The buzzards circled on wide-spread wings, swooping and whirling high in the sky. Twice they began a descent, only to rise again: unable to take the chance of landing by the still form which lay on the sand in the centre of the dried up stream.
Finally the black birds took the chance and started a circular glide towards the earth, then with frantically beating wings fought back into the air. They went higher and higher their powerful vision seeing the man who came riding along a trail through the woods, headed for the stream bed.
The Ysabel Kid rode easily in the double girthed saddle of his huge white stallion. He looked relaxed but was alert and watchful. It was a normal condition with the Kid, for he’d learned early a man must keep alert if he wanted to stay alive. His eyes picked up the circling buzzards but he thought little of the whirling birds. They were not unusual; the buzzard was part of the range country scavenger corps, picking the flesh from the bones of dead animals.
Only this time it was not an animal which lay dead.
The Kid brought his horse to a halt as he left the trees and saw the body lying on the sand. He reached down and drew the Winchester rifle from his saddle-boot before he dismounted. The man was dead but there was need for caution. The death was neither natural, nor suicide as the knife hilt sticking from the centre of the black broadcloth coat showed. It was murder and the murderer might still be lurking around, ready to take exception to anyone showing an interest in the body.
The woods around the Kid were still and only the faint noises of birds or small creatures came to his keen ears. He motioned to the big horse to stay where it was and advanced cautiously towards the body.
The woods widened out here to what must have been a river but was now dry, a gash of yellow sand running through the green of the wooded country. Here might once have been a ford almost a hundred yards across. The body lay half-way out, face down, stiff and still.
Just as he was about to step on the sand the Kid halted. His eyes went to the sign on the ground. The place was a regular crossing and well marked with a variety of tracks but the Kid saw immediately that there was only one recent set; they were old and blurred, except the prints of a big, well made horse. That was the horse the dead man must have rode. The Kid kept well clear of the sign, a purely natural instinct to avoid spoiling it!
When he reached the body the Kid was pleased he’d kept clear. He stopped and looked around him, trying to make out what had happened. By the side of the body were marks where the big horse had suddenly reared, the dead man falling from the saddle and rolling to lay as he now did. There were tracks where the horse had run on again, but nothing more. There was neither hoof nor foot prints to show how the knife came to be there. Just the bare sand, the one set of tracks and the old marks, nothing more.
The Ysabel Kid could read sign and there were few with his skill. This sign was all wrong; that, the Kid knew. He looked down at the body. In life he’d been big, well dressed, white haired man, a man the Kid could remember. He did not need to turn the body over to know that here lay the person Ole Devil Hardin had sent him to help! It looked like the help was a mite late in coming.
‘Sorry, Judge,’ he said gently. ‘I come as soon as we got word.’
Bending down the Kid examined the tracks of the dead man’s horse, paying careful attention to their depth. What he found out made him even more puzzled and he straightened up to look back towards his horse. It was all of fifty yards away. The Kid shook his head and turned to bend over the body, his eyes on the hilt of the knife. It was a style he’d never seen before and he knew quite a bit about knives and knife-fighters. The hilt was round, smooth and without any guard. What the blade was like the Kid could not tell for it was buried out of sight in the back of the coat.
The big white horse snorted, throwing back its head and moving restlessly. The Kid looked up, lifting his rifle slightly, ready to throw it to his shoulder as he saw three riders approaching from the open land on the other side of the sand. The Kid stood tense and watchful, looking more Indian than white as he prepared to hunt cover and fight for his life. Then he relaxed and rested the rifle barrel on his shoulder. He removed his low crowned, wide brimmed black Stetson and waved it to attract the attention of the men, then walked to the edge of the sand to meet them.
They were three Texas cowhands, two tall, one shorter. Tanned, efficient-looking men whose range clothes showed they were competent workers. They all wore a gunbelt, but none showed them as being real fast hands. The Kid knew their type. Loyal, hard-working, hard-playing men. Right now there was no levity in their expressions, only cold suspicion for they recognized their boss. The smaller man was looking hard at the Kid, his hand hanging by his side; the other two riders dropped their palms to the grips of their Colts.
‘You’d best hold the hosses here, gents,’ said the Kid, not moving his rifle from his shoulder. ‘No sense in spoiling the sign for when the sheriff comes.’
The three men looked down at the Indian dark young man and read the signs as well as the Kid. Here was a man, hard and tough, despite his innocent-looking, young face. That rifle was pointed harmlessly to the sky, but it could be brought into action easily enough, as could the old Dragoon Colt which was butt forward at his right side.
‘That’s Judge Hurley there,’ one of the taller men growled.
‘Sure,’ agreed the Kid.
‘He dead, Kid?’ grunted the small man.
The Ysabel Kid felt relieved that Carney Lee recognized him. The small man was the Judge’s foreman; had been even in the days when the Kid’s father, Sam Ysabel, ran contraband on the Rio Grande and found the Judge a very good customer. That was several years back and the Kid wondered if he’d changed much. Lee could have replied to that question.
‘He’s dead,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Light down and take a look.’ The two cowhands glanced at their foreman. He knew this dangerous-looking young Texan but they were not entirely satisfied. Carney Lee swung from his horse and, as the other two dismounted, introduced them as Joe and Noisy. They walked across the sand and Carney Lee’s eyes flickered to the ground. Then his brow furrowed in a scowl and he looked even harder.
Halting by the body Joe, slightly the taller of the two cowhands, scratched his stubby jaw, spat and growled. ‘That greaser’s got him at last.’
‘How?’ asked the Kid mildly.
‘How?’ snorted Noisy, a gangling, bearded man who rarely said much at all. His eyes went to the sign, then bugged out as they read the message of the marks in the sand. ‘Hell yes! How?’
‘Throwed it in!’ suggested Joe, also reading the sign and drawing the too-obvious conclusion.
‘Throwed it in . . . all of fifty yards?’ said the Kid, indicating the sign. ‘That’d be some throw. I don’t reckon even ole Jim Bowie himself could have made it.’
‘You boys likely heard of the Ysabel Kid,’ Carney Lee remarked casually as Joe opened his mouth to growl some reply.
The change in the two men was instant. The suspicion left them and they both grinned amiably. The Kid was well known. He was regarded by them as a wild young heller who would not hesitate to bend the law if he thought there was need for such action. He was also known as a reader of sign who had few if any peers and as a man who could handle and throw his knife as well as the old Texas master, James Bowie.
‘Noisy,’ growled Carney Lee. ‘You head for Tasselton. Watch how you cross the ford here, don’t mess up the sign. And watch how you pass the Kid’s hoss, happen you don’t want a leg chewed off, Joe, you go back to the herd and bring young Jed Hurley back with you. I’ll stay on here with the Kid and wait for you to get back.’
The men obeyed without question. Noisy brought his horse across the sand, keeping clear of the sign and avoiding the Kid’s big white stallion which watched him with malevolent eyes. The other man went to his horse, mounted and headed back in the direction they’d come.
Returning to his horse, the Kid loosed the girths and removed the bridle. Carney Lee joined him after attending to his own, then rolled a smoke and offered one to the Kid.
