Some ten minutes later, Lash Neemoy entered the Jubilee and unhurriedly climbed the stairs to the first floor. The fastest gun on Banning’s payroll was a flashily-garbed, merciless killer, cunning, lethal, as unscrupulous as Banning himself. He was thirty-two, powerfully-built with uncommonly long arms. Of necessity, his pearl-butted .45 was slung very low on his right thigh.
He swaggered into Banning’s presence smiling, but only with his mouth. Mirth, friendliness, were never reflected in the pale blue eyes. Banning nodded a greeting, and said, “Lock the door, Lash. This is just between you and me.”
Neemoy locked the door, helped himself to a drink and sank into the chair opposite the desk. Banning gave him a cigar.
“You ever hear,” asked Banning, “of the Lone Star Hellions—sometimes called the Texas Hell-Raisers?”
The pale eyes half-closed.
“Meanin’ Valentine and Emerson?”
“The same,” said Banning.
“Quite a rep they got,” mused Neemoy. “Yeah. I heard of ’em. Seems most everybody has.”
“The bigger the name,” drawled Banning, “the higher the price. For this kind of chore, I’m offering top money.”
“How much, for instance?” prodded Neemoy.
“You’ll be in charge of the operation,” Banning told him. “It has to be a sure thing. No slip-ups. Valentine and Emerson are travelling with four other men who probably won’t be very dangerous. Even so, I want you to select nine good men to go with you—nine of the best, Lash.”
“You got better than thirty top guns on your payroll,” frowned Neemoy. “Won’t be hard for me to pick the best nine. That makes ten of us—against six—so it’ll be an easy chore.” He grinned, rubbed forefinger and thumb together. “Now tell me about the dinero, Cole.”
“Three hundred dollars,” said Banning, “for each man you choose.”
“And me?” demanded Neemoy.
“You earn an even thousand,” Banning calmly informed him.
“You got a deal,” muttered Neemoy. “Now tell me where I find them Texans.”
To the wall behind Banning’s desk was tacked a map of the northwest territories. Happy Rock and its approaches were prominently featured. He rose up, drew a finger along the course of the Big Horn River.
“They’re coming up from the south with a trail-herd. Just Valentine and Emerson and four others.”
“How big a herd?”
“Two thousand head.”
“That’s a lot of beef—to be pushed by just a half-dozen herders.”
“And that gives me another idea, Lash. When you finish Valentine and Emerson, you’ll probably have to take care of the four Box 7 men as well.”
“Leavin’ two thousand head roamin’ free?”
“No.” Banning chuckled softly. “Why waste good beef? Beef is scarce, here in the goldfields. Two thousand head would feed the miners a long time—and I could demand my own price.”
“So we bring the herd back here,” nodded Neemoy. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
“All you have to do,” said Banning, “is follow the river south. The trail-herd is travelling the west bank. How you handle it is up to you.”
“When the time comes,” shrugged Neemoy, “I’ll figure somethin’.” He added, nonchalantly, “They won’t know what hit ’em, Cole. You got my word on that.”
“I’ll be the happiest man in Montana,” declared Banning, “when you come back to collect—and tell me how they died.” He switched his gaze to the gunman’s thin face, eyed him intently. “You impressed by their reputation?”
“Not one little bit,” drawled Neemoy. “Weary of hearin’ about ’em—about how they’re the saltiest hellers that ever rid outa Texas. It irks me—and I’ll be glad to take care of ’em. Time I settle their hash, they won’t look so all-fired salty, bet your life on that. They’ll be good for nothin’ but the buzzards.”
“It shouldn’t take you long to select your men,” said Banning. “You could be on your way inside the hour.”
“Sure,” grunted Neemoy. He finished his drink, clamped the cigar between his teeth and rose from his chair. “Be seein’ you, Cole.”
He raised a long arm in casual farewell and sauntered from the office. And, in Cole Banning’s opinion, the Lone Star Hellions were as good as dead already.
