. ‘I’d surely admire a donation from you. Just give what you can spare, save enough to get you where you’re going and let us boys have the rests’

‘My bag’s in the coach,’ Betty replied, a smile flickering on her face. ‘I’ll get it if you want . . .’

‘Jesse,’ Ben called from the top of the coach. ‘She’s a Miss Hardin, and going to the OD Connected ranch in the Rio Hondo country of Texas.’

Jesse looked at the girl; his brown eyes were all she could see over the mask which hid the rest of his features. ‘That makes you kin to Old Devil Hardin then, ma’am?’

Ben jumped down from the top of the coach as Betty nodded her agreement. ‘He’s my grandfather,’ she said.

A gleam came to Jesse’s eyes as he studied the girl. ‘Reckon he’d pay well to get you back again.’

‘He might. But he’d be more likely to nail your hides to the corral fence.’ Betty sniffed, eyeing the man with contempt. ‘There’s some money in my bag . . .’

‘Not as much as Old Devil’d pay to get you back,’ Jesse replied. ‘Joe, keep a hoss out of that team and scatter the rest!’ He turned back to Betty. ‘I reckon you can ride, ma’am?’

‘Do you reckon you could make me?’ countered Betty.

Ben grinned, stepping towards her, his rifle in his right hand. The left lifted up Betty’s chin, tilting her head back. ‘You’re a spunky lil . . .’

The words ended. Betty moved fast, her fist swung hard, slamming into the young man’s cheek and staggering him. He gave an angry snarl and was about to step forward when Jesse barked:

‘Back off there, Ben! You asked for what you got. Our bunch don’t mishandle no lady.’

Two of the outlaws were unhitching the team from the coach, working with a speed which showed they knew their way around harness horses. All but one of the horses were sent galloping off in the direction the coach had come. The other horse was held by one of the gang ready to be used for the kidnapping.

‘Now, ma’am,’ Jesse said to Betty. ‘Me’n my gang don’t use no violence against a lady like you. So, iffen you won’t get on that there hoss and ride with us I am going to cut down this bunch one after the next until you come.’

Betty watched the young outlaw’s eyes as he spoke. At different times, on the OD Connected, she’d met most of the top Texas gunfighting men. She’d seen the smoothly efficient killers like her cousin, Wes Hardin and Ben Thompson, King Fisher, Clay Allison or Mannen Clements. This boy was not in that magic class but he would do just what he said if she did not obey. From his appearance and the way he acted Betty knew he would not hesitate to shoot down an unarmed man to keep his word.

The guard caught Betty’s eye and made a sign, but she almost imperceptibly shook her head. The man was willing to risk his life to try and save her but she did not want it. Any attempt would lead to bloodshed and none of the men from the stagecoach would be left alive. There was no need for such a risk, not with Bent’s Ford five miles away. By Betty’s reckoning there should be three men who, individually or collectively, could sing two gangs like this to sleep one-handed. Left-handed at that.

So Betty agreed to go along and not raise any ructions. She watched them checking through the baggage as Ben went up once more and pitched it down to them. Jesse asked which of her belongings she wanted to take with her, so she pointed to her over-night bag.

All the time Betty watched the young men, studying them with eyes which knew the West and knew the signs. They all wore cowhand style clothes, but they were not cowhands. Every one of the five wore ready-made boots, which no cowhand worth his salt would think of doing and their hats were cheap woolsey. The gunbelts were another pointer. The tall leader, Jesse, wore a good belt, but it did not hang as well as it might and appeared to have been made for a more portly man. The other four wore belts which showed signs of crude alterations, small things like leather being cut away to leave the trigger-guard clear of the revolver.

The signs told Betty she was tangled with a bunch of youngsters full of the so-called excitement and adventure of being outlaws. The way they were acting showed that they’d been reading the lurid fanciful stories which were being written about such outlaws as Jesse and Frank James. The politeness to her, the slipping of money into the nester’s purse instead of robbing him, were all part of the pattern. The leader would use the name Jesse to try and make people believe he was Jesse James.

Betty smiled. In New York and on the trains she’d seen books like ‘True and Factual Life of Jesse James’, which showed the Clay County outlaw as an unselfish, kind, noble Robin Hood using a Navy colt instead of yew longbow. The girl had never met the famous Dingus James, but had heard Dusty Fog’s views on him both as a Confederate Army hero and a train and bank robber. They were not complimentary, but more truthful to the outlaw’s real nature than the fanciful stories in print.

Her smile broadened as she remembered her cousin’s reply when one of the younger OD Connected hands had spoke of Jesse James robbing only the rich. ‘Sure,’ was Dusty’s reply. ‘Jesse wouldn’t rob the poor. They’d have nothing worth taking.’

Which summed up Jesse James’ generous behavior.

These young outlaws were trying to copy the fictional Jesse James. Their behavior was proof of it, and there was more to come.

Jesse gave an order and one of the gang went to collect the horses, but they were not the fine, fiery steeds such as the James gang were supposed to ride when on their missions. The horses brought back looked to be the culls left behind in some trail-end town as not worth taking back to Texas with a trail-driver’s remuda. If horses like that had ever been found in the OD Connected remuda, even as culls, there would have been hell raised by Ole Devil.

‘Joe,’ Jesse snapped, as he looked at the harness horse from the scattered team. ‘You take that hoss. We can’t have no lady riding barebacked with us. She can have your hoss.’

Betty was grateful for the thought, although she almost wished to be riding the stage coach horse, it looked as if it could outrun those saddle-horses given half a chance. She accepted the horse indicated by the outlaw called Joe and allowed Jesse to help her mount.

‘How about them weapons down there?’ Ben growled, jumping down from the coach and fastening Betty’s bag to his saddle horn.

Jesse looked at the shotgun and the two revolvers which the guard and driver had dropped. ‘They belong to you boys?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ the guard replied. ‘I bought the scatter a piece back and Wells Fargo don’t supply revolvers to us no more.’

‘We’ll leave ’em then,’ announced Jesse, magnanimously waving his hand. ‘My bunch don’t take nothing from a man doing a job of jobs. If they’d belong to the Wells Fargo bunch we’d have taken them, but not from you. Don’t try and touch ’em afore we’re out of sight.’

With this final gesture Jesse flipped the loop of his rope around the neck of Betty’s horse, turned and rode off, the others following him. The girl accepted this more as a tribute to prowess as a horse-woman than for any other reason. It could hardly be due to the horse, it was a sorry creature, the worst of a bad bunch and would be unable to outrun any of the others.

Betty did not mean to try and escape. If she succeeded, the gang might go back and kill the men from the stagecoach. They would stop their polite treatment if she tried, and failed. It was as well not to take any chances or give any provocation to a bunch like this. They were as dangerous to fool with as a fully loaded, cocked Colt revolver; safe to a certain point, then deadly.

The guard and driver watched the gang taking Betty away. Their thoughts ran on the same lines as Betty’s, seeing the gang as the dangerous amateurs they were. Neither man liked letting the girl go without a fight and knew the sooner they made Bent’s Ford the better it would be. They could not make it before dark, that was sure and no pursuit could be organized before the morning. The guard spat disgustedly, turned and walked to pick up his weapons.

‘A fine thing!’ yelled the business man, staring after the fast departing gang. ‘An armed guard and we still get robbed. I’m not without friends among the Wells Fargo superintendents, my man, I’ll see this gets reported.’

‘You do that,’ grunted the guard, holstering his Colt and tucking the shotgun under his arm.

‘Why didn’t you do something?’

‘Like what? That was a dangerous bunch there. Happen I’d tried to fight them off they’d killed the lot of us.’

The business man’s face lost some of the indignation as he listened to the guard’s words. He gulped, and watched the guard and driver starting to walk in the direction of Bent’s Ford.

‘Jesse!’ he gasped to the whisky drummer. ‘They called that outlaw Jesse. We were robbed by Jesse James.’

The drummer did not reply. He’d drawn the same conclusion as the business man, and was not waiting around to discuss it. The only men who were armed had started to head for Bent’s Ford and he did not aim to be left out here. Without a word to the other two passengers he started off. The business man and the nester exchanged looks then departed hurriedly in the tracks of the others.

The outlaw band and their prisoner rode overland from the stage trail. Once away from it, Jesse reached up and pulled off his bandana, wiping the sweat from his face. He was a good-looking young man, but there was a weakness about his mouth which did not fit in with his pose as a masterful outlaw. He looked a young man who would not take kindly to hard work, and had probably lived on petty crime until getting ambitious and starting this gang.

‘Shouldn’t let the gal see your face, Jesse,’ the one called Ben growled.

‘Have a hell of a job not to,’ grinned Jesse. ‘It’ll take a piece afore we can get paid off for her and we can’t keep the bandanas on all that time.’

‘She’ll know all of us,’ objected the one riding the stage line horse.

‘That’s right, she will,’ agreed Jesse. ‘Do you bunch reckon that we’re going to let Jesse James or Sam Bass get the credit for our job.’ He snorted angrily. ‘Like hell we are. Not even Jesse James ever pulled a stage hold-up and a kidnapping right after each other.’

Betty hid her smiles, gripping the reins in her dainty, gloved hands and rode easily; Jesse must think there would be some special distinction in kidnapping Ole Devil’s granddaughter. He was also afraid that some other famous outlaw would try to sneak his thunder. She wondered how he was going to get word over all those miles to the Rio Hondo to get the ransom money back.