‘Ole Devil sent you along?’
‘Soon as he heard from the Judge. Looks like I came too late. You’d best tell me what it’s all about. I reckon your hand meant Don Miguel when he said the greaser Him and the Judge still feuding?’
‘As ever they was. That’s not what the Judge wanted you along for, Mig wouldn’t steal nothing and the Judge knowed it,’ Lee replied. ‘Judge wanted you along to try and help us get whoever it is that’s rustling our stock and tried to kill him.’
‘That’s what the letter said,’ agreed the Kid. ‘How come you boys were out this way?’
‘We’re working a herd, branding and earmarking some of them for shipment. Saw the Judge’s horse coming and took to looking.’
That was to be expected. A man afoot on the range was in bad trouble and a riderless horse was always cause for concern. The hands would come out looking for him as soon as they saw their boss’s horse. The Kid found nothing unusual in Lee’s reply; it was as he’d expected. But there was a lot he wanted to know about the conditions prevailing on this stretch of range. All he knew at the moment was that he’d received an order from Ole Devil Hardin to come to Tasselton County and lend Judge Hurley a hand with some rustler trouble. Now it appeared there was more than just rustler trouble involved.
‘You’d best tell me about it, Carney,’ he suggested.
‘Ain’t much to tell,’ replied the other man. ‘It happened on us all of a sudden at the end of the spring round-up. We’d lost nearly three thousand head over the last year.’
The Kid gave a low whistle. That was rustling on a grand scale; three thousand head of cattle would take a fair amount of handling. To take so many in a bunch would need at least eighteen men. A full scale round-up would be necessary to gather them in. Even on the vast open ranges of Texas such a thing could not be done in secret.
‘Must have been a steady going on for some time,’ remarked the Kid. ‘How about your crew, they all saints?’
‘The regular boys are,’ Carney answered, a saint meant a cowhand who would not work in with the rustlers. ‘But you know how it is, a man can’t keep a full crew these days, has to use regulars in the trail drives and take on what he can. I’d trust Noisy, Joe and maybe three of the others and the rest never gave me no call not to trust them.’
‘Don Miguel been losing much?’
‘Not according to Alarez, I went over to hold a foreman’s jawing session with him a couple of days backs Alarez allows they turned up a couple of our steers which’d been hair branded.’
‘Which same means that some of your round-up crew were working in with the rustlers,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘The branders’d have to be, and your tally man might have something to do with it.’
‘Brander might. I was using Noisy and a new man, real good man with an iron. Not the tally man. It was Judge Hurley’s nephew.’
‘I never knew he had one,’ the Kid remarked. He knew that it was possible for a man who was really skilled, to hair-brand a steer while the round-up was in progress. Burning the brand on the animal’s hair without touching the hide, so that when the hair grew out the brand would go with it. It would be no use doing so unless the tally man, recording the amount of cattle handled, worked with him.
‘How long’s this nephew been with the Judge?’
‘Come out just afore the round-up. You know the Judge war’n much of a hand at paper work. Had him that young dude, Jeff Dawson, to handle that sort of work for him most of the time. Then he heard from the nephew, a sister the Judge’d near on forgot about’s son. Was satisfied the boy really was kin and, having none of his own, sent for the boy to come,’ replied Lee, knowing the Kid needed to know the local set up. ‘Jeff didn’t cotton none to the idea, not when the Judge told him that young Hughie, him being the nephew, would be taking over the book wrangling. Judge was fair enough about it, told Jeff he could stay on as a hand at the same pay as he was pulling down as book-keeper.’
‘It’d have been this Dawson who’d be tally man, happen the Judge’s nephew hadn’t come out,’ remarked the Kid thoughtfully. ‘How about the Judge saying there was a try at killing him?’
‘Sure, was at that. Somebody took a shot at him as he was working in his office. Must have come through the window, the bullet. He was in the room on his own. Would have been killed but he dropped something and bent to pick it up just as the shot came. We made us a search all round, but couldn’t find nothing. I checked all the hands’ guns but warn’t none of them just been fired.’
‘The bullet come through the window? Bust it?’
‘Nope, you know how the Judge liked to have the windows open, allowed the scent of the mesquite helped him think.’
‘What was the Judge doing?’
‘Writing a letter to his nephew, telling him to come on out. When Hughie come he showed he was smart as a whip, for a dude. He’d been learning about book-keeping at this fancy Eastern college and took to tally-taking like the devil takes after a yearling. Only had Jeff help him out for half a day.’
‘There’s been any hard talk about Mig not losing stock?’ asked the Kid, his eyes going to the still form on the ground.
‘Some, you know what these hot-heads are.’
‘Where’d the Judge been; where was he coming back from?’
‘Tasselton. He went in last night, never said a word to any of us about what he was fixing to do.’
‘Strange looking knife that,’ the Kid drawled, stubbing his cigarette butt out. ‘I never saw one quite like it.’
With that he walked across the sand towards the body and Carney Lee followed him. They halted by the body and stood looking at it. The Kid’s attention was on the knife hilt. For the first time he noticed it was a dull black color with the end charred as if it had been lying near a fire. Dropping his hand the Kid touched the hilt with his finger, and saw a small black smudge on the tip. Then he studied the angle at which the knife had entered the back, rose and stepped carefully astride the tracks of the Judge’s horse and looked back over his shoulder.
‘See you in a minute, Carney,’ he said.
Carney Lee did not reply, he was looking across the range and shaking his head sadly. The death of the rancher hit him badly, they’d been friends for more years than he could remember. The Judge had never been a man of letters. His name came, not from law, but from being a good judge of horses and corn liquor. Now he was dead, murdered and the old foreman swore he would get the man who had killed him.
The Ysabel Kid turned and walked back across the, sand to the woods, looking back at the body as if trying to get his bearings. Then he went through the trees his eyes on the ground. He turned and looked back, the body and the sand patch was hidden by trees and bushes. A few steps further on he found what he was looking for. A tree had fallen and there was a clear view of the Judge’s body. There was sign on the ground, sign which was plain to the Kid, even though half removed. The Kid lay on the ground behind the tree and looked over. He could see one small patch through the gaps in the trees, a clear opening of about two-foot, with no branches or anything in the way.
‘About sixty yards, I’d say,’ he remarked. ‘That’d take some practice.’
With the words he turned and began to track the sign. The man had known what he was doing, he covered his tracks well and might have deceived a less skilled trailer than the Kid. Even the Kid did not find it easy to follow the man to where he’d left his horse. There were droppings to show the horse had stood for some time, at least half an hour.
‘No point in trailing him now,’ the Kid said to himself; a habit he had picked up on the long lonely scouts he often took when riding herd or in time of trouble.
Turning, he walked back to the edge of the woods and found Carney Lee waiting for him. The foreman was clearly curious and could not restrain his curiosity any longer.
‘What you been doing?’ he asked.
‘Now that ain’t a gentlemanly question,’ replied the Kid with a grin. ‘I’d’ve brought you a piece back on a leaf if I’d known?
