The Rushers (12 page)

‘What do you reckon I should do?’ Dusty finally asked.

‘Stay on, keep quiet and do as you’ve been doing ever since the start. Put a full report in writing to show to whoever comes from the regiment to take over. But first come and eat something. Nobody who knows the facts can blame you for what’s happened today.’

‘How about Kallan?’

‘He went back to die with his wife. I’ve got to know Slasher well. His kind don’t toss their grief or their love aside easily. Whatever Noreen Kallan was, Slasher loved her deeply and in her own way Noreen loved him. One day maybe folks will understand what makes Noreen Kallan and women like her what they are. I don’t even pretend to understand her. Maybe it stemmed through their not being able to have any children. I’ve seen her care for babies and play with little children. I’ve seen the look on her face while she played with them.’

‘I could’ve gone back and tried to save him.’

‘And been wiped out?’ asked Joanna. ‘Giving Crazy Bear the chance he wants to rouse the tribes, by showing how strong his medicine was. That would’ve been far more stupid than merely leaving your desk unlocked, Dusty, and you know it. Now you don’t say another word. Come on in and have a meal.’

‘Captain Fog,’ said Joanna in a fair imitation of his warning voice. ‘From one side of this Fort to the other, with one exception, your word is law. That exception is under the roof of a family’s quarters. That’s women’s country. So you get in the dining-room without another word.’

Dusty managed a smile at last and went.

* * *

‘Attention!’

Gilbey barked the word as Dusty entered his office to find the men he wished to see gathered ready for him. He told them to stand at ease and took his seat behind the desk, eyes going to Cardon who held a rifle and looked as scared as a spooked steer in a thunderstorm.

‘You all know something of what’s happened today, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I don’t intend to go into full details until I’ve finished—what’s wrong, Mr. Cardon, and if it’s what I think why the hell didn’t you go before coming here.’

The latter speech was brought about by the fact that Mr. Cardon appeared to be far from attentive. The young officer gave a guilty start and stepped forward, holding out the rifle.

‘We had a brush with the Sioux, sir, a small party across the river. They jumped us, I ordered fire on them and one was hit. We took this rifle from his body!’

‘How about it, Sucataw?’ asked Dusty. ‘Why’d they jump you?’

‘Young bucks, all hot-headed and looking for glory, Cap’n,’ replied the old scout. ‘Likely aimed to try and down a couple of the patrol and run their hosses off to show what brave-hearts they are.’

Reaching across the desk Dusty took the rifle. One glance told him it was not the usual Model 1866 which a Sioux might be expected to carry. The rifle he held was nearly new, steel-framed, a ‘73 such as Mark carried. Then he looked up and the glint in his eyes caused Cardon to take an involuntary pace to the rear and stiffen into a brace.

‘I
ordered
Mr. Cardon not to interrupt you,’ Gilbey said, laying emphasis on the second word. ‘He wished to report the incident as soon as he returned.’

Dusty’s question died unsaid. He turned his eyes to Gilbey but the young man stood firm, meeting his gaze. Clearly Gilbey thought he’d acted for the best and stood ready to take the consequences.

‘I don’t see you as a mother hen, Mr. Gilbey,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘Don’t make a habit of it. No blame is attached to you. Mr. Cardon, relax.’

With a sigh of relief the young officer allowed his brace to sag and waited to hear what came next. Dusty gave a grin as he saw this, then jerked his head to the Ysabel Kid, who brought the second rifle forward. Not one of the men had paid any attention to the Kid’s rifle on entering the room as he was often seen with his old ‘yellow boy’ across his arm. Only this was not a ‘yellow boy’, it was one of the new model, brass-headed tacks decorating its butt in the Indian manner, mate to the rifle Cardon brought in, with the same style of decoration.