So did Ben. He drew off his bandana with a sigh of resignation, showing a sullen, mean face with a sprouting of downy whiskers on his jowls.

‘How you fixing to let her kin know, Jesse?’ he asked.

Joe, trying to get comfortable on the bare back of the stage-line’s horse, grinned. He was a moronic-looking youngster of perhaps seventeen, and looked enough like Jesse to be his brother. He was also proud of Jesse and regarded him as smarter than he was.

‘Don’t you just reckon ole Jesse got it all worked out?’ he asked.

Jesse apparently had not got it worked out, but his brain was working on it. Betty decided to help out.

‘You could send a letter to Bent’s Ford,’ she suggested. ‘Find another stage that’s headed there and send word to Bent. Tell him what you’ve done and suggest he telegraphs Grandpappy. Then, likely, Grandpappy will send back for him to pay you.’

‘Sure, that’s just what I was going to say,’ said Jesse, looking relieved. ‘Bent’s a Texas man and Ole Devil’ll deal through him. Save us keeping you with us for too long, ma’am.’ He paused and thought out the rest of the idea. ‘We’ll tell him to get the money, send up a smoke signal when it’s ready and we’ll let him know how to deliver it to us.’

The idea showed careful thought. Betty made the suggestion in case something went wrong and the tracks left by the gang were wiped out so that the Ysabel Kid could not find them. This way the letter, delivered to a stagecoach, would give Dusty Fog and the others somewhere to start in the search.

It was not really likely that the message would ever be sent. At dawn Dusty, Mark and the Kid would be on her trail. The Kid could follow a line with the skill of his Comanche grandfather and would find the gang. Dusty could easily raise a plan which would liberate her from their clutches.

Betty was almost sorry for the young men. Jesse and the others were not really bad; just misguided. They’d chosen a life of outlawry believing it to be a gentlemanly and easy way of making a living. They were going to learn that it was not the best way of life for a man and was full of danger. She hoped they would learn from this lesson, and not be shot down trying a robbery where the guard could handle his guns.

Despite Betty’s thoughts to the contrary, Jesse was not without some of the basic outlaw skills. They pulled their horses up as they came level with a stretch of rough, rocky ground which made a contrast with the grassy range. Betty expected the outlaws to ride their horses on to the rocky ground to prevent them being followed. But Jesse did not, he brought the horse to a halt and stopped the others.

‘Here y’are, Ben,’ he said, handing the other his reins. ‘Take off with the hosses. Make a big circle, then scatter them.’

He removed the saddle from his horse, followed by Sim and Jube, the other two members of the gang. Sim was a pleasant-looking youngster, Jube, chubby and cheerful, but a poor hand with horses. They stripped off their saddles, handed the reins to Ben and waited for Joe. The youngster was looking puzzled.

‘Ain’t but enough hosses for us four over there, Jesse,’ he said, pointing across the rocky land to a large outcrop of stones.

‘We’ll take that hoss you’re on then,’ Jesse replied. ‘Ride it over there and see that everything’s all right.

For a moment, while most of the gang were on foot, Betty was almost tempted to make a break for it. Then she held her hand. They obviously knew the country far better than she did. It would be dark before she could get back to the stage trail and make Bent’s Ford. She could find her way back in the light but did not want to try it in the dark. Jesse might treat her gallantly but he would be nasty if she caused him any trouble.

The three men swung their saddles on to their shoulders and Jesse nodded to Betty to dismount. There was a delay while Joe off-saddled her horse, then she was requested to lead the saddle-less horse which Joe had ridden. Taking the reins Betty followed the men, stopping to watch Ben riding off across the grassy land, leading the other horses and making a good, bold track. Jesse saw the girl watching and his chest puffed out with pride.

‘I thought of that idea myself,’ he said proudly.

‘Real smart,’ Betty answered.

‘Sure. There’ll be a posse after us, but they’ll follow Ben and the hosses. He’s smart, Ben is. Take them for a hell of a run, if you’ll pardon the word, ma’am. Then turn the hosses loose and scatter them and swing back to our hideout. They’ll never find us.’

Betty did not reply to this, although she could have told Jesse what he had failed to think about. She followed the men across the hard ground, knowing how little sign they were leaving. Carefully she slipped off one of her gloves and let it fall to the ground, unseen by the men. It would be a marker for the Kid.

Four horses were hidden among the outcrop, but they were of no better quality than the four left behind. Betty snorted angrily for they must have been without water for some time, but Jesse wasn’t cruel and he watered them before they rode on. Just before dark they reached a shallow rocky bottomed, fast running stream. Jesse grinned at the girl as they rode into the water, then turned upstream. They followed the stream for a time and Betty slid off her second glove, tossing it into the branches of a scrub-oak as they scraped under it, the branches tugging at their legs and along the flanks of the horses.

Just before it was too dark to see, Jesse brought his gang on to the shore and led them on. Betty tried to get her bearings. She dropped her handkerchief soon after they left the stream but had nothing more to use for a marker. She doubted if it would be needed, for they had come from the rocky and barren ground on to grass which would hold a track.

The girl was used to long hours of riding and was pleased that her trip to the East had done little to soften her. The men did not mean to stop, that was for sure. They pushed on through the night and came on to a trail which led down through a small town. Betty watched the silent and deserted buildings knowing that people were sleeping inside. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to see Jesse by her side. The young man held his revolver, the barrel pointing at her side. She nodded, reassuring him that she did not mean to make any foolish outcry. They passed through the town and stuck to the trail for a time before turning on to a narrow, winding path which led through some rough, wooded country. The girl knew they’d been riding almost all the night and it would soon be dawn. She also knew that they were not far from the scene of the hold-up. Her instinct for direction was working and told her they’d ridden in a wide circle.

A dark shape loomed up ahead of them. Jesse halted his gang, slid from his horse and advanced across the clearing towards a small farm house. A moment later he gave a whistle and the others rode towards him. He stood in front of the house and waved his hand.

‘Climb down, ma’am,’ he said, ‘This here’s where we hide out.’

Betty climbed down; she felt stiff and sore but knew it would go off. She walked on to the porch as Jesse opened the door and stepped inside. She heard him fumbling around and then light a lamp. Stepping into the living-room of the small two-room building, Betty looked around with distaste. The room was furnished with rickety old chairs, a table and a cooking stove. It was dirty, littered with food scraps, old newspapers and assorted junk.

‘Reckon you’ll feel a mite hungry after your ride, ma’am,’ Jesse said. ‘Set a spell while Joe here cooks up a meal.’

The girl watched Joe light the stove and take up a filthy frying pan and a battered coffee pot. He set both on the stove and opened a cupboard to take out some eggs. There was other food there, ham, bread, butter and beans, but he left them alone.

‘Ole Joe’s not the best cook, but he licks the rest of us,’ Jube remarked, speaking directly to Betty for the first time and blushing furiously.

That was obvious to the girl. She watched Joe’s clumsy way of handling the frying pan; then as he broke an egg into the half-ready fat she snorted. She hated to see things done badly when she could do them better. She crossed the room and pushed Joe to one side.

‘Ugh!’ she snapped, making a wry face as she looked at the blackened, burnt mass of fat and the egg. ‘And am I supposed to eat this?’

‘Why not?’ Jesse grunted huffily. ‘We’ve been eating it.’

‘You’re forgetting I’m a lady,’ Betty answered, hoping her cousin Dusty never heard she’d made the claim. ‘I bet Jesse James wouldn’t serve food like this to a lady prisoner.’

That was all Jesse needed to hear. He would not want Betty to say she’d received anything but the best treatment while held by his gang. There was, however, a problem—none of the gang could cook any better than Joe.

‘All right,’ said Betty, ‘I’ll cook for you. Heat me some water and wash out the frying pan, Joe. Get it clean. Jube, you can clean these plates and cups,’ she indicated a pile of dirty, unwashed crockery on the table. ‘Sim, see if you can find a broom and clean this place out. No good expecting a lady to put up with this for an indefinite time.’

Jesse scowled, but gave the orders and the others went to work. Betty watched them, almost forgetting she was a prisoner as she prodded them with a biting tongue. She knew how to handle young men from her experience at the OD Connected. By the time Ben arrived the place was much cleaner and Betty was about to, start cooking the meal. None of the outlaws gave any thought to her wearing her short jacket even while cooking. They were licking their lips at the aroma of decently cooked food. But they were not going to be left in peace for their meal.

‘I won’t sit at a table with you bunch dripping trail dust all over it,’ she stated firmly. ‘Wash up and make yourselves look respectable.’

There was some grumbling, but the food looked good and they obeyed Betty. There were long faces and the five were beginning to wish they’d never thought of kidnapping a determined young lady like Miss Betty Hardin.

It was near daylight when the meal was finished. The gang tired from their long day and night in the saddle, wanted to get to sleep but Betty insisted that everything be tidied up again, the cups and plates washed and the food cleared away. There was grumbling, especially from Ben, but Jesse insisted that they maintained their pose as gentlemen outlaws.

‘How about sleeping, ma’am?’ Jesse asked when everything was done to her satisfaction. ‘Ain’t but the one bed in the next room. You can have it and we’ll lock you inside.’