‘Took you long enough to do that,’ grunted Lee sardonically. ‘You wants to try taking croton oil.’
‘Who gets the spread now the Judge’s dead?’ the Kid asked, disregarding the foreman’s cold eyes.
‘Hughie, I reckon.’
‘He with the herd you were working?’
‘Nope, stayed on at the spread, said he’d meet us out there but he hadn’t showed when I left to look for the Judge,’ Lee answered, and there was suspicion in his eyes. ‘You find something in there?’
‘Might be something, might be nothing,’ answered the Kid. ‘How far round do you reckon that knife hilt’d be? Bigger’n a .45, or even a .50 barrel?’
‘Sure, near on an inch. Twice as big as a .50. You reckon the Judge was shot fust, then the knife shoved in to make it look like that was how he died?’
‘Nope, I don’t reckon that at all. I’m real interested in knives. Just like the Judge and ole Mig are interested in long guns.’
The Kid stopped talking. There was a thoughtful look on his face as he looked at the edge of the trail, then towards the body and finally towards the woods. Things were beginning to tie into a pattern but there was just one small thread missing. One thing he had to tie in to make him sure his theory was correct. Every other thing he saw, the knife hilt, the way the Judge’s body lay and the horse tracks tied in, but there was one little thing missing.
Hooves sounded on the trail behind them; three riders were coming at a fair speed. It was almost an hour since the foreman had sent off his riders and both were returning at the same time, for, even as Noisy came into view with two more men, Joe and another rider came hurtling towards them from the other side.
The Ysabel Kid studied the two men with Noisy. One wore range clothes; he was a tanned, grey haired man belting a brace of guns and sporting a sheriff’s star on his vest. He looked a hard, but honest lawman; the Kid remembered him from the old days: Sheriff Eb Alberts. He looked at the Kid, recognizing him and nodding a greeting.
The other man was also known to the Kid. Doc Jerkin, lean, bald and amiable, good customer from the Kid’s smuggling days.
There was no time for small talk. The sheriff swung down from his horse, keeping it off the sand. He looked at the body, then nodded to the doctor who dismounted and followed him towards the body.
‘Keep off the sign, Eb!’ said the Kid and the urgent note, in his voice made the sheriff look down at the horse tracks, then step clear of them.
The doctor bent over the body, glanced at the knife, then knelt and took a closer look. He straightened up and shrugged. ‘Can’t do a thing here. If I can, I’d like to take the Judge over to his place.’
The other two riders came up; Joe and a good looking young man. His clothes were those of a working cowhand but his Stetson did not sit at the correct ‘jack-deuce angle over his off-eye’. It showed him as a dude, a newcomer to the cattle country for such rarely managed to wear a Stetson in the cowhand manner. His face was pallid under the sun-reddening; he was obviously badly shaken, or so it appeared.
He came across the sand fast, halting by the body and swaying. The sheriff shot out a hand to support the young man, gripping his right shoulder and bringing a wince of pain.
‘Shoulder hurt?’ asked the Kid mildly.
‘A little,’ the young man replied, his tones not Western. ‘I bruised it using a Buffalo Sharps.’
‘Telled you it’d be too much for you,’ grunted Lee. ‘You would listen to Jeff Dawson. You don’t need a .50 Sharps for shooting mule deer.’
The young man stood staring at the body. Joe was still waiting, he’d a horse fastened to his saddle horn to take the body back to the ranch. None of the men spoke for a moment then the young dude asked:
‘Who did it?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ answered the sheriff. ‘Were you with the herd, Hughie?’
‘No. I got lost on my way out to them. I only just found them,’ Hughie Hurley replied. ‘And I thought I was getting to know my way round the range. That’s a knife in Uncle Sam’s back.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the sheriff.
‘Then you’d better arrest the Mexican. The man who owns the next ranch.’
‘Why?’ asked the Kid.
‘Everybody knows he and my Uncle weren’t friends.’
‘We’ll go and tell Mig, anyways,’ said the sheriff. ‘You’d best come, Hughie. And you too, Carney, Lon. The boys can help Doc take the Judge back to the spread.’
‘Jeff Dawson told me there was bad blood between my Uncle and that Mexican!’ Hughie raised his voice. ‘Are you going to make an arrest?’
‘Sure I am,’ the sheriff replied. ‘Just as soon as I find out who done it.’
The men loaded the body across a saddle, covering it with a trap. Then Carney Lee gave orders to the two cowhands.
‘Don’t you pair start talking about how the Judge was killed, or anything,’ he snapped. ‘We don’t want some fool yelling for war with the Mexicans over it.’
‘We know ole Mig wouldn’t do nothing like this,’ Joe answered. ‘We won’t say nothing at all.’
‘I’ll see they don’t,’ grunted the doctor.
The rest of the men, the sheriff, Lee, Hurley and the Kid got their horses and rode across the range. Dropping to Alberts’ side the Kid remarked, ‘That sign back there read a mite strange, Eb.’
‘What’s strange about it?’ grunted Alberts. ‘The Judge rode out there easy enough. He allus come back from that ways and—’
Alberts stopped speaking. His eyes had unconsciously studied the sign as he went to the body but it had only just struck him how strange it was. His eyes went to the Kid, trying to read something in the Indian-dark, almost babyishly innocent face. He failed and wondered how much the dark youngster knew, how much the sign told him. There was no chance to ask, for Lee and Hurley caught up with them.
‘Any idea where the Judge went in town, Carney?’ asked the Kid.
‘Nope, he usually tells me, didn’t this time.’
‘He went into the telegraph office,’ the sheriff remarked. ‘Funny, I saw him coming out of it just afore sundown last night. He stopped at the hotel overnight and never came down to the Lone Star for a drink or a game of poker. Was aiming to ask him about it but he come stomping out of the telegraph office and on to his hoss without giving me a chance.’
The Kid lounged in his saddle, thinking fast. The pieces were beginning to fall into place, yet there was something vital missing. He wondered who the Judge was telegraphing. It could not be Ole Devil for Judge Hurley knew a man would be riding as soon as Ole Devil received the letter but could not possibly reach Tasselton County earlier than this morning. The Kid wished Dusty, Mark or even young Waco was here to help him. There were things he wanted to talk over and nobody here he could trust.
Don Miguel Hernandez came from the door of his home. It was a big, old Spanish style building, white walled and cool. Several vaqueros were standing around the corral, looking at the approaching party with interest but not animosity.
Don Miguel Hernandez came from the front door of his home as the riders drew rein outside. He was a tall, slender man, grey haired, at least fifty years old but still ramrod straight. He was one of the finest type of Mexican hildalgo, brave, a shrewd business man and a gentleman in the strictest sense of the word. He strode forward to meet the guests, a smile of welcome on his face.
‘Saludos, Eli, Carney, Mr. Hurley,’ he said, then his eyes went to the Ysabel Kid and the smile grew even more warm; ‘Cabrito, it has been long since I last saw you. You will stay the night, all of you?’
‘Ain’t just a-visiting Mig,’ replied the sheriff. ‘We found Judge Hurley this morning.’