‘Winchesters,’ Dusty growled unnecessarily. ‘.44-40 calibre can out-range and fire faster than our carbines. The Sioux seem to have them in fair numbers, gentlemen. To my mind it means only one thing.’ He laid the two rifles side by side on the desk top, his eyes lifting to the faces of the men around it. ‘We’ve got a gun-runner on our hands. He’s equipping the Sioux with better weapons than we have. Gentlemen, we’ve got to find him—and we’ve got to do it fast.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Silence followed Dusty Fog’s words as the men thought of the difficulties involved in finding the elusive gun-runner.

‘Might it just be a couple of weapons fallen into the hands of the Sioux in attacks on rushers, sir?’ asked Gilbey.

‘That’s possible, mister. But we saw at least five of them among the small bunch we hit.’

‘There’s another li’l thing, Frank boy,’ put in the Kid. ‘Happen only a couple of them had fallen into Sioux hands it wouldn’t be a green buck without coup feathers who got one. They’d be handed over to some war-bonnet chief, or a warrior who’d done plenty of fighting.’

‘Kid’s right thar,’ growled old Sucataw. ‘With them in the hands of young Sioux bucks it likely means there’s more than a few new Winchesters gone to them.’

‘Then what’re the Sioux paying for the rifles with?’ asked Dusty.

The other men looked towards him, then at the rifles. A new Winchester Model 1873 cost forty dollars and no gun-runner was a philanthropist. A gun-runner went into his dangerous trade to make money, to turn a good profit for the risks he took. So the rifles owned by the Sioux were being bought, paid for in some way.

‘There’s gold in plenty in the Black Hills, sir,’ Cardon spoke up. ‘General Custer proved th—’

‘While admitting that the sun shines through General Custer’s pants seat, Mr. Cardon,’ Dusty interrupted, ‘I don’t see how he’s got anything to do with this.’

Cardon grinned, accepting the gibe. He was an advocate of Custer, his belief was that the ‘boy general’ could do no wrong.

‘It’s sacred ground, mister,’ Sucataw put in. ‘No Sioux’d dig into the soil there. Not even one trained at a reservation mission school like Crazy Bear was.’

‘But he’d know the value of gold, Sucataw,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And not all the rushers who’ve been killed beyond the Belle Pourche would be empty handed.’

‘Yeah, but how’s he getting by the patrols, the gun-runner I mean?’ asked Mark. ‘Or is he operating from somewheres outside our bailiwick?’

‘We’ve not entirely closed the river, Mark,’ answered Dusty. ‘More than once the patrols have reported men getting across. It’s only the bigger groups, the green hands who try in daylight that we’ve stopped.’

‘We’ve seen no wagon,’ objected Gilbey.

‘He’ll not be using a wagon,’ drawled the Kid. ‘One man on a hoss, with a couple of well-trained pack-hosses, at night and using some Injun ford, could get in most any time. Even in day, happen he watched what he was doing.’

‘And slipped by the patrols?’ asked Dusty coldly while the two lieutenants look distinctly uneasy.

‘Sure. I could do, so could a few men I could name. Sucataw and Rowdy here, knowing the army like they do, could. Any man with a mite of Injun blood could, come to that.’

‘The Sioux had us spotted for days now, Cap’n Fog,’ Sucataw remarked as the Kid finished speaking. ‘They’d help the gun-runner steer clear of us. At least as long as he’d got more rifles to bring them they would.’

The men talked on for a time but none could offer any definite ideas as to who might be running the guns to the Sioux. The meeting broke up late and Dusty was a thoughtful man as he turned into his bed that night.

Never since joining the army had Corporal Dunbrowski felt more like going out and getting drunk. He’d seen the real raw side of army life that afternoon and would never forget it. So he cleaned up and changed into his walking out uniform then headed for the main gate through which everybody must pass, even if going to the Fort sutler’s after dark.

Like others who’d left camp for an evening’s entertainment he found the building unlit, locked and deserted. So like most of the men he headed for the dubious delights of Shacktown.

Lewis’s saloon had a fair crowd in when he entered but he did not join any of the groups of talking. drinking men. He went to the end of the bar nearest to the door of Lewis’s office, leaned his elbow on it and moodily accepted the glass skidded to him by the bartender.

