by J. T. Edson
Hearing Walt’s warning yell, Dave released his hold of the moaning, badly-wounded man and swung around to meet the threat to his freedom and life. Although Dave proved to be faster than Walt, he still lacked the necessary extra edge of speed so necessary to stay alive at such a time. “Boy’s” right hand made a move almost identical to his companion’s in speed and execution. Only an instant after the blond giant cut down Walt, flame lashed from the five-and-a-half-inch Artillery barrel of “Boy’s” offside Colt. He threw lead just as accurately as had Mark, sending two hundred and fifty grains of conical-shaped lead into Dave’s head. In a way Dave achieved more than had Walt, for he got off one shot in reply; his bullet passing through the wall of the adjacent building, a store, and was subsequently found to have pierced a new keg of molasses.
Still crouched over the victim and clutching the gunbelt in his hands, Rusty saw his friends struck down. Loyalty decreed that he take up their cause and try to extract vengeance for their deaths. Common sense told him that the two Texans belonged in a far higher class of the gun fighting arts than to which he could aspire. Besides, Dave and Walt were not good friends. Came to a fact, on might call them no more than business associates, not successful associates at that; barely more than casual acquaintances. Rusty concluded that the decrees of loyalty did not apply in that case.
With his conscience salved—in a remarkably short space of time—Rusty used his crouching position in much the same manner as a runner in a sprint race when the starting gun sounded. Still holding the gunbelt, he hurled himself away from the victim and hit full speed in two strides as he tore towards the welcome safety of darkness beyond the lamp’s light.
“Halt!” roared a voice from the street. “Halt or I’ll stop you.”
Having a better than fair idea of his fate if he obeyed, Rusty decided to chance taking a bullet and kept moving. He heard the flat, angry “Splat!” of a close passing bullet merge with the crack of a shot as a bullet hissed by his head. Dropping the gunbelt as an unneeded encumbrance, he almost threw himself around the corner of the saloon and out of sight.
“Want for me to take out after him, Mark?” asked “Boy” as they walked along the alley.
“Leave him to the local law,” Mark replied.
Had the bartender been present, he might have read much significance in the way the Texans comported themselves. Even while speaking, neither took his eyes for a moment from the man he had shot, and each carried his Colt cocked ready for use. Judging by their actions, they might have been trained and efficient peace officers handling a routine piece of range-country business.
After the shooting there had been considerable shouting inside the saloon, but nobody committed the folly of throwing open the side door. Feet pounded and the front entrance burst open as men came out and made their way towards the alley. Attracted by the shooting, the town marshal—a leathery old-timer with long experience behind a badge—loped up carrying the most useful argument in a crisis, a twin-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun.
“What happened?” he asked, thrusting through the crowd and looking to where Mark knelt by the victim and “Boy” stood beyond him so as to watch for the unlikely event of the fleeing man making his return.
“Those two and another jumped him for some reason,” Mark explained, indicating the two shot men and their victim. “Get a doctor here pronto. He’s still alive but bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“He’s Dusty Fog, Marshal!” yelled one of the crowd. “That’s why they laid for him.”
“Dusty Fog, huh?” replied the marshal, sounding just a mite impressed.
“Told us so hisself,” confirmed the informant.
“And he lied in his teeth,” “Boy” stated, turning and walking back to the waiting marshal.
“You reckon so, young feller?”
“I know so, Marshal.”
So saying, the youngster twirled his Colt on a trained forefinger and offered it butt first to the peace officer. While no longer in his prime, the marshal possessed a keen pair of eyes which detected certain marks upon the deep blue of the Colt’s Best Citizen’s Finish metal. Accepting the gun, he read the words engraved on its backstrap.
“To our pard, Waco, from Ole Devil’s Floating Outfit”
“Waco, huh,” he said and his gaze turned to the blond giant. “You’ll be Mark Counter, I reckon.”
Listening to the names, the bartender felt like kicking himself for his lack of foresight. Taking all things into consideration, he ought to have guessed the big blond’s identity. Of course when the wounded man entered and called himself Dusty Fog, the connection ought to have leapt instantly to mind. In exculpation the bartender could claim to have been fully occupied serving customers at the time when his brain should have made the deduction. The reason for the younger Texan’s annoyance and need for his being prevented from remonstrating with the false claimant now stood crystal clear and explained. Both he and Mark had good reason to know the newcomer lied on the matter of his identity.
Since their first meeting in Mexico just after the Civil War ended, Mark Counter had become known as Dusty Fog’s right bower and all-but inseparable companion; one of the reasons why the bartender did not connect the names was that the two men and one other could almost always be found together.
However the bartender could take comfort in the knowledge that many of his observations on Mark’s character proved correct. The son of a rich rancher and wealthy in his own right since a maiden aunt left him all her considerable fortune, Mark could also claim to be a cowhand second to none and a master of his trade. Many tales made the rounds on the subject of his giant strength and skill in a roughhouse brawl. Living in the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun-wizard, Mark’s ability as a skilled gunfighter tended to be overlooked, but many competent judges placed him a close second to Dusty Fog in the matter of speedy withdrawal and accurate use of a brace of Colts.
