.44 Caliber Man (9 page)

Grinning, Kenny
watched Colin set the hat at its usual jaunty angle. On first being
told to go and guard the Scot, he had felt a touch resentful,
figuring a feller who wore a skirt could not be masculine. From the
first meeting, though, he had revised his opinion. While he figured
that Colin needed educating in some matters, he now regarded the
Scot as a man to ride the river with.

On leaving the
hotel, Colin received his first day-light view of Fort Sawyer. It
was not an impressive sight. The town’s main business premises,
stores, saloons and such, shared the main street with the Overland
Stage line’s depot and the building which housed the local law.
Behind the street lay the homes of the citizens, scattered without
any worry about civic planning. Although the front of the livery
barn opened on to the street, its corral was at the rear.

‘
We’ll go collect Dusty, Mark and the Kid,’ Kenny remarked as
he and Colin stood on the sidewalk. The corral’s on the way to our
house.’

‘
Lead on,’ Colin answered, looking along the street. ‘The Black
Bear opens early.’

Following the
direction of the Scot’s gaze, Kenny nodded. A horse stood tethered
in front of the saloon and its main doors were open.

‘
Harve Jute’s the owner,’ Kenny commented. ‘He don’t take to
missing the chance of trade. Has the place opened soon after
sun-up. A feller can go in, buy a drink and watch the gals eating
breakfast has he a mind to.’ He grinned. ‘We’ll go there if you
like.’

‘
Not if your mother is waiting breakfast, for us,’ Colin
decided.

‘
I do admire a man with good sense,’ Kenny chuckled. ‘Come on,
afore that lil sister of mine eats everything off the
table.’

‘
That’s a fine-looking horse,’ Colin remarked as they walked
across the street in the direction of the livery barn, indicating
an animal hitched to the rail before the end of a general store
next to the barn.

‘
The bayo naranjado?’ Kenny replied. ‘It’s not bad. I like mine
a touch less flashy.’

As he spoke,
Kenny’s eyes automatically took in certain details about the horse.
First he noticed the single-girthed saddle with a horn the size of
a dinner-plate. No Texan normally rode such a rig; and few Mexican
vaqueros owned such an expensive outfit. Then Kenny became aware
that the reins hung over the hitching rail instead of being tied
around it. Putting the two facts together, Kenny drew a conclusion
which rang out a warning for him—an instant too late.

Standing in the
alley, looking along the street, Vicente Flores sucked in a breath
of excitement. The man who had killed his brother Adàn left the
hotel and came in his direction. There could be no doubt about it.
No other man in Fort Sawyer wore such outlandish clothes. It seemed
that the wounded Arturo and later Arnaldo Hogan had spoke the truth
about the man’s appearance. He really did wear a skirt.

With cold,
calculating eyes, Vicente studied his intended victim. It was a
pity that the man in the skirt was walking with a companion, but
not too great an obstacle. Neither of them appeared to suspect his
presence and would be unprepared when he made his appearance. While
the Texan wore a Colt, he did not have the indefinable air of being
fast with it. As for the man who killed Adàn, he had nothing better
than on old-fashioned, muzzle-loading pistol thrust into his belt.
Vicente nodded with satisfaction. A quick step from behind
concealment, two shots fired and he would be on his horse, heading
out of town, leaving Adàn’s killer dead or dying on the ground.
Then Vicente would see what Tiburcio and Matteo had to say. He,
Vicente, the youngest member of the family, would have avenged
their dead brother while the other two waited outside town in the
hope that the man in the skirt would come to them.

Instead of
taking the bodies to the mission as Tiburcio ordered, Vicente and
Manuel had left the rest of the party in the dark. Thirsting for
revenge on the woman who had killed his brother, Manuel went
willingly along with Vicente’s scheme. They had stayed well clear
of Onion Creek and arrived on the outskirts of Fort Sawyer shortly
after midnight. Waiting at Arnaldo Hogan’s house until he returned,
they had learned all he knew. More than that, he had explained how
Tiburcio planned to wait until Adàn’s killer left town before
striking. Hogan was to watch and report to Tiburcio when the man
boarded a stagecoach to continue his journey.