‘How did the old goat get himself lost?’ Hernandez answered, smiling. ‘I always said he didn’t know this country and—’
‘We found him dead, at the Dry River ford.’
The Ysabel Kid was watching Hernandez as the sheriff replied. There was no doubt that the Mexican was genuinely shocked at the news. His face showed it for a brief instant, then he got control and relapsed into the expressionless mask which gave nothing away.
‘Got a knife in his back,’ the Kid said gently.
Hernandez wiped a hand across his face, shook his head as if to clear it and gave a sigh. ‘Poor old Sam,’ he said. ‘We had our little quarrels—’
‘This wasn’t a little one,’ Hurley put in, his voice throbbing with grief and anger. ‘Everybody knows you and my Uncle were enemies. You could have been waiting for Uncle Sam at the ford and—’
‘And what?’ asked the Kid, before any of the others could say a word.
‘Everybody knows Mexicans use knives,’ Hurley finished lamely, for he was a dude and did not know how to read sign. He had not read the strange message in the sand.
‘So do other folks,’ replied the Kid. ‘This ain’t a running iron I’ve got on my belt.’
For all the Kid’s words there was tension in the air. The vaqueros were gathered around and muttered angrily at the insult to their master. Carney Lee dropped his hand to his side. He did not agree with what the young man had said, but Hughie Hurley was the Judge’s nephew and Lee’s boss, so the old ranch foreman was ready to defend the youngster from the consequences of his rash words. It was an explosive situation and one which needed delicate handling.
The Kid’s words relieved some of the tension and Hernandez spoke gently, showing no offence at the insult.
‘Come inside, all of you. The boy is disturbed by his Uncle’s death and he means nothing by the words.’
‘Sure,’ Lee replied. ‘You’d best know one thing, Hughie. Your Uncle and Don Miguel here’ve been feuding for the past thirty years, but they’ve never stopped being friends. Remember that time Mig bought some fancy rifle that the Judge wanted, Eb?’
‘I’ll never forget it,’ answered the sheriff, grinning. ‘Judge come to town breathing fire and smoke. Told Mig that he was going to start shooting the next time they met. Wanted to step into the street and settle it like gentlemen. You’d have thought there’d be killing certain sure. Then word come that a bunch of Santanta’s Kiowa bucks were raiding Mig’s herd. Damned if Mig and the Judge didn’t get their hosses and ride out side by side to handle them Kiowas.’
‘Was another time,’ Lee went on, looking hard at young Hurley. ‘The Judge bought one of the Volcanic rifles out from under Mig’s nose. They wasn’t talking for a month after that. Mig come off a hoss, got hurt bad. Your Uncle went East to fetch back a doctor who knowed more’n Doe Jerkin about bone setting. Brought Mig a Volcanic rifle back, help get him over his fall.’
The Kid nodded in agreement. The feud between Judge Hurley and Miguel Hernandez was due to their hobby of collecting firearms. It was never so serious that it could not be put off when there was trouble and co-operative action was needed.
Hurley looked embarrassed, but held out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was misled by what the hands at the ranch told me. My Uncle was most uncomplimentary about you, and I heard that you and he were enemies.’
‘Come in and I’ll show you the latest cause for our enmity.’ The men went into the house, following Don Miguel to the large room used as library and study. For a moment the Kid thought he was back at the OD Connected, except that Ole Devil Hardin’s interest was handguns and the Mexican collected rifles. With the eager air of a collector showing off his prizes. Hernandez waved the others to chairs and called to a servant to bring refreshments for his guests.
The walls of the study were covered with long arms of almost every kind and variety. There were muskets of the snap chance, wheel lock, flintlock and percussion fired mechanisms. Single, double, quadruple barreled long arms and early experimental repeating muzzleloaders. The Kid looked at the weapons for he was a rifle shot beyond peer and a keen student of long arms. He recognized an old Ferguson rifle, the earliest attempt at making a breech loading weapon, at least, the earliest successful attempt. There were cartridge rifles of many kinds; a line of Winchesters, starting with the forefather of the family, the Volcanic rifle, the Henry and a couple of types of the old yellow boy, the Model of ‘66. A rifle of the newer Model 73 pattern was underneath, but below that was a gun which made the Kid catch his breath. It was this gun Don Miguel picked up, brought to them and held out with the joy of a collector.
The rifle was a Model 73, a weapon the Kid had seen but not managed to obtain. A Model 73 as he only dreamed about. The woodwork was black walnut, finely carved and checked. The metal was deep blued, finely engraved, and on the top of the barrel was printed the words, ‘One of a Thousand.’
‘This is the latest bone of contention,’ Hernandez said, showing the rifle with some pride. ‘The Winchester Company are selecting their finest barrels and making up these special rifles, I managed to get the only one the Company held and old Sam was furious. He’s got to wait—’
The words died as he realized Judge Hurley would never have one of the magnificent ‘One of a Thousand’ rifles now.
The Kid was looking at it with the expression of a man seeing visions. He’d admired the Model 73, but this was beyond anything he’d ever seen and he knew that one way or another, he must get one. It was at that moment that the Kid saw something which took his attention off the Winchester. He came to his feet and walked across the room to a weapon which hung in the place of honor over the fireplace.
It was all of seven-foot long and appeared to be at least an inch across the muzzle. It was an old fashioned musket, a flintlock, as the hammer and frizzen pan showed.
Looking up at the gun, the Kid remarked, ‘I never saw one this size. I’d bet it’d kick like a Missouri mule. A man’d need muscles on his muscles to lift and fire it.’
Alvarez knew the Kid was interested in long arms and came forward with the pride of a collector showing off his favorite piece. ‘He wouldn’t hold it and fire from the shoulder. It’s a wall gun and meant to be fired from a rest. Originally it would have been rested on the wall of a fort to fire at an attacker. You are right when you say you’ve never seen one this size before. There are very few of them and this is the longest. A London, England, gunsmith called John Thompson made it in the late 1600’s and it is still in working condition. I’ve often meant to try it out but my bones are too brittle for the kick.’ He paused and sighed. ‘This was another cause of our feud. Sam bought a wall gun, but it was a foot shorter; he never forgave me for that.’
‘That’s a real fancy piece all right,’ the Kid drawled.
Hernandez turned back to the other men. ‘Excuse me, please, I get carried away when I talk of my collections. You say Sam was killed by a knife?’
The Kid reached up and ran a finger around the inside wall of the gun’s barrel then looked at it. He turned and joined the others who were drinking coffee brought in by a barefoot peon.
‘Like you to come on over to the Judge’s house for the inquest, Mig,’ the sheriff said.
‘Of course,’ the Mexican answered. ‘We’ll ride as soon as you’ve finished your coffee.’
Judge Hurley’s ranch was much the same in appearance as the Hernandez place. The ranch crew were sitting around, outside the bunkhouse, silent, with none of the usual rowdy horseplay. Doe Jerkin came to the door of the ranch and watched the sheriff and the others leave their horses in the stable at the right of the house.
