high heeled, fancy stitched boots had been made by the same master hand which tooled his gunbelt. The matched ivory butted Colt Cavalry Peacemakers hung in contoured holsters built for speed on the draw.
He was Dusty Fog’s right bower, and a man in his own right. During the War, Mark rode as a lieutenant in Bushrod Sheldon’s cavalry regiment. He gained a name as a brave fighter, and the Beau Brummel who set uniform design fashions among the bloods of the Confederacy. Now his taste in clothes dictated rangeland fashions among the Texas cowhands. His strength was a legend, his prowess in a roughhouse brawl spoken of with awe wherever it had been witnessed. Few could say how good he might be with his guns. The few who knew claimed Mark to be second only to Dusty Fog in the matter of speedy withdrawal and accurate shooting.
The room door swung open under Mark’s push and he found his good friend, the Ysabel Kid locked in the arms of a very pretty red haired girl.
Clad all in black, from hat to boots, the Kid stood six foot, with a lean, wiry, whipcord strong frame. His hat hung on his back by its storm-strap and his hair was curly, black as a raven’s wing. Looking at the Kid’s tanned face, one might put his age at a young sixteen, so almost babyishly innocent were the features, Then one saw the eyes, they did not look sixteen years old, but cold, red-hazel, savage and ancient in wisdom.
There was something wild, alien about the Kid, Indian-like almost. His father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian, his mother of mixed Comanche-French Creole blood. From these parents he gained a sighting eye like an ancient mountain man and an almost uncanny skill with a rifle. He could handle the ivory hilted bowie knife which hung at the left side of his gunbelt with the skill of old Jim Bowie himself and might be accounted fair with the Colt Dragoon revolver pointing its walnut grips forward in the holster at his right. Fair in Western terms meant he could draw in around a second and hit his man at the end of that time. He spoke several Indian tongues and fluent Spanish, could track where a buck Apache might fail, slide through thick bush with the silence of a shadow.
Taken any way one looked at it, the Ysabel Kid made a good friend, or a real bad mean enemy.
‘What the—!’ he began, turning towards the door.
‘Dusty wants us downstairs pronto ,’ Mark replied.
Holding the girl at arms’ length, the Kid looked down at her. ‘ Adios , honey lamb, happen we have to pull out.’
‘I hope you don’t, Loncey,’ she replied, using the Kid’s Christian name.
Turning, the Kid walked from the room, passing Mark and not noticing his big amigo had not followed him. Mark stepped forward, scooped the girl into his arms and gave her a kiss. Her arms closed around him, gripping him tightly and she looked a trifle glassy eyed when he released her.
‘Are you going too?’ she asked.
‘Why sure,’ he grinned. ‘We’ll maybe see you around.’
‘I’ll be here,’ she breathed.
Mark left the slightly dazed looking girl and found the fourth member of the floating outfit already in the hall.
His only name was Waco. A tall youngster in his late teens, he came between Mark and the Kid in height, though showing a developing muscular heft to his wide shoulders and lean waist. He had curly blond hair, a tanned, handsome young face with blue eyes and a mouth which now smiled easily. From his hat to his boots he spelled tophand Texas cowboy, his clothes modelled on Mark’s design. The gunbelt supported a matched brace of walnut handled Army Colts. Waco had ordered a brace of the new Peacemakers, but they had not yet reached him so he retained his old armament. From the way the belt and guns hung, he did not wear them as decorations.
‘Sleep well, boy?’ asked the Kid, although he looked younger than Waco.
‘Why not?’ Waco replied with a grin. ‘I got me a clear conscience.’
There had been a time when Waco’s conscience
He was Dusty Fog’s right bower, and a man in his own right. During the War, Mark rode as a lieutenant in Bushrod Sheldon’s cavalry regiment. He gained a name as a brave fighter, and the Beau Brummel who set uniform design fashions among the bloods of the Confederacy. Now his taste in clothes dictated rangeland fashions among the Texas cowhands. His strength was a legend, his prowess in a roughhouse brawl spoken of with awe wherever it had been witnessed. Few could say how good he might be with his guns. The few who knew claimed Mark to be second only to Dusty Fog in the matter of speedy withdrawal and accurate shooting.
The room door swung open under Mark’s push and he found his good friend, the Ysabel Kid locked in the arms of a very pretty red haired girl.
Clad all in black, from hat to boots, the Kid stood six foot, with a lean, wiry, whipcord strong frame. His hat hung on his back by its storm-strap and his hair was curly, black as a raven’s wing. Looking at the Kid’s tanned face, one might put his age at a young sixteen, so almost babyishly innocent were the features, Then one saw the eyes, they did not look sixteen years old, but cold, red-hazel, savage and ancient in wisdom.
There was something wild, alien about the Kid, Indian-like almost. His father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian, his mother of mixed Comanche-French Creole blood. From these parents he gained a sighting eye like an ancient mountain man and an almost uncanny skill with a rifle. He could handle the ivory hilted bowie knife which hung at the left side of his gunbelt with the skill of old Jim Bowie himself and might be accounted fair with the Colt Dragoon revolver pointing its walnut grips forward in the holster at his right. Fair in Western terms meant he could draw in around a second and hit his man at the end of that time. He spoke several Indian tongues and fluent Spanish, could track where a buck Apache might fail, slide through thick bush with the silence of a shadow.
Taken any way one looked at it, the Ysabel Kid made a good friend, or a real bad mean enemy.
‘What the—!’ he began, turning towards the door.
‘Dusty wants us downstairs pronto ,’ Mark replied.
Holding the girl at arms’ length, the Kid looked down at her. ‘ Adios , honey lamb, happen we have to pull out.’
‘I hope you don’t, Loncey,’ she replied, using the Kid’s Christian name.
Turning, the Kid walked from the room, passing Mark and not noticing his big amigo had not followed him. Mark stepped forward, scooped the girl into his arms and gave her a kiss. Her arms closed around him, gripping him tightly and she looked a trifle glassy eyed when he released her.
‘Are you going too?’ she asked.
‘Why sure,’ he grinned. ‘We’ll maybe see you around.’
‘I’ll be here,’ she breathed.
Mark left the slightly dazed looking girl and found the fourth member of the floating outfit already in the hall.
His only name was Waco. A tall youngster in his late teens, he came between Mark and the Kid in height, though showing a developing muscular heft to his wide shoulders and lean waist. He had curly blond hair, a tanned, handsome young face with blue eyes and a mouth which now smiled easily. From his hat to his boots he spelled tophand Texas cowboy, his clothes modelled on Mark’s design. The gunbelt supported a matched brace of walnut handled Army Colts. Waco had ordered a brace of the new Peacemakers, but they had not yet reached him so he retained his old armament. From the way the belt and guns hung, he did not wear them as decorations.
‘Sleep well, boy?’ asked the Kid, although he looked younger than Waco.
‘Why not?’ Waco replied with a grin. ‘I got me a clear conscience.’
There had been a time when Waco’s conscience
Similar Books
The Fell Sword
Miles Cameron
Studio Showdown
Samantha-Ellen Bound
Twice Tempted by a Rogue
Tessa Dare
Becoming a Man of Unwavering Faith
John Osteen
Water to Burn
Katharine Kerr
Mara
Lisette van de Heg
Blood Red
Vivi Anna
Deliver Us
Lynn Kelling
Soul Catcher
E. L. Todd
