.44 Caliber Man (7 page)

From Moore’s
description, Branch had guessed Colin’s nationality and figured how
the Scot would react to comments about his kilt. So he had given
orders for his men to pick on Colin. That way it would seem the
trouble started with the Scot and Kenny became involved by
accident. Once a fight began, it would be easy to see that Kenny
did not walk away from it.

Aware of what
his boss wanted, Moore winked at the Trimbles and took hold of the
kilt’s hem.

‘
Let’s take a loo—’ the little man began.

And got no
further with words or actions. Letting out a low growl, Colin laid
his left hand on Moore’s face and pushed. Lifted from his feet, the
small man went reeling down the bar, tripped over a spittoon and
sat on his rump with some force.

Realizing that
there was no hope of avoiding trouble, Colin wisely decided to make
the best of it. He had no intention of giving up his national
dress, so figured an example of his fighting skill might cool off
other such incidents.

A startled
curse broke from Sam Trimble and he began to turn on Colin.
Swinging around from pushing Moore, the Scot crashed a backhand
blow which caught the side of Sam’s jaw and pitched him headlong
into his brother. With a snarl, Eric shoved Sam away—and almost
immediately wished that he had not. Gliding in, Colin drove his
right fist against Eric’s stomach. Feeling as if he had been kicked
in the stomach by a mule, Eric reeled back. His eyes bulged out,
hands clasped at his mid-section and he dropped to his knees,
moaning.

Branch gulped,
backing away along the bar and staring as if mesmerized at the
scene before him. Beyond Kenny and Colin, Moore sat looking dazed.
Sam hung against a table, shaking his head in an attempt to control
its tendency to spin. From all appearances, it would be some time
before Eric felt like resuming hostilities. Sucking in a breath,
Branch tried to put on an indignant front.

‘
There was no cause for that,’ he growled. The boys were only
funning.’

‘
They’re not laughing any,’ Kenny replied. ‘You taking it up
for them?’

Before Branch
could reply, Sam moved from the table. Straightening up, he rubbed
the back of his hand across his mouth, looked at the blood smeared
on it and spat out a curse.

‘
You stinking swish!
^vi
’ Sam snarled, spreading his
fingers over the butt of his Colt. ‘Fill you hand!’

‘
He’s not wearing a gun,’ Kenny put in, watching Eric lurch
erect and Moore stand then move to Sam’s side.

‘
Then he’s going to hoist up that skirt and show us what’s
under it!’ Eric gritted, joining his brother.

‘
How’s about it, Branch?’ Kenny asked, not taking his eyes from
the trio. ‘Are you letting them take this through?’

‘
You know how it is now you’re one, Kenny,’ Branch answered as
he ranged himself alongside Eric. ‘A boss has to stand by his
men.’

‘
So that’s the way it is, huh?’ Kenny said quietly. ‘If it’s me
you’re after, say so and let Colin go.’

‘
We’re not after anybody, Kenny,’ Branch stated, raising his
voice to carry around the room. ‘Only that feller jumped my boys
and we don’t reckon it’s right. So we aim to do what we started out
to do.’

Colin listened,
only partly understanding what was going on. Inexperienced though
he was, he read the menace in the four men’s attitude. Suddenly he
realized that the affair had gone beyond mere horse-play. Yet no
Scot would tamely submit to the indignity the quartet tried to
force on him. Colin knew that if he stayed on, there would be bad
trouble.

‘
I think we’d better leave,’ he said to Kenny.

‘
Not without doing what we said,’ Eric growled.

‘
We’re coming through,’ Kenny announced and the listening crowd
prepared to take cover.

‘
The hell you are!’ Sam snarled.

‘
Through or over,’ Kenny warned. ‘Let’s go, Colin.’

With a sigh of
relief, Jeanie Schell fastened the buckle of her waist belt and
wriggled her body in near ecstasy. On the bed lay her dress and the
sun bonnet, discarded along with the high-button shoes at the first
opportunity. Her short, curly hair was no longer hidden and she
wore the kind of clothes the Kid remembered as her normal outfit: a
boy’s tartan shirt and levis pants with their cuffs hanging cowhand
style outside high heeled riding boots. Giving another sigh of
satisfaction, she walked out of the bedroom.