One of the saloon workers went to the door of the office and opened it. An angry bellow from inside brought Dunbrowski’s eyes to the fast-closing door for the man came out faster than he went in. Even in the flickering moment of the door slamming closed again Dunbrowski had seen something which made him forget his wish to get drunk. He’d not seen much, just a young woman standing in the office. A young woman with long black hair done in braids, in buckskin clothes and calf-high Sioux moccasins. A young woman with a brown face, an Indian face.

Dunbrowskj was puzzled. He could think of no reason why Lewis should have an Indian woman in the office and yet his instincts warned him all was not well. He had not been west long enough to tell the difference between the tribes and would not, on so short a glimpse, be able to tell from the woman’s dress whether she be Sioux, Crow, Cheyenne or what. Yet his instincts warned him the girl should not be there and he intended to find out what she was doing.

Finishing his drink he put the glass on to the bar top and walked casually from the room. Once outside all casualness left him and he hurried around the side of the saloon, making for the rear doors, one of which led into Lewis’s office. He had not been around the rear of the saloon before but saw which was the office by the light in the window. There was no fence around the building, it faced the open range, apart from a small corral in which were the horses owned by Lewis and some of his workers. Through the darkness Dunbrowski could see the horses moving about, but could not make out more than that horses were in the corral.

He reached the window and flattened out by the side of it. Like most of the rooms in the saloon the window had no glass to it and a heavy canvas curtain hung over it. However, the canvas did not fit well and by peering through a gap left by it Dunbrowski could see into the office. He could also hear what was being said.

The first thing Dunbrowski saw was that not one but four Indian girls stood in the room. He saw also that Lewis and Cato stood at the desk, facing each other in the light of the lamp, clearly not agreeing on some point.

‘And I tell you it’s a good bargain!’ snarled the half-breed, waving a hand towards the girls. ‘One gal, one gun. I know of three macs who would pay us two hundred dollars apiece for these four gals and be glad of more.’

Lewis sat down, scowling. On the desk before him lay two buckskin bags. He slapped one, lifted it and hefted it in his hand. The bag appeared to be very heavy and Dunbrowski could guess what it held.

‘I can understand this. It’s gold and we can use it. But four Sioux squaws!’

‘I tell you they’re as good as money. Crazy Bear told them to go with me and they went without any fuss. They’re only dumb stupid Injun women. They’ll do whatever their men folk tell them.’

‘All right, we’ll try it. Madame Flora’s been complaining about not having enough customers to make it worth her while keeping the cat-house going. We’ll take the gals down there, let her have them. Then in the morning she can get all her gear on to the wagons, hide the gals in the back and pull out for one of the new gold camps.’

‘I know the one. There’s a Jew blacksmithing and he’ll take these Injun gals off my hands.’

Dunbrowski had heard all he needed to. He thought of bursting into the room and taking the two men but decided against it. This was a matter for Captain Fog to handle and the quicker he knew about Lewis’s new business deal the better for all concerned. The young corporal remembered the rifles in the hands of Crazy Bear’s warriors and knew who placed them there.

Too late Dunbrowski heard the soft footfall behind him and his instincts reacted just a split second too slowly. He was not halfway around, hand knocking open the flap of his holster, when something smashed down on to his head and he went to the ground in a limp heap. The gunman called Rick holstered his revolver, stepped by the unconscious soldier and tapped the door of Lewis’s office. He heard the voice of his boss asking who it was and answered:

‘Rick. I caught a soldier snooping back here.’

The words brought a hurried opening of the door. Lewis and Cato leapt out and stood looking down at Dunbrowski.

‘Who is he?’ asked Lewis. ‘I’ve seen him before.’

‘He’s the one who carries the flag when that damned captain’s on patrol,’ Cato answered. ‘Did he hear anything?’

‘Enough, I’d reckon,’ Rick growled. ‘I was down by the corral, making sure those Injun ponies were all right, saw him come around the side of the building. He headed straight for your window, so I come up and buffaloed him.’

‘What’ll we do with him?’ asked Cato.