Forty-five minutes later, Neemoy led his nine well-chosen cohorts out of Happy Rock and onto the south trail, Wyoming-bound.
From his vantage point, the shaded porch of the law office, Sheriff Usher viewed their departure. Time hung heavily on his hands nowadays. He made few arrests. The big six-cell jail behind the law office was empty. Since joining the Banning faction, life had been easier for him.
From the bawdy house opposite the law office, a couple of hardcase miners emerged. A blowsy woman with blonde hair appeared in the dimly-lit doorway, screaming abuse at them. The miners returned her abuse with interest, after which they came trudging across the street to voice a complaint to Usher.
“You promised us,” one of them accused. “Doggone it, Usher, you said as how we’d have more women in Happy Rock. Good-lookers—younger’n them ugly females at the Red Door—and downtown at the Palace.”
“What about them new women?” demanded the other miner. “Are they comin’—or ain’t they?”
“They’re comin’,” grunted Usher. “It’s all arranged.”
“I got cash-money to spend,” the first miner announced, “and I ain’t partial to liquor.” He grinned and winked. “But I’m sure partial to a purty woman—when I can find one.”
“They’re on their way,” Usher assured them.
When the miners moved on, he quit the law office porch and strode uptown to the Jubilee. Banning was in the barroom now, watching play at the roulette layout. The lawman walked across to stand behind him, and they conversed in undertones.
“We’re missin’ out on a fat profit, Cole,” Usher warned. “There’s extra dinero to be made here in Happy Rock, but not from liquor and gamblin’.”
“You’re talking about ...?” prodded Banning.
“Talkin’ about women,” said Usher, bluntly. “Miners don’t cotton to those painted harpies no more. They hanker for girls—soft and young.”
“I made a contract with a couple of experts,” Banning reminded him. “Supplied them with wagons and paid them a deposit.”
“Bellew and Greb,” growled Usher, “better deliver.”
“Any day now,” shrugged Banning, “they’ll arrive with the women.”
“How many?” demanded Usher.
“Eight,” said Banning. “Eight will be plenty for a start. There’ll be more later.”
~*~
Three days after the girls had attached themselves to the trail-drive, the herders were feeling less apprehensive. It had to be admitted that Rena and her friends were paying their way in honest toil. They pitched in with a will, preparing and serving all meals, handling other chores as well. Repairs to the chuck wagon were carried out not by Turkey, not by any of the men, but by Charity Hawke, Katie Risson and Donna Phelps. Waco’s spare shirt was almost torn from his back, when he pursued a couple of bunch-quitters through a stand of thick brush. In no time at all, the damaged garment was patched and laundered and returned to him by a smiling Mary Ann Breslow. Several horses from the remuda took fright and bolted, when the wind carried sparks from a cook-fire to their unprotected rumps. Those horses were rounded up and returned to the remuda by a couple of hard-riding volunteers—Fern Guthrie and Tess McGill.
Farnum was moved to comment, “They haven’t slowed us down—that’s for sure. We’re making the miles, and the women don’t hinder us any.”
He was, at this time, riding level with the seat of the chuck wagon. The herd was moving across a broad plain and, according to his calculations, they were less than a day’s journey from the Big Horn. Turkey nodded in grudging agreement, spat tobacco-juice.
‘They’re sassy,” he muttered, “but I guess a body can get used to anythin’—even females on a trail-drive. Gotta admit they ain’t skeered o’ chores.”
Mid-morning of the following day, they reached the southernmost bend of the big river and, by noon, had completed the wearying chore of herding the bawling longhorns across to the far bank. The wagons and horses forded without mishap, after which Farnum announced, “This’ll be a long break, because I reckon we’ve earned it.”
“You mean we get time to wash our duds?” demanded Turkey.
“And ourselves,” nodded Farnum. “First time in five days we’ve had water to spare.” He gestured to the broad river. “Don’t know about the rest of you, but I hanker to take a bath.”