Such a plan had
small appeal to Vicente. The camp on Onion Creek offered none of
the luxuries he craved. Especially as Hogan could not say when the
man might be leaving. So he had decided on his course of action.
Putting aside any notion of finding the man at the hotel, he had
waited until morning. Then, while Manuel went to the Black Bear
Saloon in search of the woman, Vicente had left his horse
loose-hitched close by ready for a fast departure and waited in
hiding for the man to appear.

Cold pleasure
filled Vicente as he drew and cocked his right-hand Colt. For years
Tiburcio and Matteo had regarded him as a stupid, headstrong boy;
handy for doing casual killing but not worth including in their
planning sessions. After this morning’s work, that would all be
changed. While the older brothers waited outside town, Vicente had
ridden in and avenged the family honor.

Better not let
them come too close, Vicente decided. That Texan might prove better
with his gun than appeared on the surface. No, it would be safer to
step out while they were still some thirty yards away. At that
distance, there was less chance of being hit at the end of a fast
draw.

With that
thought in mind, Vicente gripped the Navy Colt in both hands. He
sprang out of the alley, raising the gun shoulder high and taking
sight on the man who had killed his brother.

‘
Look out!’ Kenny yelled, throwing himself sideways to crash
into Colin.

Moving as he
did, Kenny saved Colin and placed himself in danger. The force of
the impact knocked Colin staggering, but its impetus carried Kenny
into the place where the Scot had stood. Before Vicente could
correct his aim, the Colt’s hammer fell. The bullet meant for Colin
ripped into Kenny’s chest. Giving a croaking cry, he started to
fall. Muttering an annoyed curse, Vicente cocked the Colt on the
recoil and brought its barrel around in Colin’s direction. A faint
grin twisted at Vicente’s lips as he watched the Scot start to
slide the pistol free. There would be little enough danger from it
in the hands of a man who wore women’s clothes. Without haste,
Vicente began to take his aim, little knowing he was making the
biggest mistake of his life.

In Scotland,
Colin’s family had for generations held the post of an gillecoise,
the henchman, senior bodyguard to the chief of the clan. In
attendance to the chief at all times, the henchman stood fully
armed behind his leader’s chair at banquets. One of the required
qualities for the post had been the ability to draw and fire a
pistol with some speed. Although that particular skill was no
longer needed, tradition demanded that the henchman possessed it.
So Colin and his older brothers had received instruction in using
the pistol along with lessons on handling the claymore and
dirk.

Curling his
fingers about the pistol’s butt, Colin started to slip it free from
the belt-loop. Working in concert, his left hand drew back the twin
hammers. By the time he came to a halt from Kenny’s shove, Colin
held a fully cocked weapon in his right hand. Instinctively he saw
that there would be no time to duplicate the Mexican’s method of
shooting, but knew it did not matter.

With the pistol
still at waist level, Colin squeezed the right-side barrel’s
trigger. Giving a deep crack, the weapon discharged its load. Not a
solid ball, but a cloud of Number 12 shot pellets. On the heels of
the first shot, Colin cut loose from the second barrel.

The first hail
of pellets arrived just as Vicente began to squeeze his Colt’s
trigger. Tearing into his body, they jerked him on to his heels and
caused him to flinch. Not much, but enough. Colin heard the bullet
split the air by his ear. Then the second charge of shot struck the
bandido, peppering his throat and face with red spots. Again
Vicente jolted on his heels. Turning slowly around, he dropped the
revolver, collided with the wall of the nearest building bounced
from it to the ground. Snorting, the bayo naranjado pulled free its
reins and began to run along the street away from the sound of the
shooting.

Shock numbed
Colin for a moment as he realized that he had once again been
forced to shoot a man. People going about their business on the
street turned and made for the young Scot. Others appeared from
various buildings. A low groan drew Colin’s attention to Kenny and
caused him to forget his own feelings. Clutching at his right side,
the young mustanger tried to rise. Colin let the pistol fall and
was dropping to his knees at Kenny’s side when he saw Dusty Fog,
Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid come through the doors of the
livery barn. Bounding forward, the Kid grabbed the bayo naranjado’s
reins and brought it to a halt. Then he followed his companions
towards Colin.

‘
That’s Vicente Flores!’ the Kid ejaculated, looking down.
‘Likely the rest of ’em’re here, Dusty.’