‘Get him away from here and make sure he doesn’t talk.’

Saying this Lewis turned on his heels and entered his office again. Cato and Rick exchanged glances, then the half-breed bent and dragged the still unconscious young man erect, bent and draped Dunbrowski across his shoulders.

‘Leave it to me, Rick,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to everything.’

With that Cato faded into the darkness carrying the unconscious corporal over his shoulders. Rick shrugged, turned and entered the office to await the other man’s return.

For an hour Cato was away. When he returned he carried a bundle of clothes, boots, a sword belt with a cavalry holstered Army Colt on it. ‘Get this lot burned,’ he told Rick. ‘And don’t open the bundle.’

‘I’ll take the gun,’ Rick replied, removing the Tranter revolver from his holster and replacing it with the Colt. ‘See you took what you wanted.’

Cato grinned savagely, dropping a hand to the hilt of the Ames knife which rode at his side instead of the Green River blade he’d worn when he went out.

‘A good knife’s worth money,’ he said. ‘I’ve always wanted one like this.’

‘Get them clothes burned, Rick!’ Lewis ordered. ‘Bring those gals down to Madam Flora’s place, Cato.’

At the brothel Madame Flora did not show any great enthusiasm about keeping the Sioux girls all night. She had more sense than argue with Lewis for all of that, for he ruled her life with an iron hand, knowing enough about her to send her to jail for a number of years. So she asked no questions but gave the four young women blankets and told Cato to make them sleep on the floor of the back room where the meeting was held. The girls obeyed docilely enough and Madame Flora studied them with coldly professional eyes.

‘They’re worth money,’ she stated, in answer to a question by Lewis. ‘Who you got in mind to sell them to?’

‘Jew Levi up Besno way,’ Cato answered.

‘He’ll take them,’ she said quietly. ‘I won’t be sorry to get away from this neck of the woods, Bruno.’

Much easier in his mind now he’d been reassured as to the saleable value of his merchandise by an expert, Lewis left the Sioux girls in Madame Flora’s hands. He headed back to the saloon and was soon in bed in his own room, sleeping without a thought to the dead corporal or the Sioux girls he was helping to sell into something worse than slavery.

He was awakened early by somebody shaking him. Looking up he found Cato standing at his bedside and behind him Madame Flora, looking scared, while Rick stood at the door.

‘It’s them Sioux gals, boss,’ Cato snarled. ‘They lit out in the early hours of the morning. Took their ponies from the corral, let the rest out and have gone.’

‘Gone!’ Lewis yelled, bounding from the bed without a thought for the fact that he wore nothing but a long nightshirt. ‘You mean we’ve been tricked?’

‘Yeah, either that or—’ Cato’s face lost some of its colour as his words died off.

‘Or what?’

‘That Crazy Bear. He’s got all the rifles he needs. He may have talked the gals into going so he can claim the white man took them and get the Hunkpapa out on the warpath.’

‘Then get after them!’ Lewis croaked. ‘Get them back or kill them.’

‘Let’s go, Rick,’ Cato ordered. ‘The hosses didn’t stray far and I’ve got two of them back.’

Lewis watched the men leave the room, he threw a glance at the stout safe which stood in the corner. Then he snarled at the woman to get out. He started to dress hurriedly for the fear of death was on him. Already the dead corporal would have been missed and most likely a search would have started. He wanted to be on hand if the soldiers came to question his workers. Then he aimed to get out of the area as soon as the two gunmen returned and could act as escort for him and the wealth he’d accumulated since his arrival in Shacktown.

* * *

Dusty Fog learned Dunbrowski was missing earlier than Lewis heard about the departure of the Sioux girls. He was awakened by knocking on his door and called for the knocker to come in.

Sergeant Granger entered, sabre bouncing at his side as befitted the sergeant of the guard. ‘Corporal Dunbrowski’s absent, sir,’ he reported.

‘Absent?’ snapped Dusty.

‘Yes, sir. I passed him out last night and didn’t see him return. On making rounds at reveille I saw his bed hadn’t been slept in. Thought I’d best report to you immediately.’