“Who watches the herd?” Stretch wanted to know.
“We take it in turns, just like always,” said the rancher. “While we’re in bathing, Turkey and Curly will guard the herd.”
“But ...!” Curly began an urgent protest.
“But nothing,” growled Farnum. “I want you a long ways from the river when the women wash up. You and Turkey both.” He winked at Larry. “You’re young enough to be a problem, Curly, and Turkey’s too old. That makes you good partners.”
After lunch, the men broke out their clean clothing and retreated to a clump of brush some ninety yards downstream. Automatically, the women moved upstream to where a rampart of rock would shield them from view of the men. There was, inevitably, a great deal of chattering and laughing, as they bathed in the shallows and scrubbed their trail-dusted garments.
For a long time, Rena Marlowe had been denied the privilege of privacy. The water looked inviting and she wanted her share of it, yearned for the refreshing feel of it. But not here. Somewhere upstream. Somewhere quieter. She gathered up her clothing and followed the bank for another hundred yards, to find the ideal spot, secluded and cool, shaded by the bulk of a rock-littered hillside. Blissfully unaware that a regular trail wound due west of the hill, she stripped off her clothing and entered the water.
It didn’t take her long to scrub, rinse and wring her garments, and spread them on a flat rock to dry in the hot sun. Then, gracefully, she slid into the water again. All was quiet. She was floating a full fifteen yards from the bank and feeling at peace with the world, when the urgent order—delivered by a voice unmistakably masculine—smote her ears. Hastily, she rolled over and began treading water. Only her head and shoulders showed above the surface, as she frowned angrily towards the hillside.
A man was descending towards her. He was youngish and garbed in a suit of black broadcloth. His hat was a new gray Stetson, broad-brimmed. She perceived that he was handsome, and obviously undismayed at finding a strange woman, bathing under these conditions. He was gesturing impatiently.
“Didn’t you hear me?” he challenged. “I said get out of there and get your clothes on. Hurry, woman!”
He came to the bank, stood with arms akimbo and a frown creasing his brow. Rena raised a bare arm to brush the long raven hair away from her face. Truculently, she enquired, “Exactly what in heck’s the idea, stranger? You look like a gentleman; I’ll grant you that, but you sure don’t act like one. Can’t a girl take a bath in private?”
“You don’t have to be embarrassed on my account,” he asserted. “Most of the bodies I’ve studied have been naked.”
“Is that a fact?” Her scorn increased. “Well—never a dull moment, huh?”
“Damn it, madam,” he scowled, “I’m a doctor.”
“Oh.” She nodded understandingly. “Well …”
“The name is Jessup,” he told her. “Dr. Leo Jessup. And now—will you kindly do as I ask? Get dressed and come with me. There’s no time to waste.”
“Come where?” she demanded.
“I’m on my way to answer an emergency call,” he explained. “It—well—it could be a matter of life and death—and I’ll probably need help. A woman’s life may be at stake.”
“Maybe I’m getting weak-headed,” she frowned, “but I’ll help you if I can.”
“Then please hurry!” he begged.
“You claim you’re a doctor, and I’m not doubting your word.” She sank a little lower, folded her arms across her breasts. “But, if you think I’d climb out of here with you standing there, you’re plain crazy!”
“I’ll turn my back,” he promised.
“Well—all right,” she agreed.
He retreated a few yards from where she had spread her clothing, then turned his back. Rena swam to the bank, clambered onto dry ground and hastily toweled herself. A few moments later, she had donned her slippers, underwear and skirt. As she began fastening her blouse, the medico whirled, seized her arm and began hustling her up the hill. She gasped a protest to which he turned a deaf ear. Impatiently, he told her:
“My surrey is waiting on the far side of the hill. The darn fool horse picked up a stone—the right rear hoof. I stopped to dig it out. Then, just as I was about to go on, I heard splashing sounds.”