Betty did not argue. She knew just how far she could risk pushing the young outlaw and there was a chance she could escape while the men were asleep. The idea was dispelled as soon as she entered the bedroom. There was only the one door, and the window was boarded up firmly. She could see no chance of breaking through the boards without a whole lot of noise. Betty did not even mean to try. Already the search for her would be starting and, with luck, nightfall should see her safe in the company of her friends.

So Betty lay on the bed. There was a knock and the door opened. Her right hand slid under her coat towards her left armpit and stayed there as Jesse came in, carrying several blankets.

‘Hope you’ll be comfortable, ma’am,’ he said politely, and laid the blankets on the end of the bed. ‘We’ll send off that letter as soon as the boys have got some sleep in.’

‘Why thank you, sir,’ Betty replied. ‘It’s surely pleasant to be caught by a gentlemanly bunch of owlhoots like you.’

Jesse was almost bursting with pride as he left the room. Betty heard the lock click and lay back smiling. There was no danger, so she went to sleep.

A knocking on the door woke Betty. It took her a few seconds to think where she was. Then awareness flickered and she sat up, carefully straightening her coat, particularly the left side of it. She swung down from the bed, rubbing her eyes and stretching to relieve the stiffness caused by sleeping after hours of riding.

The door opened and Jesse called: ‘Can I come in, ma’am?’

‘Come ahead,’ replied Betty.

‘The boys was wondering if you’d do them the favor of cooking up another meal, ma’am.’ Jesse said as he entered.

‘Why sure,’ Betty replied. ‘What time is it?’

‘Near to four in the afternoon, ma’am.’

‘Well, tell them to peel some potatoes ready for me,’ ordered Betty, and made another stipulation which did not meet with approval when it was passed on.

‘I’ll be damned if I’ll do it!’ Ben bellowed.

But he did. The smell of the meal brought about a change in Ben’s attitude. He grumbled about it, swearing he’d never get involved with kidnapping another woman. Then he joined the others and for the first time in his life had a second wash in a day. Worse, he was forced to shave off the stubble he proudly called a beard.

‘Looky here, Jesse,’ he growled when the meal was over. ‘Let’s get this letter sent off and shift this gal back to her kinfolk.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Sim. ‘I’m thinking we done the wrong thing in bringing her here to our hide-out. I’m for going into town and catching the stage that goes through to Bent’s Ford. Sooner they get to know where the gal is and how much we want for her the happier I’ll feel.’

Jesse was beginning to think the same thing. He used the inside of a coffee packet for his letter, writing with the stub of a pencil. The gist of the letter was that he was holding Betty Hardin for ransom and wanted ten thousand dollars for her release. He explained the arrangements he’d thought out the previous day and did not sign the letter. He was proud of the note and wished he could show it to Jesse James, Sam Bass and the other great outlaws.

‘I’ll take it, Jesse,’ Ben said with surprising eagerness, for he was never one to go in for doing any kind of work. ‘I’ll get me some supplies in town, now we all got our share of the loot.’

‘Reckon I’ll come with you, Ben,’ Sim put in quickly. ‘Feel like taking a ride.’

‘I’ll come in as well,’ Jube spoke up. He was shy around any female company and sidled past Betty as if he thought she was going to explode any minute. ‘I reckon you’n Joe can handle things here, Jesse.’

Jesse did not like the idea, but could see there was mutiny in the air. He was wise enough not to push his gang too hard. He and his brother could take care of Betty and the other three would not get into any trouble in town.

Ben, Sim and Jube mounted their horses, the bay, the washy sorrel and the roan. Then Ben noticed Betty’s overnight bag was still fastened to his saddle horn. He was about to throw it on to the porch but snorted, fingering his smooth cheeks. The hell with her, let her do without it for a spell. He stuffed the small bag firmly between the cantle and his bedroll, then sent his horse running for town.

Betty spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening listening to Jesse’s stories of the hold-ups he’d done and the ones he planned to do. She felt sorry for him; he was so sure he was the greatest outlaw the West had ever known and she guessed he would very soon get dissuaded in his belief.

Night came and the lamp was lit. They sat around the table, playing poker with a greasy old deck of cards Joe produced. Time was passing and there was no sign of the other three outlaws.

Jesse lowered his cards, listening intently; then came to his feet. The others could hear the sound of horses approaching and Betty’s eyes gleamed. Jesse looked worried, he rose and went to the window, looking out into the night. When he turned there was a hint of panic in his eyes that worried Betty.

‘What’s wrong, Jesse?’ asked Joe, also standing.

‘I don’t know. If it’s the boys they haven’t given the whistle.’ Betty thrust back her chair and came to her feet. Even as she did so she knew she’d done the wrong thing. Jesse leapt forward, gripping her arm and turning her. He threw his left hand around her shoulders, dragging her to his body. There was a low click as he flipped open the knife he pulled from his pocket and held the sharp blade near her cheek.

‘Keep your mouth shut!’ he hissed, and there was fear in his voice. ‘See who it is, Joe!’

Joe went towards the door and from outside came the sound of singing. Drink-loaded, whisky-primed, drunken singing.

~*~

Bent’s Ford was something of a mystery to strangers seeing it for the first time. True, there was a lake of clear blue water near the three buildings which formed the metropolis, stage relay point, cattle watering stop, saloon, dancehall and gambling house. Yet nowhere was there anything which needed fording: the only stream was barely wide enough for a Texas longhorn to wade.

The name came about from the cowhands’ sense of humor. A Texas trail hand in Abilene was being pestered and questioned by a dude in search of knowledge. On being asked how they moved cattle over a river he told of Bent’s Ford, on the mighty Bent River in the Indian Nations. The story got around and grew until now there were dudes who believed that Bent’s Ford was the only crossing of a river so deep that three stern-wheelers sunk bow down, one on top of the other, couldn’t be reached with a hundred-foot sounding cord. The river was so wide that it could barely be seen across, except on a very clear day, and in it were brook trout as big, fierce and dangerous as Everglade alligators. They were so ravenous that a man trying to swim the Bent River was likely to be pulled under and eaten alive. These and other stories were built on the narrow stream and Bent’s triple business of stage station agent, saloon keeper and store owner became known along the length of the cattle trails as Bent’s Ford.

Duke Bent did not protest at the legends and windies about his place. He’d even helped to build a few of them himself, for they were good for business. The Wells Fargo Company found it a useful place for a relay station. The trail drives came to the lake for the purpose of watering their cattle. The trail boss could buy fresh supplies in Bent’s store and spend a pleasant evening in the saloon, dancing with Bent’s hostesses, or gambling at one of the games. Here it was fair gambling: the stakes at the poker games often ran sky high but there was never a hint of cooked play. Duke Bent began his life on a Mississippi sternwheeler and knew almost all there was to know about the detection of crooked gamblers. Once detected, he could handle trouble any way it came, for he was a big, powerful man and fast with a gun.

All in all, Duke Bent should have been contented with life. He was rich, liked and respected, his business flourished, unhindered by the Indians, who were moved by the bountiful United States Government into Oklahoma Territory. There was no trouble in the air, the last drive had gone up trail the day before and the next was not due until the following week. He should have been happy to relax, taking trade from the men drifting down to Texas from earlier drives, the occasional farmer moving through the Territory, and the stagecoaches. The fact that the expected stage was not here, and it was already dark, did not worry him; stagecoaches were often delayed and late.

His discontent was explained to the two men who stood at the bar in the saloon section of his business.

‘There ain’t one in the house,’ he groaned, and the other two looked disappointed.

It was a tragedy of the first water for Bent. He cared little for wine, was married and found his attention to women seriously curtailed, so his other, and most prevailing interest—song—was all that was left. Bent had been very happy when the Ysabel Kid had rode in that afternoon, for Marshal Chris Madsen was on hand. Here was Bent with two really good tenors, all set to throw in his powerful rolling bass to some quartet harmony and there was no baritone, It was a real tragedy. What good was a session of quartet singing without a baritone.

Bent was not a man to accept defeat. He’d been around the customers without success, there was not a baritone in the house. Now he came back to the bar looking miserable.

U.S. Marshal Chris Madsen, a tall, lithe young man, leaned his shoulders against the bar. He wore range clothes and around his waist was a gunbelt which supported an ivory handled Cavalry Colt Peacemaker. His face was pleasant, his hair brown, and his moustache neatly trimmed. He was one of Oklahoma’s ‘Three Guardsmen’ and along with Marshals Billy Tilghman and Heck Thomas was trying to rid the Indian Nations of outlaws.

‘Sure is hard luck, Duke,’ he agreed, then turned to the lean, black dressed, Indian-dark young man by his side. ‘Where’s Dusty and Mark, Lon? Ole Mark’d do for the baritone part, seeing as how we can’t get a better one.’

‘They’ll be along in a couple of days,’ replied the Kid, looking a little sheepish at the question. ‘They stayed on in Mulrooney.’

The truth of the matter, and the Kid did not care to tell the others, was that he’d deserted his two friends. He’d left behind the two men who were closer to him than brothers to face an ordeal, and run out like a scared jack-rabbit. He’d not felt like singing at all, but Bent expected it and would ask too many questions if the Kid did not join in. He sighed, hoping Dusty Fog and Mark Counter would come through the ordeal he’d left them to. He should have stayed.

