.44 Caliber Man (2 page)

‘
Howdy, folks,’ the Kid greeted, opening the coach’s door ready
to enter. ‘Sure hope I didn’t spook you none, shooting over Lou’s
head that-ways.’

‘
You come mighty close to spooking me,’ the driver assured
him.

‘
Wasn’t any other way I could let you know I needed a ride,
Lou,’ the Kid explained. ‘I’d only just then topped that ridge and
reckoned you might not see me or hear me shout.’

‘
A man could get shot doing what you done, Kid,’ Simcock
chided, securing the saddle to the roof.

‘
I wouldn’t have chanced it, only I saw you nursing a ten
gauge,’ grinned the dark-faced youngster. ‘Allowed I was out of
scatter-gun range and took a chance.’

With that the
Kid started to swing into the body of the coach. He glanced with
renewed interest at the women. They sat facing each other on either
side of the door he passed through, yet it hardly seemed likely
that they were travelling as companions. Small, petite, the girl
had a sweet, innocent face that showed a healthy, out-of-doors tan.
From her clothes, she was a rancher’s daughter and not a rich one.
Somehow she seemed vaguely familiar, but gave no hint of
recognizing the Kid. She had a preoccupied, worried expression as
she sat back in her seat.

If the girl
enjoyed an open-air life, the woman most certainly did not.
Although her clothing showed signs of travel and hard use, they had
originally cost good money and were cut to a daring, figure-hugging
style no ‘good’ woman would wear. From the dainty, impractical hat
perched on her blonde head and the make-up on her face, the Kid
figured her to be a saloon worker, or a theatrical performer,
travelling between jobs.

Finding the
girl and the blonde sharing the stagecoach came as no surprise to
the Kid. Such vehicles offered the fastest form of public transport
across the Texas range country and were available to anybody with
sufficient money to purchase a ticket. So ‘good’ and ‘bad’ women
sometimes found themselves travelling together on the same
stagecoach

Not that the
Kid devoted his attention to the women. His eyes went to the man
and he came to a halt just inside the door, staring with amazement.
Experienced in many aspects of life though the Kid might be, he had
never seen anything like the way the male passenger was
dressed.

At least six
foot in height, the man exuded a rugged charm which went well with
his wide shoulders and powerful frame. He did not appear to be
wearing a gun but that fact alone, strange as it might be in Texas,
failed to account for the normally unemotional Kid’s reaction at
seeing him.

The man wore a
jacket and vest of some rough-looking homespun material, yet
well-tailored to set off his physique, a white shirt and black
string tie, ordinary enough to warrant no notice. It was from the
waist that his clothing differed radically. Below a broad leather
belt with a large silver buckle, he wore what appeared to be a
woman’s skirt. Colored with black, blue and green squares slashed
by red and yellow lines, the ‘skirt’ left the man’s knees bare.
Thick stockings of the same check pattern covered his powerful
calves, ending in stout, untanned boots. What looked like a folded
blanket of the same colorful material as his ‘skirt’ slanted around
his torso from the left shoulder, partially concealing the fancy
hilt of a long-bladed knife sheathed at his right side. Suspended
about the man’s waist and hanging in front of his ‘skirt’ was a
pouch larger, but something like those used to carry bullets for
muzzle-loading rifles. It was fancier than a bullet-pouch, being
made from the skin of a black and white animal and secured with a
large silver catch. On the seat beyond the man was a round brimless
black hat with a silver badge of some kind, from under which an
eagle’s feather slanted rearwards, fixed to its side.

So interested
in the sight was the Kid that he hardly noticed the hilt of a small
knife which showed from the top of the stocking on the outside of
the man’s right leg.

‘
I wouldn’t say anything, cowboy,’ the blonde warned, following
the direction of the Kid’s gaze. ‘Scottie there doesn’t take kindly
to folks hoorawing his clothes.’

Although the
woman began to speak with an amiable condescension, she lost it
when the Kid turned his face towards her. Going by first
impressions, she had taken him for the usual run of range-country
youngster. The feeling left her as the Kid’s red-hazel eyes met her
gaze. Young he might be, even if a touch older than she had first
imagined, yet he was anything but the gauche country hick she
originally thought him. April Hosman knew men, they were her
business, and figured she had better avoid selling that Indian-dark
youngster short. Doing so could be dangerous.