“I won’t be any help to you,” she panted, “if you pull my arm off!”
“My name ...” he began.
“You already told me,” she frowned.
“Yours?” he demanded.
“Rena Marlowe,” she told him.
They didn’t look back. Had they done so, they might have spotted the fast-moving, shapely figure of Donna Phelps. A short time before, the winsome blonde girl had decided to come looking for Rena. She had finished bathing and was garbed in a fresh gown and, until this moment, her mood had been serene. Now, seeing her raven-haired friend being hustled to the summit of the hill by a strange man, she started convulsively.
“I mustn’t faint!” she told herself. “Please, Lord, don’t let me faint!”
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came. Shock had rendered her speechless for the time being. Gathering her skirts above her knees she began running frantically. Rena and the stranger had disappeared beyond the hilltop. At long last, she made it to the summit and gazed down at the winding trail. Rena was being lifted to the seat. The stranger was clambering up beside her, gathering the reins, barking a command to the charcoal mare. The mare leapt to speed and the surrey rolled away in a westerly direction.
Sick with dread, the blonde girl returned to the river-bank and hurried downstream. Not until she came in sight of the other girls did she find her voice. She came to a halt, cupped her hands about her mouth and screamed. Farther downstream, that sound smote the ears of the Texas Hell Raisers with all the welcome clarity of a gunshot, a war-whoop, a Rebel yell.
Waco and Farnum were still in water up to their armpits. The drifters had dried their battle-scarred bodies in the hot sun a few minutes before, and were now donning their clothes. Waco jerked upright, growled a curse and asked: “What the hell ...?”
“One of the girls …” frowned Stretch.
“In trouble, it sounds like!” snapped Larry. “C’mon! What’re we waitin’ for?”
He scooped up his gunbelt and began running towards the remuda, with Stretch tagging him close. In a matter of minutes, they had saddled the sorrel and the pinto and were racing the animals along the bank. The scream had been repeated, and it held a note of anguish.
In a flurry of dust, the Texans descended upon the women. Katie Risson, who was garbed in naught but portion of her underwear, promptly leapt into the water, head-first. Charity and Fern had finished bathing, were dry and fully dressed. Tess, Abigail and Mary Ann were still in the water. When the Texans arrived, they emitted ear-piercing shrieks and hastily submerged.
Big Charity, equal to any emergency, was quelling Donna’s hysteria with a few hard slaps. The blonde girl slumped in Charity’s arms and began weeping.
“Don’t hit me again, Charity! I’ll be all right—but I have to tell you ...!”
“Tell it fast,” ordered Larry.
“It’s Rena ...!” groaned Donna.
“What about Rena?” demanded Larry.
“She’s been kidnapped!” gasped Donna. “I saw them! Rena—and a man ...!”
“You sure it wasn’t Curly?” interjected Stretch. “That hombre’s so blame woman-hungry ...”
“You mind how you talk about Curly,” chided Charity. “Curly’s a good boy.”
“Donna …” Larry leaned down from his saddle to clap a hand to her trembling shoulder, “where’d it happen?”
“Upstream,” she told him. “There’s a hill—with a trail yonder. I saw him takin’ her away—in a surrey. He’s all rigged out in black clothes and—and I declare he looks evil!”
“Whichaway?” prodded Stretch.
“West. That way.”
“Let’s go,” breathed Larry. To Charity, he muttered, “Tell Buck and the others to stay with the herd. We’ll find Rena pronto and bring her back—and heaven help the skunk that stole her away!”
He heeled his mount to speed. Stretch followed suit and, at a breakneck gallop, they rode along the bank and took to the upgrade. Atop the rise, they reined up to scan the terrain to the west. The surrey was still visible—a mere dot on the horizon.
They made a hectic descent down the west side of the hill and hit the trail at high speed. Far ahead, jolted by the boulders and potholes that marked its path, the surrey bumped and rattled. Rena clinging to the seat-rail, threw the medico a sidelong glance and began demanding a fuller explanation for his rash action.