The message from Betty Hardin did not make things any better. She would be arriving on the late-running stage and the Kid knew he could not hide his guilty secret from her. She would read his normally inscrutable face like a book and would demand to know all. The Kid did not know if he could face her, so proposed to take the cowardly way out. No lady would enter a saloon when it was open for business so the Kid would be safe here until Betty was asleep. That would hold off the awful disclosure until the following morning, but he was not sure how Betty would take it even then.

The batwing doors of the saloon opened and a man entered. He stood just inside, allowing his eyes to become used to the light, and studied the other patrons of the bar. He was a stocky, handsome young man, his face tanned, friendly and with a black moustache. His expensive grey Stetson was shoved back to show his crinkly, curly black hair. His clothes were range style, expensive and pointed to a top hand. The gunbelt told another story, it fitted well and hung just right. The holster was cut to the shape of the gun, leaving the trigger guard and most of the chamber exposed. It was the holster of a fast gun handler, leaving the ivory handle, hammer and trigger guard of the Civilian Model Peacemaker clear for easy gripping and lifting, and the bottom was tied down. The average cowhand did not wear such a holster, and rarely tied the tip down to hold it against a fast draw. It was the holster of a real good man and matched the one at Chris Madsen’s side, or Bent’s or, to a lesser extent, the Ysabel Kid’s.

The newcomer stood by the door, looking around him. It was not the cold stare of a man hunting trouble, but caution. His eyes took in the group at the bar, and a warm, friendly smile came to his face as his eyes rested on the Kid. Recognition was mutual.

‘Yahoo!’ the Kid whooped. We done got our baritone.’ Chris Madsen’s eyes were on the newcomer, the smile still playing on his lips as the Kid advanced towards the man with an outstretched hand. Madsen did not move from the bar, but he stiffened slightly as he watched the newcomer.

Letting out a wild cowhand yip the new arrival gripped the Kid’s hand in a hearty shake. ‘Ain’t see you all in a coon’s-age, Lon,’ he whooped. ‘How you been keeping? Where’s Dusty and Mark?’

‘Feel as fit as a flea,’ the Kid replied, flushing slightly as his conscience pricked him. ‘You couldn’t have come at a better time, S—’

‘You’re surely right, boy,’ interrupted the other man, drowning the Kid’s voice. ‘I called in for a game of poker. Yes, sir, as sure as my name’s Eph Tenor, I feel lucky tonight.’

‘Sorry we can’t oblige you none, S—, Eph,’ Bent replied, advancing. He’d caught the slight emphasis on the name and read it correctly. ‘We’ve just been fixing to raise us a quartet. You want in on it?’

‘Why sure,’ agreed Eph, his tone showing that he was another devotee to the art of quartet harmony. ‘Who all’s singing second tenor?’

There was a grin on Bent’s face as he led the newcomer to the bar. ‘Allow you two never met afore,’ he said. ‘This here’s Chris Madsen, Eph. Chris, get acquainted with Eph Tenor, from Texas.’

Eph’s grin never wavered as he held out his hand to the United States Marshal. Nor did Madsen’s face lose the smile as he eyed the other man. ‘Pleased to meet you—Eph. You up this way on business?’

‘Me?’ grinned Eph. ‘Shucks no. Just came along to see if I could do a mite of hoss racing. I’ve got me a little mare out there that can run a quarter faster’n most hoss’s can cover a hundred yards.’

There was a pause, then Madsen chuckled. ‘Any particular town in mind?’

‘Nope, just juning around, looking for some place that’ll be worth it.’

Bent snorted. Time was passing; his quartet was complete and he wanted to start, ‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘Pour out a drink for Eph, then let’s give her a whirl.’

With the dust washed from Eph’s throat, Bent got them ready to move off with the first song. He waved his hand to the Kid and suggested that he started with ‘Little Joe The Wrangler’.

For an impromptu group the quartet got on well. There was not a sound through the room as the few customers and the girls from the dancehall listened. The, four voices worked in well; Madsen’s second tenor, Eph’s baritone and Bent’s bass giving able backing.

There was some applause from the listening crowd when the song came to an end, and Madsen took over with the sad ballad of ‘My Darling Clementine.’ Then Eph’s baritone gave the lead in the lament of a dying cowhand.

The song was just at the crucial point when the doors of the bar opened and a party of weary, footsore men entered.

Eph’s song died as Bent lunged forward from the bar towards the men at the door. He recognized the driver and guard of the late stagecoach. Recognized them, and knew they were in trouble, for he’d not heard the coach arrive.

‘What’s happened, Scatty?’ he snapped.

‘Been held up,’ replied the guard. ‘They took off with that young gal who was travelling with us.’

The Ysabel Kid left the bar and crossed the room fast, his face no longer young and innocent looking. The guard gulped and took a pace aback. He was a brave man, good with his weapons and used to taking care of himself in times of trouble, but that black-dressed boy looked meaner and more dangerous than a cow moose defending her new-born calf. ‘What gal was that?’ he growled.

‘Miss Hardin,’ the driver replied for the guard. ‘Ole Devil Hardin’s grand-daughter. She—hell fire, Ole Devil’s gall There’ll be hell on over this.’

‘Mister,’ growled the Kid, his voice sounding like a Comanche taking a lodge oath of vengeance. ‘That hell’s going to break loose a damned sight sooner than you expect. What happened?’

The businessman pushed forward glaring wildly around the room. His eyes lit on Chris Madsen, but, despite his earlier remarks, he did not appear to recognize the United States Marshal.

‘It was the James gang!’ the businessman yelled.

‘The James gang?’ Madsen remarked. He’d been eyeing Eph with some interest but turned and crossed the room, digging his badge from his pocket. ‘Are you sure of that?’

‘The leader was a big man,’ put in the drummer eagerly, not wishing to be left out of the limelight. ‘Six-foot three or four at least, and mean looking—’

‘Weren’t they masked?’ Madsen asked, then turned to Eph who was putting his hat on. ‘Don’t go yet, Eph. We’ll be doing some more singing when I’ve tended to this.’

‘Of course they was masked,’ replied the drummer heatedly. ‘You should have seen that Jesse James. Big!—He was at least six feet four and his eyes were black. Coldest eyes I ever saw, they just seemed to go right through a man.’

‘You sure it was Jesse James?’ Madsen went on, glancing back to Eph.

‘One of them called him Jesse,’ the businessman answered, wanting to get the attention back to himself once more. ‘There were at least ten of them in the gang and the guard didn’t dare do a thing against them.’

Madsen looked up at the roof, as if searching for strength to carry on. The Ysabel Kid turned to the guard, about to ask how Betty Hardin was taken without a fight. Madsen could read the signs and wanted to keep things peaceable, so he looked at the passengers and said:

‘You gents best go to the bar and get a drink, after all that danger you’ve been in.’

‘May I ask who you are?’ inquired the businessman pompously.

‘Madsen, U.S. Marshal.’

‘Then, sir, may I ask how a gang like the James brothers could be allowed to operate in Oklahoma Territory, robbing and plundering. It’s an outrage, sir, I was robbed of a considerable sum—’

‘I’ll see Marshal Thomas about it, sir,’ Madsen replied, hiding a grin. ‘He handles the James gang, You wouldn’t want me to get into no jurisdictional trouble with him, would you?’

The businessman snorted, but turned and followed the other passengers to the bar. There, surrounded by an eager audience, he forgot his principles and stood with a glass of whisky in his hand, telling all and sundry about his narrow escape. There was a considerable difference in the descriptions the three men gave of the outlaws and none was accurate enough to help in the search.

‘All right,’ growled the Kid. ‘Tell it!’

‘Jesse James!’ Madsen snorted. ‘Why does every witness in a hold-up have to insist it was Jesse James?’

Eph wandered over looking interested. ‘You sure it couldn’t have been old Dingus then?’

‘I never forget the description of any wanted man, Eph,’ replied Madsen. ‘A big man, over six-foot, wide shouldered, with mean black eyes—pah! Jesse James’s slim built, five-foot ten and his eyes are light blue. That description don’t even tally with Cole Younger, or any of the James gang.’

‘Who were they, Scotty?’ Bent asked the guard.

‘Bunch of buttons, likely on their first chore, which is why I took no chances with them. I didn’t like the look of that boy leading ’em. Seemed he might go hawg-wild and start shooting if there was trouble. That’s why I didn’t stack in when they were taking Miss Hardin with them. She warned me off: I was set to make a go, but she signaled me not to do it.’

That figgered to the Kid: Betty knew gunmen. She’d know that help was at Bent’s Ford and would go along with the outlaws. The Kid suddenly felt better. If he’d stayed with his friends there would be no one here to go help Betty.

‘If they lay a hand on that gal,’ he growled savagely, ‘I’ll—’

‘Ease down, Kid,’ Scotty answered, recognizing the young man now. ‘They won’t harm her none. They’re gentlemen owlhoots. Just out of a story book, robbing the rich to give to the poor. Why, they gave that there nester some money out of the take, ’cause he didn’t have much. Didn’t take me’n Wheeler’s guns with ’em when we said we bought them. They won’t hurt her none—unless they get scared.’