During the previous three years Waco’s name had risen to considerable prominence in connection with the exploits of the elite of the O.D. Connected ranch’s crew, Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. While he bore only the one name, that did not prevent him from gaining the reputation for being a good man to have around in time of trouble. Left an orphan almost from birth, by a Waco Indian raid on a wagon train, he had been raised by one of the travelling families. At thirteen he left his foster home to look for a new life. Even in those early days he owned, wore and could use a gun; an old Navy Colt which took one man’s life. By seventeen he rode for Clay Allison’s wild onion crew and stood at the head of the slippery slope down which more than one handy Texas boy slid into the life of a wanted man on the run. Then he met up dramatically with the Rio Hondo gun-wizard—in fact Dusty Fog pulled Waco almost from under the hooves of a stampeding herd of cattle v —and from then began a steady change. From a proddy, suspicious trigger-fast-and-up-from-Texas kid, he changed into a friendly and useful member of rangeland society. While regarding and treating him as a favorite young brother, the other members of the floating outfit taught him all they could and gave him a practical education of some breadth in its scope. They called him “Boy,” a name he would take only from a select few, but implied in saying the word that he would soon grow up into a real good man.
“How about them two?” asked the marshal, nodding to where men bent examining the two shot hard cases.
“This’n’s done,” said the man by Dave.
“I reckon this jasper’ll live to stretch hemp,” continued another.
“Wonder why they jumped that young feller?” the marshal said, watching the local doctor bend over the victim.
“He was toting a fair wad of money,” the bartender answered.
“Only they looked to be more concerned with taking his gunbelt than searching his pockets,” Waco put in.
“A good gunbelt and brace of Colts worth something,” the marshal pointed out.
“Sure, maybe fifty or so dollars. Inside there, he flashed four times that much in cash money and wo
uldn’t have spent more than twenty or thirty bucks.”
Studying Waco’s face, the marshal nodded. “Makes a change to see a young feller as uses his head for more’n a hat rack. Could be these fellers believed he was Dusty Fog and aimed to make a reputation by shooting him.”
“Except that he’s been hit by a knife,” Mark commented dryly.
“Feller gets to my age, he don’t see things as quick as you young’uns,” the marshal answered. “Reckon Cap’n Fog’s made a few enemies in his time. Could be one of them three was one.”
“Well, I can’t lay claim to knowing all Dusty’s enemies,” Mark replied, “but that bunch don’t put me in mind of anybody we tangled with.”
“Could’ve been hired for it,” Waco suggested. “Took the gunbelt to prove they’d earned their pay.”
“And just happened to be in here?” grunted Mark.
“Why not? We haven’t made any secret about taking those blood horses to Colonel Raines’s place and Junction City’s the most likely place for us to come to happen we need supplies.”
“He’ll live,” the doctor commented, rising from the victim. “I’ll have him moved down to my place when I’ve looked at this other jasper.”
“See if that pair’s got anything in their pockets that might tell us where they come from or what they’re doing here,” the marshal ordered and looked at Mark. “Happen they’d been hired, they’d likely know the man they wanted. Don’t reckon that feller’s so all-fired like Cap’n Fog that they’d make a mistake.”
“Not if they knew Dusty at all,” agreed Mark.
Thinking of the Rio Hondo gun-wizard’s reputation, and studying the victim, the marshal could hardly believe the attackers made a mistake after being hired to kill Dusty Fog. Why that young feller there wouldn’t have the heft of Mark Counter, and the marshal reckoned Dusty Fog must be an even bigger man than the blond giant.
“There’s this sheet of paper in his pocket,” said the man searching Dave’s body, preventing the marshal from commenting on his thoughts.
Taking the folded paper, the marshal opened it and looked down. For once his face showed emotion. Surprise and disbelief crept across his leathery features and he held the paper towards Mark.
“Take a look at this,” the peace officer said.
“Hell-fire!” Mark ejaculated a moment later. “This’s impossible.”
“It sure as hell is!” agreed Waco, grabbing the paper and reading its message. “What’ll we do? It tells us why they were after Dusty.”
“If you don’t need us any more, Marshal,” Mark said, ignoring the youngster’s question. “We’ll take it with us and ride. The sooner I can show it to Dusty, the happier I’ll feel.”
Chapter Three – Wanted Dead, $5,000 Reward
TO EASTERN EYES, the majority of Western men dressed in much the same manner no matter what their trade or vocation. Almost every man wore a wide brimmed hat, an open-necked shirt, a bandana handkerchief of alarming size around the throat, trousers of Levi’s or denim design, boots, and sported a weapon belt carrying one or two holstered revolvers if nothing more. There were, of course, exceptions. Townsmen tended to follow Eastern city fashions; how close they came to the current trend depended on the proximity of stagecoach or rail services which gave access to more cultural areas and the size of their home town. Professional gamblers, bartenders, preachers of the various religious sects all inclined towards a traditional style. Army scouts still could be found in a few areas wearing fringed buckskin after the fashion of the long-departed mountain men. For the rest of the West’s population, the Easterner could rarely differentiate between cowhand, miner, freighter, nester or any of the range country’s less publicized trades.