“I didn’t know doctors worked this way before. Is this what you do—every time you get an emergency call? Ride out and grab some woman ...?”
Dr. Jessup negotiated a sharp bend at breakneck speed, almost overturning the rig. Rena gasped, made a grab for his arm and hung on tight. He stared ahead, and asked, “You’ve had some experience of these things—I hope? I mean, most of you frontier women seem to know what has to be done, and ...”
“Doc ...!” she panted. “I hope you know what you’re talking about—because I sure don’t!”
“It’s a maternity case,” he told her. “A homesteader’s wife. Her first baby.”
“Well, for pity’s sakes,” she protested, “why’d you have to bring me along? You must have delivered hundreds of babies—all by yourself!”
“I’ll be frank with you, madam ...” he began.
“It’s ‘Miss’,” she informed him.
“Miss Marlowe,” he frowned, “I’ll feel a great deal more confident with you—uh—standing by. You have acted as midwife, I presume?”
“No,” said Rena. “Well—I watched once. Stood by a midwife in case she needed a hand. She didn’t, and I was glad.”
“The truth is,” said Jessup. “I haven’t delivered a babe since I was at medical school. I’m new to frontier medical practice, Miss Marlowe. I arrived in this territory only a few weeks ago and, so far, I’ve treated nothing but croup, tonsillitis, a bilious attack and two cases of mumps.”
“You look kind of young at that,” she observed. “Yes—I could believe this is your first maternity case.”
“Will you stand by—when the time comes?” he begged. “Just—just in case I need moral support?”
“A man as nervous as you,” she opined, “should never have studied medicine.”
“Nonsense,” he protested. “Some of the most nervous men I’ve known have been brilliant physicians and surgeons. I assure you, Miss Marlowe, I’m quite capable of—uh—doing what has to be done. All I ask is ...”
“All you want,” she sighed resignedly, “is for me to pat your back when you get nervous.”
“You’re being very patient about this,” he conceded, “and I want you to know I appreciate it.”
The rutted trail took them through a belt of pines. Beyond, Jessup spotted the plowed fields, the windmill and the log-and-clapboard homestead.
“This is the place?” asked Rena.
“The Lockhart place,” he nodded. “I only hope we’re in time.”
He coaxed the black to a fresh burst of speed, darted a glance over his shoulder.
“Do you hear horses?” he asked.
“All I can hear is this horse,” she frowned.
They made a fast approach to the farmhouse, while their pursuers broke from the timber and came on at a gallop. And, from then on, everything happened fast—too fast for Rena to forestall it. The surrey stalled a few yards from the farmhouse door, and the haggard, distraught Shep Lockhart emerged, announcing:
“Myra’s time has come! For gosh sakes hurry!”
Simultaneously, the Texans reached the front yard and brought their mounts to a slithering halt, enveloping Rena, the medico and the homesteader in a cloud of dust. Stretch unholstered a six-gun. Larry swung down and charged at Jessup. Rena was actually saying, “Wait, Larry ...!” when Larry’s fist swung up in a mighty blow aimed for the doctor’s jaw.
That savage uppercut knocked Jessup senseless and sent him reeling backwards, across the yard to the wood-heap. Limply, he collapsed in the fuel-supply. Rena groaned. The homesteader wrung his hands and yelled:
“Now you’ve done it—you dad-nabbed fool!”
“Don’t you fret none, Miss Rena,” soothed Stretch. “You’re safe now. Me and Larry’ll take you back to camp, and ...”
“Oh my sainted aunt ...” she sighed.
“Myra’s ready!” wailed Lockhart. “She’s ready right now!”
“Ready for what?” blinked Stretch.
“This does it,” breathed Rena. “This really does it.”
Larry returned to them, blew on his knuckles and eyed her solicitously, “You okay now?” he demanded.
“I’ve been okay all the time!” she impatiently informed him.