‘
Obliged for the warning, ma’am,’ the Kid replied.

The coach
lurched into motion before he could say more, causing him to sway
and sit down hurriedly alongside the girl. Looking to see if he had
struck her with the rifle in jolting down, he found he had not and
felt almost certain that he recognized her. In turn she glanced at
him, a half-smile playing on her lips. Her face bore lines of grief
and the eyes were tired. After a moment the smile died away, to be
replaced by a slight, resentful frown.

‘
Damn that Lou Temple,’ the Kid began, then he noticed a
reddish-brown curl of hair showing from beneath the sunbonnet.
‘Well I’ll swan! You’re Trader Schell’s gal, Jeanie.’

‘
Yes,’ she agreed, sounding a little bitter.

‘
Damned if I knowed you, all fancied up this ways,’ the Kid
grinned. ‘How’s Ma and your pappy’n Kenny? I ain’t run across them
in a coon’s age.’

Somehow the Kid
formed the impression that the words were not wholly welcome. He
wondered if the girl had taken offence at his reason for failing to
recognize her. Maybe she did not care to be reminded that on their
previous meetings she had been dressed in boy’s clothes. From what
he remembered of Jeanie Schell, he doubted if that alone was the
answer. She had always been a merry tomboy, with an impish sense of
humor and an explosive, soon-come-soon-gone temper. Instead of
cussing him out for his forgetfulness, her lips quivered a little
and her eyes blinked like they tried to hold back tears.

‘
Ma and Kenny’re fine,’ she replied, then sucked in a deep
breath and continued. ‘Likely you haven’t heard Pappy was killed a
couple of months back.’

‘
I hadn’t heard,’ the Kid admitted contritely. I’m real sorry I
asked about him like I did.’

‘
It was a hoss,’ Jeanie said quietly, blinking her eyes again.
‘The best-looking and meanest critter we’d brought in since that
big paint stallion Pappy sold to Ole Devil Hardin.’

Silently
cursing himself for starting the conversation, the Kid wondered how
he might end it without adding to the girl’s grief.

‘
It’d have to be a real mean hoss to lick him, Jeanie-gal,’ he
said gently. ‘Your pappy was a forty-four caliber man.’

‘
Thanks, Kid,’ Jeanie answered, a hint of pleasure and
gratitude creeping into her voice and onto her face. Then the
bitter lines returned. ‘There’re some who don’t—’

The words died
away and Jeanie turned to look out of the window. Moving into a
more comfortable position on the seat, the Kid wondered what had
brought out the girl’s lost, unfinished sentence. Trader Schell had
been a mustanger, catching and breaking wild horses, well-liked by
the people who bought stock from him, even though a shrewd
businessman. However, Jeanie showed no inclination to resume the
conversation and the Kid did not consider himself a sufficiently
close friend to force the matter further.

Hefting the
rifle in his hands, the Kid looked for some way to avoid nursing it
during the journey to Fort Sawyer. The Overland Stage Company had
foreseen the need and fitted hooks to the woodwork above the seats
on which travelers could hang their shoulder arms. Before the Kid
could rise and make use of the hooks, the young man sitting
opposite him indicated the rifle and asked:

‘
Would that be a Henry you have?’

‘
Sure,’ the Kid agreed, trying to recall where he had heard
such an accent as the man used.

‘
I’ve never seen one with a wooden fore grip before,’ the man
commented. ‘All the Henrys I’ve seen have a bare metal barrel and
magazine.’

‘
This here’s one of the new model,’ the Kid explained with an
air of conscious pride. He held out the rifle so that the man could
see the slot let into the right side of the brass frame. ‘You load
it through here in the breech instead of pulling the tube
open.’

‘
That’s an improvement,’ the man said soberly. The magazine was
always the Henry’s weak point. This new model looks a stouter gun
all round. I haven’t seen any of them on sale yet.’

‘
Or me,’ the Kid admitted. ‘I got this ’n’ for helping a
salesman who was taking a whole slew of the old model Henrys to
Juarez.’
ⁱⁱ

Although it
later gained fame as the Winchester Model of 1866—first in a long
line of successful lever-action repeaters—the type of rifle in the
Kid’s hands made its appearance on the market under the name of the
New Improved Henry.