Ysabel Kid let out his breath in a long gust. He thought of Betty Hardin as a well-loved sister and swore he’d not rest until she was free. If those owlhoots had harmed her in any way they’d learn how a quarter-Comanche boy acted when he got riled. He could rely on the guard’s judgment of the men. They would treat Betty well enough as long as they weren’t spooked and their pose as gentlemen outlaws wasn’t shattered.

‘Where’d it happen?’ he asked.

‘Five-mile out. Scattered our team and left us afoot. You can’t find their line in the dark, Kid.’

‘Scotty’s right, Lon,’ Madsen agreed. ‘How many were there in the gang, Scotty?’

‘Five,’ answered the guard, grinning as he heard the whisky drummer telling a couple of enthralled girls and a young cowhand how he’d have stopped the hold-up if there had not been eighteen men in the gang.

‘Won’t need a big posse then,’ remarked Madsen thoughtfully. ‘It’d be best if we didn’t take too many men. If we come on that gang they might get scared.’

‘Wonder how they aim to send the ransom note,’ Scotty said as he turned to leave the saloon. ‘Might help you, if you lose their trail.’

The doors closed behind the driver and guard as they headed for the Wells Fargo office to make their reports of the incident. Madsen stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. He could see there was no need to send telegraph messages; the less men hunting the gang the safer it would be for Betty Hardin.

‘I’ll take you along, Kid,’ he said, then as if as an afterthought: ‘You’d best ride along Eph.’

Eph scratched his jaw. ‘Waal, happen it’s all the same to you, and there ain’t no great danger to Miss Hardin, I’d as soon be left out.’

‘Can’t do it, Eph,’ replied Madsen gently. ‘All these gents here are hidebound for some place urgent and you allow to be just juning around. Legislation of the Oklahoma Territory says a duly appointed officer can deputize any man. It means a spell in pokey to refuse and you wouldn’t want that to happen. We might have to wire your home town and let them know.’

Eph’s smile faded, his face tightened and his hand dropped to his belt, only inches from his gun butt. Chris Madsen’s eyes never left the Texan’s face, but his fingers spread slightly, hovering near the butt of his gun. Then slowly Eph relaxed, the grin came back and he was once more the happy-go-lucky cowhand who’d earlier sung in the quartet.

‘Wouldn’t want to put you to all that trouble, Chris,’ he drawled easily. ‘It might be inconvenient but I’ll go along with you. Allus did say there was a nasty, mean streak in tenors though. The Kid’s another one,’

‘Sure,’ replied Madsen, also relaxing. ‘I’ll stable your hosses in the barn with mine tonight. Wouldn’t want to wake up and find them gone, would we?’

With that Madsen turned back to the bar. Eph met the Kid’s sardonic gaze and grinned wryly, ‘I’ll tell you, Lon, that’s a tolerable smart lawman.’

Bent relaxed; nothing could be done until morning so he could get on with some more singing. His quartet gathered at the bar, keeping clear of the hold-up victims who were still telling of their experience.

‘Know something, Chris?’ said the Kid, as he leaned his elbow on the bar. ‘I feel sorry for that bunch,’

The words carried to the other party and a girl asked what the Kid meant. It was the businessman who replied. He’d taken a few whisky slugs and felt ready to head out and handle the gang without help. He focused his eyes on the Kid, no easy matter, for the Kid appeared to be spinning around with the rest of the room.

‘What he means, my dear,’ he said wisely, ‘is that he’s sorry for that poor young lady, helpless, defenseless, in the hands of those bloodthirsty desperadoes.’

‘I tell you, boys,’ drawled the Kid to the other members of the quartet, ‘he don’t know lil ole Betty Hardin. Let’s give Barbara Allen a whirl, shall we?’

~*~

The following morning at the first light of dawn, the Ysabel Kid was out saddling his big white stallion. He slid the Winchester rifle into the saddle boot and checked that a full box of Winchester .44 rimfire bullets, his powder flask, bullet bag and percussion caps were in his saddle pouch. He was leaving his bedroll with Bent to lighten the load on his horse, Near at hand Chris Madsen and Eph Tenor were also preparing for the ride and Bent stood by with packages of food.

‘Dusty and Mark might be along today,’ the Kid said as he swung astride the white horse. ‘Tell them what’s happened and to wait here until they hear from me.’

The three men rode off along the stage trail while Bent watched them. He felt sorry for the hold-up gang, matched against the combined talents of the three men.

The stage coach was where it was left the previous day for the Wells Fargo men wanted to let the posse search the ground before bringing in a new team and messing the sign up. Chris Madsen halted his horse and nodded to the Kid, who swung down from his saddle and went forward his eyes on the ground. Madsen could read sign well, but he knew that the Kid could make him look a learner in the art.

The Kid examined the ground with great care; Betty Hardin’s life and safety depended on his skill. There was much he could read from the dust at the edge of the trail and the grass crushed down by feet, and little that he missed. He could guess how tall each member of the gang was and even recognized boot prints.

‘One thing’s for sure,’ he said, mounting the horse with a quick Indian-like bound. ‘They aren’t experts, that’s for sure. And they haven’t done much of this work, or if they have, it hasn’t paid them.’

‘How’d you know, Kid?’ Eph asked.

‘Easy, their boots are run over at the heels, one pair looks like it’s damned near worn clean through. They’d have bought new boots had they been in the money. Hosses aren’t much either, sore-footed bunch from the looks of their sign. We can run them down if we catch up on them.’

‘’Cepting they’ve got Miss Hardin, so we can’t,’ reminded Eph. ‘Looks like they’ve left some clear sign for you.’

‘That’s what worries me,’ replied the Kid. ‘They’re playing at being real smart owlhoots. They’ll have some game worked out for throwing us off their tracks.’

The sign was plain enough to allow them to make fair time following it. The Kid rode at the head of the party, Eph following and Madsen bringing up the rear. They did not speak as they rode but all were alert. The way of working was standard. The man following the sign would give it his full attention while the other two kept a careful lookout for possible ambush. There was not much danger of ambush as yet, but none of the three believed in taking foolish risks. The gang they were after would be well ahead, but there were other outlaws around who might take an aggressive attitude to the posse.

For once in his life the Ysabel Kid was anxious and worried. Although Betty Hardin was a cool, capable young lady, she was outnumbered by the gang. She’d have sense enough to go along without causing any trouble, knowing that help was coming.

The Kid brought his horse to a halt as they approached the rocky land. His eyes took in the crushed grass: the party had stopped here and got down from their horses. He looked around, then stiffened as a small black object lying on the ground caught his eyes.

‘Tracks go off that ways, Kid,’ Eph remarked.

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘There ain’t but one of ’em being rid, rest are led. Look how close they’re together, Men wouldn’t ride all bunched up like that. ‘Sides, there ain’t but the five hosses going off.’

‘Rest took to the rocks then, Kid,’ Madsen said. ‘Make it harder for us. How do you call it, stick after the five or try and trail the gang over the rocks?’

‘Stick after the gang. They’ll have to leave this rock some place. The one with the spare hosses’ll make good time across the range, then scatter them. We’d wind up following one lone man, which is harder than trailing a bunch.’

‘Which way’d they go over the rock then?’ asked Eph, looking down at the, hard ground and seeing nothing to help him.

‘Their spare hosses would have to be left in that outcrop there,’ Madsen guessed. ‘We could try and pick up their line over that way, Lon.’

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid, walking forward. He bent and picked up the glove Betty had dropped, a grin flickering across his face.

At the outcrop the Kid went over the ground again, learning all he could, but it was not much. He estimated how long the horses were left, which was easy enough from the droppings left behind. Then he started following the trail over ground which gave little sign, even of six horses. It was a slow business but the Kid was painstaking.

‘Hell, this’ll spoil things for us, Lon,’ Madsen growled, as they came in sight of the rocky bottomed, fast running stream.

They halted on the banks and looked at the stream. The trail ended at the edge of the water, without any hint as to whether the riders crossed straight over, went up or downstream.

The Kid sat his horse, listening to the sound of the stream running over the rocky bed. His attention was on the sound as he heard Madsen speaking.

‘Up or down, do you reckon, Eph?’

‘I wouldn’t know. Never had a chance to be at this end of a—mean I never rode in a posse afore.’

‘I’d near on bet upstream,’ the Kid said finally.

‘Any reason for it?’ enquired Madsen.

‘Listen,’ replied the Kid. ‘There’s some real fast water, likely a waterfall near to hand. They went downstream and they’d have to come out again before it’d be worth it.’

The other two listened, faintly catching the noise of rushing, falling water above the sound of the stream before them. Both felt admiration at the way the Kid heard, recognized, and saw the importance of the sound.

‘Would you reckon they’d know about it?’ asked Madsen. ‘Likely. They know this country. They planned this whole thing out in advance, even to losing us here on the stream. They’d get here just afore dark, way I see it. Wouldn’t take no chances of breaking a hoss’s leg in the dusk.’

With that the Kid rode into the water, heading upstream; the others followed him. It was easy to follow the bed of the stream, and they splashed on until they came to some branches partially hanging over the water. The Kid saw the second glove and showed it to the other two, then slipped it with its mate in his pocket. Then he looked at the tip of a branch and leaned forward to scrape the horse hairs from it. Ignoring the other two he carefully separated the different colored hairs, peering at them as they lay in his palm.