After leaving
Colin the previous night, the Kid had commented on the likelihood
of the Flores gang coming into Fort Sawyer to take revenge on the
man who killed Addn. Being aware of how Tiburcio and Matteo
regarded Vicente, the Kid felt it highly unlikely that they would
send in their younger brother to handle the task alone. That meant
there was danger for everybody who had been on the stagecoach. The
Flores boys would hardly be satisfied with just killing the young
Scot.

Appreciating
the latter point, Dusty snapped his orders. ‘Head for Ma’s place,
Lon. See to Kenny, Mark.’

Even while
speaking, Dusty’s eyes searched the surrounding area for signs of
the rest of the gang. One of the things a Comanche learned early
was that a horse could move a whole heap faster than any man on
foot. So the Kid caught hold of the horn and vaulted afork the bayo
naranjado’s fancy saddle. Clamping hold with his knees, he fetched
the horse around in a tight turn and set it moving through the
alley as the quickest way to reach the Schell’s temporary home.

‘
Get the doctor here!’ Mark barked at the approaching people
and one turned to obey.

Dusty’s
scrutiny had covered the buildings as far as the Black Bear Saloon
without locating any more members of the Flores gang. A number of
people came from the saloon, girls wearing long robes and no
make-up and male employees in their shirtsleeves. Clearly they had
only emerged to discover the cause of the shooting, not in flight
or as cover for bandidos. On the verge of ignoring them, Dusty saw
the horse standing at the hitching rail. Even from where he stood,
Dusty could tell that is carried a Mexican saddle.

A Mexican’s
horse being outside the saloon, even at that early hour, might be
no more than coincidence. Dusty could not take a chance on it.
April Hosman, another of the stagecoach’s passengers and an active
participant in busting up the robbery worked there.

‘
Watch things, Mark!’ Dusty ordered and started to run along
the street.

Approaching the
end of the building, Dusty heard the crack of a shot from inside.
The employees on the sidewalk turned, milling around, chattering
and looking over the batwing doors but none of them offered to
enter.

Standing at the
bar, Manuel waited for the appearance of the woman who had killed
his brother. A protesting Arnaldo Hogan had been compelled to
accompany Manuel to the saloon. Looking through a window, Hogan had
stated that all the girls, except the newcomer, were at breakfast.
However Hogan had insisted that the blonde woman lived in the
saloon, having heard one of the girls comment on the matter
previous to her arrival. So Manuel had allowed Hogan to scuttle
away. Leaving his horse loose-hitched to the rail, the bandido had
entered the building. He saw the bayo naranjado along the street,
but ignored it. What Vicente Flores did was his own concern. Manuel
cared only about avenging Jaime.

Nobody had
shown surprise when the bandido entered. After serving him, the
bartender rejoined the men and girls sitting taking a leisurely
breakfast. Then shots cracked along the street, drawing the
attention of the room’s occupants to the outside. Pushing back
their chairs, the men and women made for the front doors but Manuel
did not follow them. He cared little for the cause of the shooting.
Maybe Vicente had met the man who dressed in a skirt. Manuel felt
disinterested in the outcome. With the blonde woman dead, he
intended to return to Mexico and join another bandido gang.

Hearing
footsteps on the balcony, Manuel looked up. He saw a tall, shapely
woman wearing a flimsy robe over a nightgown at the head of the
stairs; a blonde, good-looking in the gringo fashion. Quickly
Manuel studied the situation. Not far from the stairs, a door
opened on to a side alley. After shooting the woman, he could go
out that way. Then, when the other saloon workers entered, a quick
dash along the sidewalk would take him to his horse.

With his plans
made, he slipped his Colt from its holster and turned. On the point
of asking Manuel what the shooting was about, April saw him swing
towards her. The expression of savage hate brought her to a halt,
then she saw the revolver in his hand.

‘
Wha—!’ April began, still unable to believe that the man
planned to shoot.

Flame sparked
from the Colt and the bullet ploughed a furrow in the banister rail
at her side. Taking an involuntary step to the rear, April tripped
and sat down. With horrified eyes, she watched the Mexican re-cock
his revolver and start moving towards her. At that moment she
recalled that her Remington Double Derringer was in the drawer of
her room’s dressing table. Going to breakfast in the bar room had
not seemed to call for weapons. She bitterly regretted the decision
as she watched Manuel’s slow advance. Throwing a glance at the
batwing doors, she saw her fellow-workers looking over them but not
coming in. That figured. None of them were armed either.