‘I brought the Judge in. Undertaker’s come and laid him out ready for the burying. I reckon he’d want to be buried on the place, Hughie. We’ll talk about it later on. I left the body in the library, locked the door.’
They heard the sound of a horse and turned to see who was coming. One of Alberts’ deputies came racing up to a sliding halt. He’d ridden hard and his face showed there was something badly wrong.
‘Eh,’ he gasped, swinging down from his horse, ‘Ole Joe Tucker’s been killed. We found him dead in the post office, shot through the head.’
The Ysabel Kid turned to the doctor. ‘Did you go through the Judge’s pockets when you brought him in, Doc?’
‘Nope, left it for the sheriff, why?’
Ignoring the sheriff who was talking with the deputy, the Kid went to the door of the house. ‘Let’s take a look at them right now.’
The doctor led the way into the hall, his hat and bag were on a small table along with a sheet of paper and a pencil. The Kid glanced at the paper in passing, it was half covered with writing and there was a black smudge on the top of it.
Taking a key from his pocket the doctor opened the door that led into the library. The Kid went in first, his gun in his hand. The room was dark and still, at one end of it a large table showed through the darkness; on it was a bulky, sheet covered shape.
The doctor brought a lamp from one of the other rooms. His eyes went to a chair and the coat which lay by its side. ‘That’s strange, I hung the Judge’s coat over the chair,’ he said.
The Kid went forward, lifting the coat and seeing what he expected. The pockets had been turned out. Turning to the doctor, the Kid said, ‘You’d, best get Eb in here, Doc.’
Alberts arrived fast; he came into the room followed by Hughie Hurley and Carney Lee. They looked around; the young man went to the office desk, bending down to look at the door.
‘Somebody tried to break in here,’ he said.
The others went to the desk; there were three deep grooves cut into the wood around the lock as if someone had been trying to find some way to open it. The sheriff gave an angry growl, turned and went to the windows, trying each one of them in turn. He looked puzzled as he turned back to the others.
‘Who came in here, Doc?’ he asked.
‘Only me and the undertaker, after the boys helped to get the Judge in. Then when we was finished I came out and locked the door.’
‘Then how the hell did anybody get in?’ growled Alberts indicating the windows. ‘These’re both fastened on this side.’
The Kid crossed the room fast, looking at the windows, they were both securely fastened and so was the door. He looked around the big study, the walls were lined with rifles. It was a plainly furnished room, a big table, an assortment of chairs, a well filled bookcase and the desk. There was nowhere a man could be hiding; yet someone had come in and left again.
Carney Lee strode to the table where the body lay, bending to look under it. He straightened up again. ‘Didn’t come through the trapdoor, the bolts are still shot.’
Crossing the room the Kid bent over, looking at the trapdoor. The bolts were shot across and were rusted as if the trapdoor was not used. It was quite likely for the door led to a small cellar where the family could hide in case of attack. Now it was connected with the other cellars of the building.
‘Who all’s got keys to the room here?’ asked the Kid.
‘I have,’ Hughie replied. ‘I think Jeff Dawson had one and my Uncle.’
‘Wouldn’t have done anybody any good to have a key,’ growled the doctor. ‘I been outside that door, writing my report, ever since the undertaker finished laying the Judge out. There ain’t been nobody in or out of it.’
‘Where’s this Dawson gent now?’ asked the Kid.
‘Went hunting last night,’ Hughie replied. ‘He came and asked me where the Judge was, then said he was going on a hunting trip when I told him Uncle Sam’d gone to town. He often went when there wasn’t much work on so I didn’t object. Besides, it’d give me a chance to work on the books. Jeff uses a system I’ve never seen before but I think I’m getting the hang of it now.’
‘Did the undertaker empty the Judge’s pockets?’ asked the Kid.
‘Nope. We allus leave that sort of thing to the sheriff,’ answered the doctor. ‘I can’t see how the hell anybody could get in and out of here with all the doors locked.’
‘We could make a search of the cellars,’ Alberts suggested. ‘Although I don’t see how the hell a man could get down there. That trapdoor’s bolted from the top. I don’t even think the bolts’d work.’
‘I’ve heard these places sometimes have secret passages,’ Hughie remarked, eyeing the walls with interest.
‘Not this’n,’ Carney Lee answered. ‘I was here when it was built, there ain’t no secret passages in it.’
‘Look,’ said the Kid. ‘We’re all tired now, we’ve had us a long day. Why’n’t we get us some sleep and get together in the morning?’
‘I can’t make it until noon at the earliest,’ Alberts replied. ‘I’ve got to ride back to town and look into the other killing.’
‘We’ll hold us a hearing at one o’clock tomorrow then,’ suggested the doctor. ‘See if we can’t work something out.’
‘What’s in the desk?’ asked the Kid as they turned to leave the room.
‘Uncle Sam’s cash box, there’s usually a fair bit of money in it. He usually keeps a bottle of best bonded whisky in it.’
‘That all?’
‘All the books and paperwork of the ranch are in there, too.’
The Kid looked thoughtfully around. ‘That’s a tolerable pile of books I’d reckon,’ he mused.
‘Not too many,’ Hughie answered.
‘Reckon I’ll turn in,’ said the Kid. ‘You reckon you’d best keep one of the hands out in the hall, and leave the lamp burning in here, Carney?’
‘Might be as well,’ Lee replied, knowing the Kid would never make such a request without good reason. ‘I’ll get Joe, Noisy and one of the other old hands to spell each other.’
The men were at the door when the Kid turned, looking back at the weapons which hung on the walls and particularly at a fine Remington Rolling Block rifle which hung over the centre of the fireplace. He stood looking at it for a moment, then turned and left the room.
The following morning the men gathered outside the room where they ate their meals. The Ysabel Kid was talking with Carney Lee and the ranch foreman nodded his agreement. Then they trooped into the room and sat at the table, the meal was almost silent. Just before they finished, Carney Lee turned to Hughie Hurley and said:
‘What do you want the hands to do today, boss?’
‘Put them to whatever you think needs doing, Carney.’ Hughie replied, making the answer he’d heard his Uncle give each day since his arrival.
‘Are you going to work on the books, Hughie?’ asked the Kid. ‘It might be best to have them all ready for when the Judge’s lawyer comes out.’
‘You’re right, Lon,’ Hughie agreed. ‘It’ll take me all day to do it. I wish Jeff Dawson was here. Do any of you boys know where he might be?’
‘Never telled us, Hughie,’ replied one of the men. ‘He don’t have much truck with us common folks.’
The Kid rose, stretched and announced he was going to ride the bedsprings out of his horse. The other men were to be working around the spread, or riding the nearer ranges so as to be on hand for the funeral which was due to start in a couple of hours.
Before the Kid got his horse he saw several men riding out to begin work. He caught his big white, saddled it and swung up. The horse snorted but the Kid rode out without fuss. Then the white settled down to serious work, carrying the Kid across the range.
Once clear of the ranch house the Kid halted and took his bearings. It was some time since he’d ridden this range and then only on odd visits, with a load of contraband. However, his senses worked well, once he saw a range he never really forgot it. He knew what he was looking for and also roughly where to find it. So when he started his horse he was making for a definite place.