‘Make it a bay, couple or so roans, a black and a couple of duns,’ he said, passing the hairs back to Madsen, who confirmed the colors. ‘Be a mite of help, happen we catch up.’

Eph was watching everything with undisguised interest. ‘You mean you can tell all this, just by reading sign and finding hoss hair?’

‘Why sure,’ Madsen replied. ‘Except there aren’t another ten men in the West who can read sign like the Kid, I reckon to be fair, so’s Billy and Heck, but we’re yearly beef compared with the Kid.’

The horses started forward once more, the Kid watching the banks of the stream. He was trying to work out how long the gang had stayed in the water. They would come ashore before it was dark which would bring them out somewhere along the stretch they were now following.

A flutter of white caught the Kid’s eyes. At the same moment the Kid saw marks on the bank where the horses had left and he turned the head of his white towards it. Swinging down from the saddle he picked up the handkerchief and slid it into his bulging pocket. He glanced at the sun, it was now long past noon.

‘Let’s take a bite of Bent’s chow,’ he suggested. ‘Let the hosses blow.’

So they halted on the banks of the stream, loosening the saddle girths and allowing the horses to drink, then browse on the stunted vegetation at the side of the stream. The men ate their meal in silence, then sat smoking for a time, allowing the horses to rest. At last Madsen came to his feet, stubbed out his cigarette and went to his horse.

The tracking was resumed; slowly they worked over the ground in the direction taken by the gang. Then they reached easy ground and the speed of their trailing picked up. For all that, the sun was down when they brought their horses to a halt on a stage trail.

‘This’s a hell of a note,’ Madsen grunted. ‘There’s a small town down that way, they’d likely go the other direction.’

The Kid did not agree. ‘They’ve been swinging the other way all the time and their line was headed up-trail when they came off.’

‘If they kept to this trail they’d have to pass through the town ahead,’ objected Madsen. ‘They wouldn’t want to risk it, not having Miss Hardin along.’

‘It’d be getting on two, three o’clock at least when they come through. Sure wouldn’t meet many folks at that time,’ answered the Kid. ‘They’d chance it and we’d have to be real lucky to find their line again if they stick to the trail for any distance.’

Madsen nodded. There was something in what the Kid said. He turned his horse and headed towards the small town. The other two followed him now. He was the U.S. Marshal and in command of the posse, it was his place to lead them. In the town he could ask around and find out if anyone had heard riders passing through in the night. He had the authority to ask and would get the answers.

They rode into the main street. It was empty and deserted, for most of the citizens were at dinner, in their homes after closing their business or finishing work. The saloon’s windows were lit but only three horses stood hip-shot at the hitching rail.

Madsen was looking for some sign of the marshal’s office but saw none as they rode along the street. He gave the three horses a casual glance and would have ridden on but the Kid caught his arm.

‘We made us a hit,’ the Kid said and his voice showed more excitement than was usual. ‘Bay and roan hoss . . .’

‘There’s a hell of a lot of both in the Indian Nations,’ Madsen replied.

‘Sure, but that bay’s favoring his off hind a mite, like one we’ve been on the trail of all day.’

Madsen looked down at the bay, noting the way it was keeping weight off its right hind leg. It could be a coincidence but they’d little to go on. He swung his horse to the hitching rail and dismounted, tossed the reins over the rail, then ducked around his horse to look the bay over. Behind him the Kid and Eph were also dismounting. The Kid went around his white horse and was about to join Madsen when he stopped, looking at the saddle on the washy sorrel.

‘I’ll take money these are what we’re after,’ he remarked casually. ‘Take me for a ten-spot, Chris?’

‘I’ll take you,’ Madsen replied, grinning. He could not lose on the bet. If the Kid was wrong the ten-dollar bet would be his, if the Kid was right they’d got part of the gang and that was worth the ten-spot.

Without another word the Kid went to the sorrel, reaching up behind the cantle. Then extended a hand to Madsen, holding a woman’s overnight bag in it. Madsen looked at the two sets of silver initials on the bag; BH and OD, the O touching the straight side of the D.

‘You saw it,’ he growled.

‘And you didn’t,’ replied the unsympathetic Kid, holding out his other hand.

‘I’ll pay you when we get through.’

‘Oh no,’ drawled the Kid. ‘My pappy allus used to tell me, “Trust in the Lord, but make other folks pay their gambling debts right off.” ’

Madsen grinned, handing over two five-dollar pieces which the Kid slid away. Then they both went to the window. There was not much to see: a few men sitting at tables and three youngsters wearing cowhand clothes, lounging at the bar. They were a poorly dressed trio, but even as the posse watched, one of them pulled a ten-dollar bill from a roll and paid for a round of drinks.

‘They’re our boys,’ Eph said eagerly. ‘Cowhands as poor looking as them shouldn’t have all that money.’

‘Let’s make some talk,’ Madsen replied.

The three youngsters at the bar, and the rest of the customers studied the new arrivals with interest, for their town saw few strangers. The three youngsters at the bar started drunkenly, their eyes focusing on the Marshal’s badge Madsen wore pinned to his calfskin vest. The whisky died in them, leaving only a cold, scared feeling in their stomachs. It was plain they were guilty men.

Chris Madsen was a trained law officer. He knew the rules for approaching a suspect and watched the three young men all the time. They might not be the men he was looking for, but they were scared at the sight of his badge and a scared man was every bit as dangerous as a hardened killer. So they gave all their attention to the youngsters at the bar. Not one of them noticed a whiskered, hard-faced man who sat with his back to the wall, near the door. He gave Chris Madsen a hard look and dropped his hand out of sight behind the table, glanced at the door and gently eased his chair back, preparing to come to his feet.

Madsen halted in front of the three youngsters, his hand hanging by the butt of his gun ready to draw. He sensed that the Ysabel Kid was just as ready at his left side and wondered what Eph was doing at his right.

‘You boys done much riding?’ he asked.

‘Who wants to know?’ Ben asked, the whisky making him tough.

‘Chris Madsen, U.S. Marshal,’ Madsen introduced himself.

Eph was not paying much attention to the three youngsters, knowing Madsen and the Kid could handle them. He glanced in the bar mirror and saw the bearded man coming from the chair, his gun lining on the marshal’s back. Eph’s left hand shot out, thrusting Madsen violently to one side and sending him staggering behind the Kid. The bearded man’s shot crashed out, the bullet making a hole in the bar between Sam and Jube. Eph turned, his right hand lashing down as he moved, the ivory handled Colt swinging up ready. When he was fully around his left hand fanned the hammer. The three shots came so fast they sounded as one continuous roll, the bearded man took the lead. He spun around, crashed into the wall and slid down, his gun falling from his hand as he went.

The Ysabel Kid never accounted himself fast with a gun, for it took him all of a second to draw and shoot his old Dragoon. A fast man could halve that time and kill at the end. He caught a glimpse of what was happening, saw the three young men starting to move towards their guns. His palm twisted outwards, caught the worn walnut grips of his old gun and lifted the Dragoon from leather. His thumb cocked the hammer and he threw down on the three youngsters long before they moved. He picked Ben out as the most dangerous and the yawning muzzle of the old cap and ball .44 lined on his stomach.

‘Freeze fast and solid!’ growled the Kid.

Madsen landed on his hands, and knees, he rolled over, gun coming out to line first at Eph, then on the three young men at the bar. The trio of outlaws were standing as if frozen for Eph turned to line his Colt on them and augment the Kid.

Slowly Madsen came to his feet, he’d seen the crumpled body of the bearded man and knew what must have happened. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ he said to Eph. ‘Lordy, a man who’s worn a law badge for all the years I have, falling for a trick like that.’

‘He warn’t with us, Marshal!’ Jube yelped nervously. ‘Honest to Henry, we never saw him afore.’

‘Pull their teeth, Lon,’ Madsen replied. He could tell the young outlaw was speaking the truth. The man was not one of them and they’d no part in the attempt on his life, ‘Where were you bunch yesterday?’

‘Why you accusing us honest folks for, marshal?’ demanded Ben, trying to hold his voice tough and hard, though he had no gun now.

‘Figger you might know something about the stage that was held up yesterday,’ replied Madsen, watching the townspeople through the bar mirror, then glancing at the bartender as he came into view after diving for safety when the shooting commenced.

‘We war’nt nowheres near Bent’s Ford yesterday,’ Ben answered, then stoppe4 and his face lost its color.

‘How’d you know the coach was held up near Bent’s then?’ snapped Madsen. ‘I’m taking you in for it.’

The batwing doors were tossed open and a fat man stepped in, a ten gauge shotgun in his hands. He was a jovial, leisurely-looking individual wearing old cavalry trousers and a collarless shirt. Holding the batwing doors open he let the light shine on the bearded man, then stepped in through the door. The shotgun was held with careless competence, like he knew well enough how to handle it.

‘Who’d have done this?’ he asked in a lazy drawl.

‘One of my posse,’ Madsen replied. ‘Man was all set to gun me from behind. I’m Madsen, U.S. Marshal.’

‘Name’s Jeffers, constable and marshal of Trimble,’ introduced the fat man coming forward. ‘Would you know this gent, marshal?’