Swiftly Dusty rolled from the bed and pulled on one of van Druten’s fancy dressing-gowns. He knew Dunbrowski would not desert and did not intend wasting time in futile conjecture.

‘Where’d he go?’

‘Shacktown, I reckon, sir. The sutler’s building was closed. Madlarn’s pulled out from what I hear.’

‘Wake up Mark and the Kid, Sergeant. Tell them I want them, carry on with your duties.’

Granger saluted and left the room while Dusty reached for his trousers and Dawkins appeared with hot water in a jug. The striker was pouring the water in Dusty’s washbowl when Mark and the Kid entered the room, still finishing dressing as they came.

Quickly Dusty told of Dunbrowski’s disappearance and gave his orders. They made no comment, disregarded the fact that neither had washed, shaved or eaten yet. Both left the room, collected the saddles and rifles, then headed for the stables and their horses.

‘We could try the cat-house first,’ Mark suggested as they left the Fort.

‘Reckoned you’d think of that,’ replied the Kid. ‘I allow Ken Dunbrowski’s got good enough sense to get out of bed and back to the Fort afore reveille.’

Even as he spoke the Kid had been looking around him, Indian-keen eyes missing nothing. He tensed slightly, not enough to be noticeable to a stranger, but Mark knew him well.

‘What is it?’

‘That buzzard,’ answered the Kid quietly yet grimly. ‘It might be nothing or it might be something bad.’

Following the direction of the Kid’s pointing finger Mark saw a buzzard drop nearer the ground in a circling spiral. The bird looked well clear of Shacktown.

‘It mightn’t be—’ he began.

Already the Kid was riding in the direction of the spiralling bird and Mark followed without further argument. They found Dunbrowski lying among a clump of bushes half a mile more from town. He was naked, his throat slit from ear to ear and his head a bloody horror where a scalping knife had done its work.

Dropping from his horse the Kid advanced, eyes studying every inch of the ground. Mark remained in the saddle for he knew the Kid could best handle this alone and he would be in the way afoot.

‘Indian work?’ he asked when the Kid completed his check of the ground.

‘Looks that way. Somebody who knows how to read and hide sign for all that. I can’t see a Sioux taking that much trouble to hide how he came here or where he went.’

‘Might not be Indians, then?’ Mark said, glancing at the scalped head.

‘Don’t mean a thing and you know it. Us Comanches learned to scalp folks from you white-eyes.’

‘What’re we going to do?’ Mark inquired, ignoring the Kid’s cold Comanche humour.

‘You’re going to the Fort to tell Dusty. I’m heading for Shacktown to see what I can learn.’

This would be the best idea. Apart from their guns Mark and the Kid had no authority to make investigations. They could do so but Dusty, with folks believing him to have the power of the War Department to back him, as well as his reputation with his guns, would be able to accomplish much more.

‘You stay out of trouble, Lon,’ warned Mark.

In all fairness to the Kid, he did aim to stay out of trouble in town. He’d a suspicion of who might have done the killing but meant to let Dusty make the first investigations and only take more basic and effective action if that failed. Unfortunately he reached the corral in time to see Cato and Rick making a hurried departure, heading towards the Belle Pourche at a fair speed. Even then the Kid might have kept his word had he not seen the sign by the corral. Somehow, or by somebody’s hand, all the horses had been turned loose from the corral. Only four of them were not shod and were ridden. The Kid read that in the sign, he also saw that Cato had been studying those same tracks and appeared to be following them.

‘Mark means to stay out of trouble in town,’ he said, stroking the neck of the big white stallion. ‘So it’s all right if we follow them two and likely get into trouble on the range, ole Nigger hoss.’

Having cleared his conscience the Kid turned his horse and set off after the two men, for against Cato he harboured certain unproved suspicions and on the range, clear of interference, he might be able to turn them into proven facts. So, with his rifle in his hands, the Kid allowed his horse to follow the two men.