He went through three large bosques, examining the trees and looking around for final proof of the theory he had formed.
In the fourth bosque he found something. Swinging down from his saddle he looked at the sign on the ground, then advanced along the tracks. He went slowly, every sense working for he knew he was dealing with a dangerous enemy, a man who would not hesitate to kill. In the centre of the bosque was a tree sloped valley with a fairly open bottom. The Kid left his horse at the top of the slope and went down on foot. A tree trunk lay across the bottom of the valley and further along were several more growing. Glancing at the trunk of the fallen tree the Kid studied certain marks around it, then walked to the nearest of the growing trees, also examining the trunk. Nodding in satisfaction the Kid went to the next tree, he moved along the line, glancing back to check on the distance. Stopping by one tree he bent forward and drew out his bowie knife, digging into the wood to extract something.
The big white horse snorted loudly from the top of the slope. Instantly the Kid’s ears detected a faint noise on the other side. A shot rang out and the Kid spun round, falling out of sight behind the tree, his old Dragoon gun in his hand. He lay without a move, out of sight of the man who had shot at him from the top of the other slope.
Time ticked by, the Kid lay still, watching his horse and listening. There was a scuffling sound on the other slope, the big white horse turned its head to whatever was moving. By watching his horse the Kid knew the man was slipping down the slope, coming towards him and he prepared to hand out a real surprise.
The footsteps drew near, the Kid tensed and lunged forward, his Dragoon gun slanting up.
‘Hold it!’ he snapped.
A cowhand the Kid remembered seeing in the dining-room at the ranch, stood at the foot of the slope, a revolver in his hand. He was fast, very fast. The Colt came up and roared, lashing flame at the Kid but the man was off balance and missed. The Kid felt the wind of the bullet by his cheek and shot back, throwing a .44 round, soft lead ball into the man. The Kid shot to kill: a man as fast as this was way too fast to take chances with. The man rocked on his heels, a hole in the centre of his forehead and the back of his head shattered wide open.
Leaping forward the Kid kicked the man’s gun to one side, then looked down at him. It was a pity there’d been no other way of handling the matter. The man, alive and talking, would have been more use to him.
Gun in hand the Kid went up the slope fast, like a Comanche Dog Soldier hunting a white scalp. Keeping to every bit of cover he could find, he reached the top. He could see the sign left by the man and followed it, but went with caution. The tracks led him through the woods to a small cave. For a moment the Kid stood outside, then darted forward with his gun out. He flattened by the side of the cave, listening for some sound to warn him that others were about.
For a moment he waited, then flung himself in through the opening, his gun lined. The cave was empty but had been used regularly. In one corner lay a pile of blackened embers; the Kid went to these, touching them and finding they were still warm. The man who’d tried to kill him must have been burning some papers here.
Without relaxing, or holstering his gun, the Kid went over the cave, studying the sign on the ground. Three men regularly used the cave and had been doing for some time. A hole had been scraped in the ground and a large, flat rock lay by it, dragged aside to allow the papers to be burned, the Kid thought. He turned and left the cave, finding tracks where two men had talked, then separated. One was the man the Kid had killed; the other set went off to where two horses had been tied. Only one horse remained now but there were tracks to show which way the other went. The Kid, glancing at the sun, knew he would have to go back to the ranch for the inquest.
For all his hurry the Kid was cautious, there was still danger. The man he was after, the man who killed Judge Hurley, would not hesitate to kill again.
The burial was over and the inquest convened when the Kid came back. There was little enough to be said. The Judge had been murdered by a knife, killed by person or persons unknown. That was the verdict reached and the Kid did little or nothing to add to or help clear up the mystery. He just stated the plain facts, that he’d been on his way to see the Judge, found him dead and waited until Carney Lee came up. He did not mention the things he saw in the woods and Lee, taking his cue from the Kid, said nothing about it either.
The library and office was cleared, only the Kid, the sheriff, Lee, Hughie, and the doctor remained. They waited while the cowhands left the room then Carney Lee looked at the Kid.
‘You was some close mouthed just now, Lon.’
‘Pays to be,’ replied the Kid.
‘Not when there’s been two killings—’ growled the sheriff.
‘Three!’
The sheriff stopped speaking at the Kid’s quiet interruption. All eyes went to the dark young man. For a moment none of them said a word, then Alberts snapped, ‘Who was the other?’
‘One of the Judge’s hands. Tried to kill me in a bosque about four-mile from the spreads Tall jasper, dark, looked about thirty or so. Wore a staghorn handled Colt gun, looked like a top hand.’
‘McMurry!’ Lee spat the word out. ‘You allow he tried to kill you?’
‘Took a couple of shots at me,’ replied the Kid. ‘I had to kill him, he was too fast for me to handle any other way.’
‘Why’d he want to kill you?’ the sheriff put in grimly.
‘I’ve made a tolerable few enemies in my short and sinful life, that could have been why—or because I was looking at something I shouldn’t have been.’
‘Such as?’ Alberts asked.
‘Pieces chipped out of some tree trunks.’
From the way the Kid spoke, Alberts knew there was no point in continuing the questioning. He wanted to get at the mystery, but knew that once the Kid dug in his toes there was no shifting him. If the worst came to the worst, the Kid would forget how to speak English and go over to pure Comanche, which Alberts did not speak.
‘This here McMurry,’ said the Kid. ‘He worked these parts for long?’
‘Took on for the round-up. Top hand, good with cattle but a mite close mouthed. He was one of the best hands I ever saw with a branding iron.’
‘He was one of your branders on the last gather?’
‘Sure.’
The Kid looked thoughtful. Things were falling into place, dropping in to fit the pattern, He did not mention his ideas yet, but went to where the knife lay on the table. It had been shown in evidence at the inquest but so far the Kid had not been given a chance to examine it. He took it up, turning it in his hands. The knife was usual in form, looking like a butcher’s steel sharpened down to a point. He gave little attention to the blackened hilt, his eyes were on the blade.
The Kid knew knives. His mother had been the daughter of Chief Long Walker and his French-Creole squaw. From both the Kid inherited the knife-savvy of a nation of knife-fighters who knew few if any betters. All his life he’d handled knives of various kinds and there was much he knew about them. This knife was all wrong as a fighting weapon, there was no guard to protect the hand from a slash, there was no edge to rip into the knife-fighter’s target, the belly. It was a weapon designed purely for murder, for there was only one way it could be used: in thrust which would sink the point home.
Carefully the Kid tested the balance of the weapon, then gripped it by the point. His hand whipped back and the knife hurled across the room into the wooden shield just below the Remington Rolling Block rifle. The Kid went forward and leapt to catch the rifle as the jolt brought it sliding from the pegs.
He rested the rifle back again, seeing that the pegs were set so that the long barrel tip just rested. He turned and looked at the others who were staring at him with undivided attention.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if this knife would throw.’
‘Looks like it will,’ Carney answered grimly. He did not know what the Kid was up to, but was willing to go along with him.