Madsen crossed and looked down. He bent over and made a closer examination, then straightened and nodded. ‘I know him. It’s Dutch Charlie. Used to run with the Doolin gang until Bill kicked him out. Took him a lodge oath to get Billy Tilghman, Heck and me.’ He looked across the room towards his posse men. ‘I’m obliged, S . . . Eph. I’m not sorry to see the end of him,’

‘Wondered some about him,’ the constable of the town said thoughtfully. ‘He come in quiet enough, troubled nobody. Would have spotted him if it warn’t for the whiskers. What’s wrong with the other three?’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Seen them and two more hanging around here. Thought they worked for one of the cattle outfits. Never had much money . . .’

‘They got plenty tonight, Slim,’ called the bartender. ‘All of ’em bought drinks and changed a ten spot each. Peeled it right off a roll.’

Madsen nodded. The young fools could not resist flashing their money, never realizing they were giving themselves away by doing it. He explained what the three were suspected of but the constable was unable to help in any way.

‘Where’d you get the money?’ Madsen asked, returning to the bar.

‘Picking blueberries,’ Ben sneered.

The Kid moved forward, his face hard and savage. ‘Face the bar!’ he ordered,

There was something in the Kid’s face which made Ben obey. It sank through the whisky fog which whirled in his head that here was a man who aimed to be obeyed. It was all very well to fool around and give lip to a lawman who was bound by certain rules as to how he treated his prisoners. This black dressed Texan was no lawman; he was not the sort to care for rules either and would be quite willing to use his old Dragoon Colt or his bowie knife to enforce his orders. With this in mind Ben turned and faced the bar.

The Kid went forward, caught Ben’s leg and lifted it to look at the sole of his boot, then raised the other leg. Letting hold of Ben, the Kid went along the bar and looked at the other two pairs of boots. The heels of each pair were badly run over and he recognized them from the marks he’d seen during his trailing. But they were not what he was looking for. The pair of boots which were almost worn through had not shown to his inspection.

‘Where’s your pards?’ the Kid asked.

‘We don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ben answered, then he remembered something he’d heard said by a man arrested by a marshal, ‘I want to see a lawyer before I say another word!’

‘Where do you hold prisoners, constable?’ Madsen asked.

‘Don’t often have none. When I do they go in the cellar under my house. We’re a poor town and don’t run to a jail. If I get a prisoner anytime I send word to the County Seat and they come over to collect him.’

The Kid was looking thoughtful. ‘Know, Chris,’ he drawled. ‘We don’t have a hell of a lot we can hold this bunch with.’ He winked at Eph who was watching him with some interest, ‘Nope, we couldn’t hold them on much at all. Tell you, turn ’em loose one at a time. Me’n Eph here’ll just take this one out and see him on his way.’

Before Chris Madsen could say a word the Kid and Eph took hold of Ben’s arms and hustled him out into the night. Sim and Jube watched their friend go, then exchanged scared looks. They did not know what to make of this treatment and wished they’d Jose or Jesse with them.

Suddenly, from outside there sounded a most hideous scream; the scream of a man in mortal pain, then it died off to a gurgling moan and ended. Madsen and the constable stared at the door and the two young outlaws lost all their color. The citizens in the saloon came to their feet. Every eye was on the door and Madsen forgot his prisoners as he stepped forward to investigate.

The batwing doors opened to admit the Ysabel Kid. His bowie knife was in his grip, he wiped the blade on his trousers leg and grinned at the startled faces.

‘What the hell happened, Kid?’ Madsen asked, voice hoarse and worried. ‘What was that scream?’

‘He got stubborn, wouldn’t be sociable and talk,’ replied the Kid with a blood-chilling chuckle. ‘Turn the next one loose. Best make it the chubby one, I don’t want to spoil my knife’s edge by hitting bones Not when there’s another one who’ll need her, happen chubby don’t tell us where the other two and Betty are.’

Chris Madsen did not know what to do or say. He knew the Ysabel Kid’s reputation very well and knew a little about the man called Eph Tenor. It was quite possible, if all the stories, were true, that he’d used that bowie knife on the young outlaw. Madsen gulped and saw the town’s constable looking pale around the gills. That scream was enough to make any man look and act that way.

Jube opened his mouth and let out a yell of pure terror as the Kid advanced across the floor towards him. ‘Don’t let him get me,’ he howled. ‘Keep him off. We done that stage job but we never hurt nobody. We didn’t harm the gal, she’s out at our hideout.’

‘Where’d that be?’ asked the Kid, casually flipping the razor-edged bowie knife from hand to hand.

‘An old farm couple of miles north of here. It was empty when we got there and we moved in.’

‘That’d be the old Miller place,’ the constable put in. ‘They pulled out for the East and left most of their gear at the farm.

Madsen knew the youngster was not lying: he was too scared. The marshal was pleased to get the information, but worried as to the means by which it was obtained. He licked his lips worriedly and looked at the Kid but could read nothing in that innocent, inscrutable face. He wondered how he would explain away a prisoner, unarmed, yet killed with the knife of one of the posse.

In every community there were a section of people who boasted they were for the rights of the working man and set out to prove it by looking for anything detrimental or damaging to the reputation of the Army, Navy or law enforcement officers of the land. There was such a body in Oklahoma, a thorn in the flesh of the Governor and every lawman in the Territory. The killing of an unarmed prisoner would really give this body a thing to get their teeth and claws in. Chris Madsen would be lucky if he was only thrown out of office.

‘What the hell happened out there, Kid?’ he finally managed to growl.

‘Out where?’ countered the Kid, mildly innocent.

‘What was that yell?’ Madsen’s voice rose a shade.

‘Was there a yell?’ asked the Kid.

‘You know there was!’ Madsen yelled.

‘You mean a yell like this?’ replied the Kid. He opened his mouth; from it came the same hideous scream of pain, then a gurgle as if the throat was filling with blood.

For a long moment Madsen did not reply. He, and every other man in the room, stood staring at the Ysabel Kid, hardly believing that a living man could make such a sound.

At last Madsen found his voice. ‘Then it was you and not—!’

There was sardonic amusement in the Kid’s voice as he replied, ‘Why sure. What else did you reckon it might have been? You didn’t allow I’d stuck ole Annie Breen here,’ he gestured with the bowie knife, ‘into that young feller we took outside, did you?’

‘Dealing with a damned crazy Comanche like you a man doesn’t know what the hell to think,’ Madsen snorted. ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘S . . . Eph’s got him out there. Keeping him quiet.’

There came a scuffling and a thud from outside the saloon. The batwing doors burst open and Ben came in backwards, crashing to the floor with his legs waving feebly. Eph stepped in, rubbing his knuckles and grinning at the young outlaw.

Outside Ben had suddenly been overcome with a desire to depart for new pastures and had attempted to bring this about by knocking Eph down. It was not a success for Eph’s left hand parried the wild swing Ben launched, shoving it harmlessly away from him. Then his entirely un-wild right fist shot out and knocked Ben through the door, for he was no mean hand at knocking down.

‘Reckon we’d best take these three to your cellar and get Dutch Charlie hauled to your undertaker’s shop,’ Madsen said to the constable. ‘I’d best get the three boys under lock and key before anything else happens. I’m holding them for stage robbery—kidnapping as well—they took a young woman off the stage.’

‘And I surely wish we hadn’t,’ Sam wailed. ‘That gal’s enough to turn a man offen women forever. She had us sweeping and cleaning everything up. Made us wash and shave afore she’d let us eat at the table and bawled me out for eating beans offen a knife. We had her another week and we’d have been paying Ole Devil Hardin to take her back again.’

The Kid grinned. It seemed Betty was all right. She affected the hands at the O.D. Connected the same way when she was in one of her moods. The thing now was to rescue Betty before the other two outlaws started worrying about their friends.

‘Ain’t much room for three prisoners in the cellar,’ remarked the constable. ‘But I don’t reckon they’ll want to walk about much.’

‘Where’s this farm, friend?’ asked the Kid of the bartender, watching Madsen and the constable escorting the three young outlaws out of the saloon.

‘Just follow the trail north a piece, and you’ll come to a path leading off to the left. The farm’s about a mile along it.’

‘How’d you reckon to get up to it, Kid?’ Eph asked. ‘Move in on foot?’

‘I daren’t chance it. Nope, I’ve got me an idea that might work out. Happen Chris’ll agree and our friend behind the bar can get us a hat and a pile of blankets. Hope Chris ain’t took their hosses with him. Take a look, Sam, if he has, get them back.’

‘Want any of us along?’ asked the bartender eagerly.

‘Admire to have you, friend,’ replied the Kid. ‘But they’re holding a gal prisoner and they’d likely hurt her if they heard a crowd coming. The leader of the gang’s still out there and he’s a boy who’ll spook if things go wrong.’

‘See what you mean. We’ll stand out and leave it to you. I hope you can get the gal out without her being hurt.’

‘Mister,’ said the Kid grimly and sincerely. ‘So do I.’

~*~

‘I shaw a big-pig Yankee marshal comin’ down the shtreet. Got two Dragoon guns in hish belt, looks fiersh enough to eat.

Now big-pig Yankee stay away. Stay right, clear of me.

I’m a lil boy from Texshus and scared ash I can be—hic!’

Joe listened to the drunken voice and pulled aside the curtains to peer out into the night. He could see a rider approaching leading three horses, the three horses his friends rode to town. Across each saddle was a shape that looked like a body. He felt scared until he saw the rider swing down from his big black horse, stagger and almost fall, and clinging to the saddle for support.