Three miles beyond the town the Kid’s presence was discovered by Rick. The man was worried about this pursuit, it might be leading them into a Sioux ambush. Some instinct caused him to look back and he saw the black-dressed Texan astride the huge white stallion. Never the staunchest or most reliable man in a real tight spot and with a good sized guilty conscience to stir him, Rick let out a warning yell, started to turn his horse and drew his revolver.

‘It’s the Kid, Cato!’ he howled and fired.

At any time panic is dangerous. In this case it proved fatal. The Army Colt was acknowledged the finest percussion-fired revolver ever built, yet it did not have the range to make a hit at seventy-five yards and the Kid was all of that far away. A skilled man firing double-handed and from a rest might have centred on the Kid and made the hit but Rick was not good, did not have a double-handed hold or a rest. So his bullet missed the Kid by a good country mile and he did not have a second chance.

The old ‘yellow boy’ flowed to the Kid’s shoulder and roared but in range it licked the Colt and in skilled hands could be aimed with some accuracy at seventy-five yards range, even from the back of a horse. The Kid sighted and fired in a fast move and Rick slid from his horse. He hit the ground but did not feel it for he was dead even before he landed.

For an instant Cato thought of flight. Then he saw the way the white stallion moved and knew his own horse would be useless in a race against the Kid’s. He flung himself from his saddle, clawing the Sharps Old Reliable rifle from the boot as he went, lighting down and diving behind a rock. He landed rolling and brought the barrel of the rifle out ready for use. Only the Kid was nowhere in sight. He’d left the saddle of the horse and already the big white, riderless though it was, headed into cover where it could not be seen or shot at.

The seconds ticked by slowly as Cato lay searching the ground for some sign of the Ysabel Kid. He saw nothing but knew that ahead of him the Kid was moving, darting on silent feet from cover to cover, getting in closer all the time. Cato licked his lips. He’d Indian blood which gave him keen eyes, but this time he’d met his match, for not a thing before him could he see, only the rocks, trees and bushes of the open range country.

A chance taken glance behind made Cato change his plans. He saw dust rolling up, more dust than could be caused by an army patrol returning to the Fort. The Sioux had crossed the Belle Pourche and were coming to avenge the taking of the girls. Crazy Bear’s plans were working.

Cato knew he dare not stay. He came to his feet and darted towards his horse with the Sharps gripped between his hands. The Kid seemed to sprout out of the ground not thirty feet from him. Cato skidded to a halt and tried to get the heavy rifle around and into line.

Held hip high the old ‘yellow boy’ crashed in the Kid’s hands. His flat-nosed bullet struck the half-breed in the chest and knocked him staggering backwards. The Sharps roared but its bullet flew wide of the Kid. Then Cato was down and the Kid sprinted towards him.

One look told the Kid he could do nothing for Cato. Another look told him he’d best get away from this place and fast. A shrill whistle left the Kid’s lips and the huge white stallion crashed from where it had stood in cover waiting for him. Cato’s life blood bubbled from his lips, his body stiffened and went limp but the Kid would not have spared it a second glance had it not been for seeing the knife in Cato’s sheath.

Bending down the Kid took the Ames knife from Cato’s sheath. A low snarl came from his lips as he recognized the weapon. His theory had been proved correct for it was Dunbrowski’s knife and the young soldier would never have parted with it while alive.

The distant thunder of hooves brought the Kid back to awareness of his own position. He threw one look towards the sound and then headed for his horse on the run. It looked as if Crazy Bear had in some way managed to gather the whole Hunkpapa tribe behind him. The Kid estimated at least three hundred Indians rode towards him and they were not coming to make loving talk.

He hit the saddle of the white stallion, bringing Nigger around in a rearing turn and letting the big horse run for Shacktown. If the horse fell and the Sioux caught up with him there would be a hot time in Shacktown that morning.

‘Sioux! They’re on the warwhoop and coming this way! Head for the Fort!’

Bruno Lewis hard the shout from the street. He heard startled yells and reached the door of his room in time to see his workers, including his second hired gun, headed for the batwing doors. Outside on the street he could hear scared yells and people running, all going in the same direction, towards the Fort.