Following their
custom where possible, the Schell family were living in a cabin
left deserted by its previous owner. Long used to such temporary
homes, Ma had settled them in comfortably. In the two days since
she and Kenny arrived, she had cleaned up the cabin and augmented
the furniture left by the departed owner with items of her own
carried in their wagon. The result was that they had a house for
their stay in Fort Sawyer, furnished adequately if not luxuriously.
Ma had lived all her married life under similar conditions and
accepted them as payment for a very happy marriage.

Of middle
height, Ma might easily have been taken for Jeanie’s elder sister.
She had married young and carried her thirty-nine years well.
Blonde hair as short and curly as her daughter’s framed a merry,
pretty face. Ma’s buxom figure was squeezed into unaccustomed
corsets and a sober black dress suitable for going town-visiting.
Like Jeanie, she did not care for such clothing; which accounted,
more than any other reason, for the disapproving manner in which
she eyed her daughter.

Sensing an
attack on her choice of clothes was imminent, and aware of what
caused it, Jeanie tried to divert it.

‘
We’ve enough on our hands right now without Kenny having to
wet-nurse that Scotch feller, Ma,’ she said.

‘
He saved you,’ Ma replied. ‘We’re beholden to him for
that.’

‘
The Kid saved me as well, comes to that,’ Jeanie protested,
wanting to keep the conversation going long enough for her mother
to forget the irritation of the corsets. ‘Aren’t we beholden to him
too?’

‘
If the Ysabel Kid don’t know how to look out for his-self by
now, he’s been living on luck since he was ten,’ Ma answered. ‘The
Kid knows Mexicans like your pappy knew mustanging. That Scotch boy
doesn’t know ’em, so I figure we owe him some help.’

As she
mentioned her husband, Ma turned her eyes towards the fireplace.
Following the direction of her mother’s gaze, Jeanie knew what
attracted Ma’s attention. Hung in a place of honor on the wall
above the fireplace was an ivory handled Dragoon Colt. It had been
her father’s gun and looking at it reminded Jeanie afresh of her
family’s financial situation.

Times were hard
in Texas. Although not a slave-owning State, except on a very
limited scale, its pre-War Administration had elected to secede
from the Union. The South lost the War and Texans worked to rebuild
their State. In one way they might have counted themselves lucky.
Texas’ vast distances and small Negro population prevented the
heavy hand of Reconstruction falling on any but the more civilized
eastern and northern areas. In the south and west life went on much
as before the War, but defeat brought problems in its wake.

Produced to
replace the Union’s monetary system, the currency of the
Confederate States became valueless paper with the North’s victory.
Which meant that the people of Texas had to start almost from
scratch if they hoped to re-establish their shattered economy. The
State had no conventional industries capable of competing for
business on a nation-wide level, but it possessed a rich natural
wealth that might possibly be developed.

Chief source of
natural wealth was cattle. Left all but un-tended through the years
of the War, the herds of longhorns had multiplied practically
unchecked. They offered a potential way to solvency which a few
far-seeing men could understand. However, the way back to financial
stability would not be easy. Two major problems needed solving.
Where to sell the stock and how to handle the half-wild cattle on
the great, unfenced Texas range country.

The second
problem was of most interest to the Schell family. To work cattle,
men needed horses. During the War, the Confederate States Army drew
remounts in plenty from the Texas ranchers. To tend and round up
their cattle, they had to rebuild their remudas. That was where
mustangers like the Schell family came in. Mustangs roamed in great
numbers in certain sections of the range country, untamed but
offering the answer to the ranchers’ needs. Under the rugged,
merciless laws of nature only the fittest horses survived; animals
used to fending for themselves and able to keep in good health on
what they could forage. So the wild horses became a vital necessity
to the recovery of Texas.

Gathering
mustangs was not so easy as the uninitiated might believe. Men like
Trader Schell had long made it their profession. They knew where to
look for the greatest concentrations, developing techniques to
catch and hold together large numbers of wild horses. With their
superior skill, the professional mustangers could supply a
rancher’s needs in less time and cheaper than he might using his
own men.