‘Hello the housh!’ the man yelled, staggering towards the porch and swinging up on to it with a whisky-soddened abandon. ‘Anybody home?’

‘Who is it?’ Joe asked, glancing at Jesse who was still holding Betty.

‘Me!’ replied the voice with drunken logic, then a puzzled note took its place, ‘Leasht I think it’s me. Hey, you three, is this one of you up here, and me down there on the hoss?’ There was a pause. ‘Naw, it can’t be. Come on, open up. Your pardsh allowed there’d be something to drink here.’

Joe grinned and reached for the door handle. It was just like Ben and the other two to get drunk and make friends with a stranger, then have to be brought home across their saddles. They must have told the stranger where to come before they’d collapsed under the load of coffin-varnish. It would be safe to open the door for the man who’d brought Ben and the others back did not sound or look in much better condition than they were.

Holstering his gun Joe opened the door. Instantly a hand shot out, gripping his throat; something hard, cold and round was thrust savagely under his chin and he was forced backwards into the room. The most savage face he’d ever seen loomed before his startled eyes and he croaked a scared yell. The Ysabel Kid forced Joe backwards into the room, holding his throat with the left hand while the right forced the muzzle of the Dragoon Colt under Joe’s chin. The Kid’s thumb held the hammer back and the trigger was depressed ready to fire. Then he saw Jesse and Betty. He saw the way the young outlaw held Betty, saw the knife so near her face and the fear in the man’s eyes.

‘Hold it!’ Jesse yelled and there was near panic in his voice. ‘I’ll kill the girl if you don’t let go of Joey.’

The Kid made no move to release Joe. His eyes went first to Jesse, then to the girl. Betty was cool enough, standing without moving and making no attempt to struggle against Jesse’s grip. She met the Kid’s gaze and almost imperceptibly she nodded her head. But the Kid was annoyed. He’d made a fool mistake. A bunch like this would go in for dramatic things like signal whistles when approaching the hideout. He should have thought of it earlier and got the signal from one of the prisoners. They’d have told him, for, according to Chris Madsen, they were talking plenty, confessing their few crimes since becoming a band of outlaws.

‘Give it up,’ drawled the Kid evenly. ‘We’ve got the place surrounded and you can’t get out.’

‘I’ve got the gal!’ Jesse answered, his voice pitched high and the knife hand moving spasmodically.

‘And I’ve got your boy,’ warned the Kid. ‘Put the knife down.’

‘No!’ Jesse yelled back. ‘I’ve got the gal. I’m going out of here an you ain’t stopping me. Turn Joey loose.’

It was a stand-off, although Jesse held slightly the stronger hand. The Kid could not shoot Joe, even though he was quite willing to do so. There was no moral scruple involved. If \Betty had been in no danger he would not have hesitated, the gun would have rocked, throwing its round lead ball through Joe’s head. That could not happen, not while the knife was so near to Betty’s face.

‘All right,’ he said, watching Betty’s head bob in another quick nod. ‘You win, hombre.’

The Kid shoved Joe to one side but did not holster his gun. Jesse saw his brother released and relaxed his hold, the knife moved away from Betty’s neck. It was what she’d been waiting for. Back lashed her right foot, the Kelly spur driving into Jesse’s shin and bringing a wild yell of pain from him. His grip relaxed and Betty’s hands shot up to catch the arm which was round her shoulders. She gripped it and heaved Jesse felt his feet leave the floor, the room whirled around and he landed with a crash on the hard boards. His Colt had fallen from his holster and he grabbed for it. Something cold touched his cheek; he turned his head into the muzzle of a short-barreled Merwin & Hulbert revolver in Betty’s right hand.

‘I’ve had it all the time, Jesse,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard tell of a shoulder clip, I reckon. You would have if you’d tried to touch me.’

Joe clawed at his gun, then froze as he saw the Kid’s Dragoon lined on him. Feet thudded on the porch and two men came in. Joe’s grin died as he saw the men were strangers. He looked at the marshal’s badge on Chris Madsen’s vest, and the gun in Eph’s hand. They’d been two of the ‘drunks’ lying over Ben, Sam and Jube’s saddles; the third ‘man’ was on the rear horse, a roll of blankets with a hat fastened to it.

The Kid grinned at Betty. She’d sand to burn, that girl. Old Tommy Okasi’s wrestling throws served Betty as well as they did Dusty Fog, when needed. The Kid stepped forward to kick Jesse’s gun into the corner and saw Betty staring at Eph.

‘Heavens to Betsy!’ gasped Betty, recognition showing on her face. ‘It’s Sa—’

Quickly the Kid gave Betty an ungentlemanly nudge in the ribs which ended her words. ‘This here’s Eph Tenor, Betty gal,’ he said pointedly, then lowered his voice. ‘I know him, you know him, and Chris knows him. But Chris don’t want it known he’s been riding with Sam Bass for a day and never arrested him.’

Betty smiled; the sort of smile which would have melted a miser’s heart but did not fool the Ysabel Kid. Betty Hardin was getting set to charm her way. She felt sorry for the five young outlaws and knew that Chris Madsen took his prisoners for trial to Fort Smith, where the notorious Judge Parker, the Hanging Judge, presided. If Jesse and his gang came for trial before Parker, they would be lucky to get away with their lives and they did not deserve death, or a brutal sentence of imprisonment.

‘I suppose you’ll be taking them to Fort Smith, marshal,’ Betty said and the Kid watched her, a grin coming to his face.

‘Sure, Miss Hardin,’ agreed Madsen. ‘I doubt if they’ll bother you again.’

‘Couldn’t they be tried in the county where they did the holdup?’ she asked.

‘Could be. I suppose they could be put for trial locally but I’m supposed to take them to the Fort,’

Now Jesse was looking scared; realizing for the first time the consequences of being an outlaw. He and Joe looked so pathetic that Betty knew she must save them from Judge Parker.

Putting on a manner which would charm a bird out of a tree Betty smiled at Madsen. ‘You couldn’t do me a small favor?’

‘I don’t know as I could, ma’am. They need teaching a lesson and . . .’

The Ysabel Kid’s grin expanded. He knew how Betty Hardin operated, the trap was going to spring closed on Madsen.

‘I was just thinking,’ said Betty innocently, ‘how folks would laugh if they heard the United States Marshal, Chris Madsen, was riding for a full day with Sa—, Eph Tenor, and didn’t recognize him. Of course none of us would want it to get out, but I declare that at times I just talk and talk.’

‘All right,’ Madsen answered, giving up, as so many other men did when opposing Betty Hardin’s will. ‘I’ll hand them over to the local law and let them do the trying. Did they treat you all right?’

‘Like perfect gentlemen,’ replied Betty and Jesse looked relieved. The girl turned to the Ysabel Kid and went on. ‘Where’s Cousin Dusty and Mark?’

‘They stopped on in Mulrooney,’ said the Kid, trying to hold his face immobile but knowing she could read his thoughts.

‘Did they?’ asked Betty thoughtfully. ‘Come on, Loncey Dalton Ysabel, tell me all about it!’

The Kid tried to avoid telling Betty his guilty secret but half way back to the town, riding well behind the others so only Betty could hear, the story came out.

Up in Mulrooney a good friend’s wife produced her first son and Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid found themselves roped in for the christening. Then came the trouble. The friend’s wife came from one of the more sober families of the town and cowhand clothes would definitely not be worn for such an important occasion. Dusty and Mark were used to wearing suits, town clothes, buttoned collars and ties. Mark, the Kid suspected, even liked wearing such clothes at times and Dusty accepted them. The breaking point came when the Kid found he was also expected to wear the rig. He spent a sleepless night trying to think of a way to avoid the indignity and decided on flight.

‘Any ways,’ he finished defiantly. ‘Happen I hadn’t done it there wouldn’t have been any of us at Bent’s Ford to come help you.’

~*~

It was the following morning. Outside the small town’s saloon Chris Madsen and the constable were preparing to escort the outlaws to the county seat for trial. Madsen turned to Betty Hardin, the Ysabel Kid and Eph Tenor standing on the porch, their horses ready to take them to Bent’s Ford.

‘Was I you, Eph,’ Madsen said, holding his hand out towards the Texan. ‘I’d forget about . . . horse-racing . . . in the Nations. It wouldn’t be safe at all. It’s not the hoss race season and we wouldn’t want to take folks away from their daily labors to start racing with you.’

‘You could be right at that,’ grinned Eph in reply. ‘I’ll maybe see you again sometime, Chris.’

‘I hope not,’ replied Madsen, smiling back. ‘Not professionally, any ways.’

Betty watched the marshal’s party riding out of the town, then she turned to the man they’d been calling Eph Tenor.

‘Sam Bass,’ she said, ‘if you’re not the living end. Riding with a United States marshal and acting all friendly like. Wasn’t he fixing to arrest you?’

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Texas outlaw, grinning broader than ever. ‘I tell you, Miss Hardin, it’s fit to turn a Texas boy honest the way that man never forgets a face or a description. Sure, I allow he’d have arrested me, or tried.’

‘And you still stopped that hombre back-shooting Chris?’ remarked the Kid.

‘Surely so, Lon,’ replied Sam Bass. ‘You never know when we might want another tenor for a quartet.’