Turning quickly Lewis headed for his safe, fumbling out the key and unlocking the door. He dragged open the heavy door and inside it lay stacks of money and two large pokes full of gold dust. They were what he’d made since his arrival in Shacktown and he didn’t aim to leave without them.

Desperately he took out the money, sticking it into his pockets, the front of his shirt, anywhere he could think of. He heard three crashes, as if somebody had broken something in the bar-room but he ignored them. He gripped the two heavy gold-filled sacks and dragged them out. Then he was struck with the thought that he could never carry them to the Fort. Nor could he put any of the gold into his pockets for they were filled with money. He thrust the gold back into the safe, ignoring the crackle of flames and the smoke which came from the bar-rooms. He locked the safe, for he knew the Sioux would burn his place after looting it. The safe would withstand the heat and after the attack was driven off he could come back to get his gold.

With this thought he ran to the door of his room. Beyond he saw three separate fires burning, each apparently started by one of his lamps being smashed to the floor. The flames were licking up the walls, eating away at the bar. He felt sudden terror, thinking he’d left it too late and that the Sioux had arrived.

The knife missed his face by inches, flying from the batwing doors and sinking into the woodwork. He screamed, twisting to see the Ysabel Kid standing at the doors. Then his eyes went to the knife and he recognized it as the one Cato took from the murdered soldier.

‘That’s Ken Dunbrowski’s knife,’ drawled the Kid, confirming Lewis’s thoughts.

‘I didn’t kill him!’ gasped Lewis.

Even over the crackling of the flames he could hear the distant thunder of hooves and yells of the Sioux.

‘Cato did.’

‘We’ve got to get out—’

The Kid’s rifle barrel tilted down and roared, its bullet kicking a splinter by the man’s foot and making him halt even as he stepped forward.

‘Why’d he do it?’

‘I—he heard—he caught the soldier snooping.’

‘What’d Ken see that made you kill him?’ asked the Kid. keeping a careful ear on the fast-approaching Sioux.

‘The girls. The Sioux girls. I never told Cato to bring them!’ Lewis answered, screaming the words out.

‘What’d you give the Sioux for the gals?’

‘Rifles. But they were centre-fire and most of the ammunition we sold was rimfire.’

For an instant the Kid’s rifle lined and his finger rested on the trigger. Lewis rushed across the room and the Kid knew what he must do. Turning, he darted from the saloon. The Sioux were close, already pouring by the first of the rusher homes.

The Kid did not hesitate. He hit the hitching rail in a bound which carried him up and into the saddle of his horse. Lewis reached the door of the saloon, a terrified man who saw his end. Desperately Lewis tried to drag money from his pockets and offer it to the Kid.

‘Save me!’ he screamed. ‘Take me with you!’

‘I liked Ken Dunbrowski,’ answered the Kid and with a touch of his heels sent the big white at a gallop towards the Fort.

Screaming pleas for mercy and help, alternated with curses, Lewis sprang from the sidewalk and ran a few steps after the fast moving horse. He knew he would be too late and behind him the screams of the Sioux rang louder.

Lewis turned and screamed. His saloon was blazing well for the Kid had not meant for raw whisky to be available to further inflame the Sioux. Lewis knew he could find no refuge in the saloon or anywhere. He tried to make his legs turn but they no longer obeyed him.

‘No!’ he screamed at the oncoming Sioux. ‘Don’t kill me! Don’t—I didn’t take your girls. They’ve gone back—Don’t kill me—’

The rest ended in a single hideous scream. Lewis had been clawing money from his pockets to try and buy his life. A young brave forced his horse ahead of the others. He dropped the tip of his lance and, with a wild scalp yell ringing from his lips, drove the point into Lewis’s body. The saloon-keeper gave a single scream, the money fell from his hands as he clawed at the shaft of the lance. Then he was down, the warrior pulled his lance free and the hooves of the Sioux horses churned over the boss of Shacktown, smashing his body into the dirt of the single street that would soon be no more.