Although there
was a steady demand for horses, Trader Schell had not grown rich.
Only a few ranchers, those who had been wise enough to convert some
of their money into gold during the War, could pay cash for the
stock. The rest traded property to fill their needs, or gave
notes-of-hand for cattle in exchange for the horses. Despite cattle
still having little more than hide-and-tallow value, knowing the
ranchers’ desperate position. Trader had accepted the notes. He
still had to meet his overheads and storekeepers fought shy of
taking anything but money.

After Trader’s
death, the family had decided to continue mustanging. It was the
only business they knew. One of the main reasons for the decision
had been the news, passed on by a friend in a position to know,
that the Army wanted remounts for its forthcoming campaigns against
the hostile Indians. Such a chance could not be ignored. The Army
paid well—and in cash—for its horses. According to the friend’s
information, the Army needed a large number of horses and would
look favorably on Trader Schell supplying them as he had a
reputation for honesty and producing animals in good condition.

The only
trouble was that Trader had been killed before the letter arrived.
However, Ma felt sure that the family could carry on. They knew the
mustanging business thoroughly, having been well taught by her
husband. Money would be their chief difficulty. Paying off their
mesteneros did not leave enough cash to buy the supplies needed for
an extensive hunt.

Much against
her will, Ma had decided to ask her husband’s brother for help.
Trader had set the man up in business before the war and Ma sent
Jeanie to Brownsville to explain the situation.

Thinking of how
the trip had turned out, the girl made a wry face.

‘
Damn Uncle Jabez!’ she spat out, taking her eyes from the old
Dragoon. ‘He could’ve helped us out. He allowed he couldn’t hardly
make ends meet; and there was Cousin Annie-Jo all dressed up in a
fancy silk frock, with a cupboard full of ’em.’

‘
I never did cotton to Jabez,’ Ma admitted. ‘Only I figured
he’d see his way to help out for a share of the profits, if not
because Trader was his only brother.’

‘
Some folk forget real easy,’ Jeanie said bitterly.

If the Ysabel
Kid had been on hand to hear the words, he would have understood
the girl’s behavior on the stagecoach. In his life Trader Schell
had been generous, especially to his brother. Yet Jabez Schell had
not been able to see his way clear to help out his sister-in-law
and her family, despite the fact that his business was running
successfully. A good-hearted girl, with love and respect for her
father, Jeanie deeply resented what she regarded as the treachery
to his memory.

‘
We’ll get by,’ Ma stated. ‘Even without Uncle Jabez’s
help.’

Since her
return, Jeanie had found no time to catch up on the local
developments. First she had told of the hold up. Hearing of Colin’s
actions, Ma had decided that Kenny should go and guard the young
Scot against reprisals by the Flores brothers. A bath followed,
then Jeanie put on her usual style of clothing. So she had not yet
found an opportunity to ask about their future plans.

‘
What’ll we do now, Ma?’ she asked.

‘
Like we come to do,’ Ma answered. ‘Go and see the Army’s boss
buyer at noon tomorrow and try for the contract.’

‘
How about the supplies we need to go out again?’

‘
Dick Hoffer’ll stake us if we get the contract.’

A knock on the
front door prevented the discussion being extended. Nodding to her
daughter, Ma went to pick up the Sharps carbine which leaned
against the side of the fireplace. With the click of the Sharps’
hammer coming to full cock following her, Jeanie crossed the
room.

‘
Who-all’s out there?’ she called.

‘
Dusty Fog,’ a familiar voice replied.

Letting out a
sigh, Ma lowered the carbine and set its hammer down again. Jeanie
opened the door without hesitation. In addition to being a friend
of long standing, the man outside was something of a legend in his
own young life-time.

During the War,
his age no more than seventeen years, Dusty Fog held rank as
captain in the Texas Light Cavalry. To folk in his home State, and
both sides on the Arkansas battle-front, his ability as a military
raider had been rated above the more publicized Turner Ashby or
John Singleton Mosby. His exploits included taking ten thousand
dollars from a Yankee pay-master,
^vii
helping the equally legendary
Rebel Spy to destroy a forging plant meant to flood the South with
counterfeit money,
^viii
and
wiping out Hannah’s band of murderous renegades.