After the Kid
had hung the rifle on the hooks, he talked with the man for a time
about the relative merits of various firearms and discussed hunting
opportunities. Although the man did not introduce himself, or say
what brought him to Texas, the Kid asked no questions. However, the
Kid felt that he had been sufficiently sociable to satisfy his
curiosity on one point.

‘
No offence, friend,’ he said. ‘But do all the folks dress this
fancy back where you come from?’

‘
It’s a kilt, cowboy,’ April Hosman put in, following the
direction of the Kid’s gaze. ‘Folks in Scotland wear
them.’

‘
The gals too?’ asked the Kid, for he had never seen a saloon
girl dressed in such a short garment.

‘
No!’ the man replied shortly, his voice losing its friendly
note. The kilt’s not worn by women.’

Remembering how
the young Scot had dealt with a loafer who made opprobrious remarks
about his appearance in Brownsville, April felt that she had better
intervene. Sure the Scot had proved capable of defending himself
with his fists but she doubted if the Texan would fight with his
bare hands.

‘
I’ve heard that you can tell which family a man belongs to by
the color of his kilt,’ she remarked. Is that right?’

‘
It’s true enough, ma’am,’ the Scot agreed and tapped the kilt
with his left forefinger. ‘This is the tartan of the Clan
Farquharson. My name is Colin Farquharson, of Inverey.’

‘
You’re a tolerable long ways from home, friend,’ the Kid
commented, trying to remember where he had heard the
name.

‘
Aye,’ Colin agreed. ‘A kinsman of mine came home singing the
praises of Texas, so I thou—’

The crack of a
rifle shot, mingled with the scream of a horse in pain, chopped off
the young Scot’s words. Lurching violently, the coach came to an
abrupt halt. The body pitched and rocked against the thorough
braces, the tough straps of heavy leather which connected and
supported it above the draught and running gear.

Taken by
surprise, the Kid and Jeanie were thrown off their seats and across
the coach. The Kid landed on top of Colin and Jeanie collided with
April. Outside another shot sounded and one of the men on the roof
gave a croaking cry. Before the Kid could untangle himself from
Colin, the left side door of the coach jerked open.

After halting
to pick up the Kid, Temple kept his team moving at a steady trot
along the Fort Sawyer trail. With over six miles separating them
from their destination, neither the driver nor Simcock discounting
the possibility of danger. The guard stayed alert, although he left
his shotgun in the boot, studying each clump of mesquite, bushes,
hollows in the grounds, draws and ridges for signs of lurking
enemies.

For all that,
the attack when it came took them both by surprise. At that point
the trail ran straight, with fairly open land on either side.
Despite this careful scrutiny of places behind or among which a man
might hide, Simcock saw nothing to disturb him. All in all the
terrain did not lend itself to laying an ambush. There were rocks
and other places that could conceal waiting men; but none
sufficiently large to hide their horses. There was a draw maybe
half a mile from the trail where mounted men might wait. If it
should hold a gang, Simcock figured they would be no great danger.
Between his shotgun and the Ysabel Kid’s rifle, the owlhoots would
pay dearly for trying to rush the stagecoach.

Simcock was
still thinking on those lines when a rifle cracked from among a
clump of mesquite about a hundred yards to the right of the trail.
So well hidden that the guard failed to detect him, the man shot
accurately. Raked through the neck by the bullet, the offside lead
horse went down screaming. Instantly everything was in a state of
confusion. Dragged off balance as its mate went down, the near
leader almost fell. The off wheeler reared on its hind legs, trying
to avoid running on to the stricken animal ahead. Even as the coach
swayed violently, Temple’s training sparked off an automatic
reaction. Booting home the brake, he hauled back on the reins in an
attempt to regain control of the team.

Only by
catching hold of the handrail and bracing his feet against the
sloping front of the driver’s box as the coach slammed to a halt
did Simcock avoid being thrown from his seat. During the violent
lurch of the body, Simcock caught a movement from the corner of his
left eye. He turned his head to look closer as the thorough braces
returned the body to its normal position. At first he thought that
his eyes were playing tricks on him, for what he took to be a rock
not far from the left side of the trail began to move.