‘Is that how my Uncle was killed, by a thrown knife?’
‘Nope.’
‘You saw the sign, Lon. You’re not trying to tell me it was pushed in by hand, are you?’ growled Lee.
The sheriff snorted angrily. He could read sign and knew that there was no way this knife could have been pushed in to the Judge’s back by hand. The Judge would not, could not, have ridden fifty yards with the knife in his back and there was no sign that another man was out on the sand. The man could not have been riding behind the Judge, holding him after killing him, then pushing him off. The horse tracks proved that; they were just deep enough to have been made by the animal carrying the Judge’s weight so far, then the right depth for a riderless horse.
‘How the hell did it happen, Lon?’ he asked.
‘You wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you, which same I won’t,’ answered the Kid. ‘Like to talk with Hughie and Carney alone, Eb.’
‘You will if you want to,’ replied the sheriff wryly. ‘I want to get this lot cleaned up, Lon. Election’s due real soon and I don’t want a thing like this hanging over me.’
‘Happen we can help you a mite, give us time,’ drawled the Kid and Alberts had faith in his quiet words.
Alone in the room with Lee and Hughie, the Kid dropped his voice and told them what he knew, and what he suspected but couldn’t prove. Hughie gave his agreement with some of it, the stuff he himself knew to be possible, and was willing to go along with the Kid’s idea.
‘I don’t know,’ Lee objected. ‘It’ll be dangerous and Hughie ain’t used to handling anything like this.’
‘Thing being Hughie won’t be handling it. There can’t be a move made until dark and then I’ll be here, not Hughie.’
‘I can’t have that, Kid,’ Hughie put in. ‘You’re risking your life to—’
‘Sure, but I know what to expect, you don’t,’ answered the Kid. ‘There’ll be no risk if you do your part.’
It took some doing, but Lee and the Kid finally persuaded the young man it would be best if he played the game their way. So Hughie agreed and a few moments later Carney went out to ask all the men to keep well clear of the library as Hughie was trying to work out the ranch books and wanted quiet.
‘Reckon it’ll take him long, Carney?’ asked one of the hands.
‘Most all day, he reckons. Looks like Jeff made his own system and he’s away hunting.’
The hands went about their business and Carney slouched off on his own. He joined the Kid in the house some time later. ‘One of them slipped off,’ he said. ‘I let him go, didn’t want to make him suspicious.’
‘Bueno,’ replied the Kid, then turned as Hughie came up to him. ‘Man, you surely look elegant, ole Mark Counter’d go green if he saw that jacket.’
Hughie’s face reddened slightly. The green velvet smoking jacket was a present from a maiden aunt and packed by mistake when he came West. The Kid had wanted Hughie to wear something conspicuous. In addition to green velvet, black lapel and collared smoking jacket, he was wearing a fez-like hat, a present from the same maiden aunt. The Kid scowled, thinking Hughie was jobbing him, then grinned as he saw the real reason. Hughie’s hair was considerably lighter in color than the Kid’s.
The idea was put into practice immediately. Hughie spent the day alone in the office, working on the books and trying to solve Jeff Dawson’s system of book-keeping. The Kid doubted if there would be any danger during daylight and so headed for town to see the sheriff.
It was dark when he rode back, and the ranch crew were eating their supper. Hughie was with them, his coat and hat coming in for a lot of good-natured chaff. The Kid did not make any attempt to join the other men, but headed for the library and slipped in. Keeping well clear of the windows the Kid moved around the room, checking everything. He looked under the table at the trapdoor, seeing the bolts were shot home. With his search complete he went to wait behind the door.
Footsteps outside sounded to the Kid, the door opened and he heard Hughie saying, ‘I’m going through with it even if the Kid isn’t back, Carney.’
‘I tell you it ain’t safe,’ Lee replied and they entered carrying a lamp.
Hughie took the lamp and set it on the desk. It gave him a light where he wanted to work but the rest of the room was in deep shadow. The two men stood for a moment, then Carney Lee growled: ‘I shouldn’t let you go through with it, boy. If the Kid’s right—’
‘I reckon he is.’
The two men swung round, Hughie reaching for the lamp and Lee dropping his hand to his side as he saw the dark, shadowy shape. They recognized the voice. It said much for the young Easterner’s presence of mind that he did not lift the lamp and let the light shine on the Kid.
‘That you, Lon?’ Lee hissed unnecessarily.
‘Naw, it’s Santa Anna,’ came back the mocking voice. ‘You’d best get out of here, Carney. You know what to do?’
‘Sure I do. I only hope it goes right.’
There came a low chuckle from the Kid, his voice sardonic. Lee guessed the mocking, Indian-hard grin was playing on the Kid’s face as he replied: ‘Happen it don’t, remember one thing—I don’t like lilies.’
Carney Lee chuckled, then went to the door. He opened it and walked out, closing it behind him. At the desk Hughie began working on the books, his pen scratched, he checked figures and might have been alone, for the Kid remained silent and unseen in the deep shadows. They did not speak, for that the Kid had insisted on. He doubted if there was any actual danger to the young man until the ranch crew were all asleep but someone might be watching from outside.
A knock on the door brought the Kid’s Dragoon gun into his hand, the door opened and the ranch cook entered, tray in hand, bringing coffee and cookies for Hughie.
‘Boys are all turning in,’ the cook said, setting the tray on the edge of the desk. ‘You going to be working long?’
‘I’m fixing to finish the books tonight, cookie,’ Hughie replied. ‘Tell Carney I aim to get them done tonight, Thanks for the coffee.’
The cook left without even knowing there was a second man in the room. The Kid holstered his gun and moved silently to the window. He waited until he saw the bunkhouse lights going out one after another, then knew It was time for him to take Hughie’s place.
Hughie worked for a few minutes, then rose, stretched and started to pace the room as if working the stiffness out of his bones. He passed in and out of the circle of light three or four times, then stopped in the darkness and quickly removed coat and hat, handing them to the Kid, who slipped them on. The Kid made sure he could move comfortably, then went and sat at the desk, pretending to be working on the books. Hughie sat down in a comfortable chair in the darkness and watched the Kid.
The time dragged by. The Kid was like an Indian in his patience. He tried to carry on as he’d watched Hughie doing, though he doubted if there was any need for such deception. Hughie tried to stay awake in his excitement but after a couple of hours his head began to sag on his chest. He shook it off twice, then went to sleep sitting in the chair.
The Kid pretended to work on. From the steady breathing he knew Hughie was asleep and that was what he wanted. The Kid knew the danger he was in and the risk he was taking; but he also knew his own capability at handling such a situation.
A faint sound came to the Kid’s ears; he tensed, ears straining. It was not Hughie moving in his sleep, or his breathing, for the Kid’s ears had grown used to both sounds and this one broke through them. It was only a faint noise. The room lay still and dark except for the light which shone on the Kid as he sat at the desk.
There was a faint hissing sound; the Kid heard and moved with all the speed he could manage. Throwing himself from the chair, he lit down on the floor, rolling back into the darkness. There was a roar, and a spurt of flame from under the table. Something hissed through the air, and thudded into the desk. The Kid hit the floor with his Dragoon gun in his hand. He was blinded by the muzzle flash from under the, table, but he shot back by instinct. He heard a thud, as if something wooden fell to the floor, then he was on his feet and hurling towards the door. Hughie was awake, his senses were muddled for an instant, but he got control of them. As the Kid opened the door, Hughie was grabbing the lamp from the desk. He stopped, staring at the thing which stood quivering in the wood of the desk, It was the hilt of a knife like the one which had killed his uncle.
‘Come on, Hughie!’ roared the Kid, racing for the front door of the house and jerking it open.
Hughie followed. He heard the Kid running along the side of the house and came out. The Kid turned the corner of the house and shouted a challenge. There was a fast exchange of shots, then a man yelled:
‘Don’t shoot, I’m hit!’
Turning the corner Hughie saw the Kid advancing on a man who stood at the outside doors of the cellars. The light of the lamp showed the man on his knees, holding his arm. He was a cowhand who worked for the ranch and looked scared as well as in pain. The .44 ball had only grazed his arm but the bicep was ripped wide open.
Light showed from the bunkhouse and Carney Lee appeared carrying a lamp. He was fully dressed and his gun was in his hand. Stopping, he looked at the cowhand and growled, ‘McMurry’s bunkie. Was it him? I heard a shot. Was that—’
‘I didn’t do it!’ yelled the cowhand. ‘I only opened the door and let Jeff Dawson in.’
‘Dawson?’ growled Carney Lee. ‘Where is he?’
‘Still in the cellars.’
The Kid jerked up the cellar doors and went down the steps. He went with caution, gun in hand, ready to shoot, Carney Lee followed. They passed through the Judge’s supply cellar and opened a door at the end. Apart from the Judge’s ample stock there was nothing to be seen, but there was still another door showing in the lights. They went towards it, flattening on either side. The Kid moved fast. He kicked the door open and went in with his old Colt Dragoon ready for action. He found his caution unneeded. Carney Lee’s lamp showed a stocky youngish man lying on the floor. He was face up, two bullet holes in his head.
‘Jeff Dawson,’ Lee grunted, then poked down at the long wall gun which lay by the man’s side. ‘You mean that was how he done it?’
There were running steps and the sheriff came in followed by a deputy. They’d come from town with the Kid and stayed out on the range waiting for the shooting to start before moving in.
Sometime later, the sheriff, Hughie and Lee were in the library examining the knife while the Kid told them how he’d guessed what had happened.
‘I knowed there was something wrong from the sign,’ he said. ‘The Judge wasn’t knifed, there was no sign near enough. Even had there been it couldn’t have been done!’
‘Why not?’ asked Hughie. ‘You showed the knife could be thrown.’
‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘It could be thrown, but not to stick hilt deep in a man. I don’t reckon there’s a knife made, apart from a James Black bowie like I carry, that can be sunk hilt deep into a man with a throw. It’s a matter of balance and weight, or something. So the knife hadn’t been pushed in, hadn’t been thrown in. The way the Judge’s hoss acted was a pointer. It walked out there easy enough, then something spooked it, made it rear and pitched the Judge! That told me something, it meant the Judge was killed there. It’d take more than a hoss rearing to throw him off, unless he’d just been hurt bad. So I took a look in the woods and found where a man lay up with a rifle or something. Only the Judge was knifed, not shot. I touched the knife hilt earlier and got some black on my finger, thought at first the knife’d been, near fire and got scorched. Knowed different then; it was powder blackening. The doctor got some on his hands when he pulled the knife out. I could see what might have happened, only I’d never seen a gun with a bore big enough to take the knife. It got me at first, then I saw it, when Don Miguel said a wall gun had to be fired from a rest. The man got a rest, the only place he could hide and the Judge wasn’t in sight until he got half-way across the patch. I checked the muzzle of Don Miguel’s gun while we were at his place: it was a mite rusty inside so it hadn’t been fired. That let him out. I suspected you, Hughie, but when I took my ride I found where Dawson practiced with his gun. He’d been doing it for a fair piece, you’d not been here that long.’
‘I know why Dawson did it,’ Hughie answered. ‘I’ve made out enough from the books to know that he’d been robbing my uncle for at least two years.’
‘And the Judge got to suspecting him, got the Cattlemen’s Association on it,’ the sheriff growled. ‘He went to town to see if there was either a letter, or a telegraph message from them. Got it the morning he was killed. Dawson shot him, then found he couldn’t go to the body without leaving sign, so left it until the body was brought back to the ranch. Sneaked back in, through the cellar, up through the trap-door—’
‘But it was bolted on the top side,’ objected Hughie. The Kid laughed, going to the table and pulling it aside. He gripped the ring and pulled, the trapdoor lifted straight up, the bolts splitting where the floor joined and still appearing to be closed.
‘That was how he did it. He must have fitted this up while he was working on the books alone,’ he drawled. ‘Dawson knew he might need to get rid of the Judge one day and got things ready. Tried to kill the Judge that way one night and missed. Then when Dawson heard you was coming out, Hughie, he knew he’d got to move fast. You went out to watch the tally work and took over. McMurry was hair-branding some of the herd and Dawson didn’t get a chance to tell him to stop. The other hand told us all about it, He’s been talking plenty.’
‘You were sure it was a wall gun?’ asked Hughie.
‘Don Miguel told us the Judge had one and I couldn’t see it anywhere. It should have been hung over the fireplace but Dawson took it. Then knew the empty space’d be noticed and put the Remington up there. Only the Remington wasn’t as long as the wall gun and didn’t set safe on the pegs. I wouldn’t have noticed, until it fell. Then I looked and saw that the pegs were made for a longer rifle. It was just another thing to point to Dawson. He was the only man other than the Judge and Carney who could come in here at any time. He was the only man with enough time on his hands, when the other boys were on the range, to learn how to use that thing with a knife for a charge. That took some learning. I found the trees he’d used for targets and one with a broken knife in it. That was when McMurry tried to drop me. He’d heard me moving and came to look. I trailed him back to the cave they’d been using to meet away from the spread. Kept their records there but it was too late. McMurry killed the post office gent in town, had to stop him telling about the letter and wires the Judge was sending.’
‘You wouldn’t want to take on as my deputy, would you, Lon?’ Alberts asked.
The Kid laughed. ‘I’m already hired, Eb. Couldn’t change my job. They know too much about me. One thing I do know, if any of those OD Connected fellers hear about me wearing that green jacket I’ll come back here and fix somebody’s wagon for good.’
Carney Lee and Hughie both laughed. They were looking at the tall, lean, Indian-dark young Texan. He didn’t look more than sixteen, yet he packed a world of savvy into his young head. They owed him a lot; he’d saved them from what could have developed into a range war with the Mexicans on the next ranch. He’d helped to break a rustling gang which was costing the ranch hard-earned money and he’d found the man who murdered Judge Hurley.
They owed a lot to the grandson of Chief Long Walker of the Comanches, the ex-border smuggler who now rode as part of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, the Ysabel Kid.