No Western man experienced such difficulty. While the Stetson hat, or one of its copies, might be standard head wear, a man’s home State could be told from the shape and manner of wearing. Only a Texan born and raised ever achieved the correct, “jack-deuce” angle over the off eye which marked the son of the Lone Star State.
Bandanas also possessed universal appeal; and not merely as a piece of ornamental decoration or open-necked shirt’s tie. Knotted and hung on the most handy peg available, the neck, it served a number of purposes, from nostril cleaner and protector to sling in case of emergency, and was easily reached without the necessity of fumbling in the pants pocket.
Shirts told a little. While a miner often rolled up his sleeves, the cowhand rarely did so. Most of the cowhand’s work was done on the back of a horse and chasing cattle through bushes proved less painful with the shirt’s sleeves down to cover the arms.
Pants offered a much better idea of a man’s employment. A sod-busting nester might wear bib overalls, but no cowhand or miner would. The miner, wishing to keep flying stone chips and dirt out of his boots, tucked his trouser cuffs into them. Leaving his outside the boots, a cowhand turned back the cuffs to act as a repository for nails when performing a task requiring them.
Of all, boots offered the plainest indication. The cowhand sported high heels with which to spoke the ground and hold firm when roping afoot, or grip better in the rain-slicked stirrups of a running horse. Miners and sod-busters, being of a less equestrian turn, preferred low heels and heavier footwear.
A student of Western men might have written a treatise on the subject of saddles as a means of establishing identity and home. Men of Wyoming and the adjacent areas preferred the Cheyenne roll rig designed by Frank Meanea in 1870 and which offered a long leather flange over the rear of the cantle board as an aid to stability. In California the range rider went into action afork a saddle with a soup-plate sized horn, single girth and round saddle skirts. Down in Texas, a square-skirted, low homed, doubled girthed rig was de rigueur. The Texan tied his rope to the saddle when throwing it—figuring to hang on to whatever he caught—instead of dallying the end ready for quick release in an emergency, which was the habit of lesser men.
So it may be seen that, to Western eyes, no two types of employment wore identical clothing.
While the eight riders approaching the halted group of wagons might dress and look like cowhands, at least one person present and watching them read the signs correctly.
Seated on a packing trunk at the side of one of the seven wagons, an obviously Texas-raised cowhand threw a searching glance in the direction of the distant riders and then gave his attention to the man at his side. No Texan, this second traveler. He wore a Stetson, but not in the fashion of a range-bred citizen. Although he had discarded his coat, the collarless shirt, trousers and town shoes marked him as a dude. Tall, in his middle twenties, pleasant featured, he showed all the unmistakable signs of one expecting the momentary arrival of his first child.
“It’s awful quiet in there,” he said, for the seventh time in ten minutes and threw a nervous glance towards the wagon.
“Well now, I’ll tell you one thing,” replied the cowhand in his lazy Texas drawl. “I’ve never yet known Doc to blow one out with dynamite.”
For a moment Maurice Caldwell glared down at the cowhand, then a faint smile wiped away his annoyance at the other’s levity and indifference over so important and earth-shattering an event as took place in the Caldwell wagon. Caldwell could safely say that the event would never have come to other than tragedy had the cowhand’s party not arrived.
The wagons, taking a party of assorted migrants to the fast-growing town of Backsight, carried a number of women qualified to attend a normal birth. Unfortunately Caldwell’s wife ran into the kind of difficulties only a doctor could handle. Even as the train’s scout prepared to make the long dash to Junction City, knowing he had no chance of getting there and back with a doctor in time, the Texan and two companions came on the scene driving a herd of excellently-bred horses. Although only stopping on the chance of obtaining a meal, the men heard of the trouble and acted immediately. Strangely as it at first seemed, the cowhand seated at Caldwell’s side gave the orders. Telling one of his companions to move the remuda out
a piece and hold it, he informed the travelers that the third Texan would take a look into the situation. Caldwell’s feeble objections—he had reached the point where he was willing to snatch at any straws—were swept aside in a spate of medical terms applied correctly and mingled with profanity from the one designated to do the looking. From that point, smoothly and without shouting or bombast, the leader of the trio took complete control. Selecting one of the women to assist his companion, he chivvied the rest about their duties. A couple of boys went out to help the second Texan hold the grazing horse herd and the rest of the travelers continued following the routine established during the trip west from the distant railhead.
Why had it appeared so strange that such an obviously capable man acted as leader of the trio?
The answer was simple; he did not look the part—at first. In height he stood a mere five foot six, and each of his companions could top that by at least six inches. Not that he appeared puny. In fact the spread to his shoulders and general muscular development hinted at strength far beyond his small size. While he wore expensive clothing, he contrived to make them look like somebody’s cast-offs. From black Stetson hat to fancy-stitched boots, he could not be mistaken for other than a Texas cowhand and Western eyes would place him as one of the first water. Small, insignificant he might appear, but when he looked at a man and gave his low-spoken orders, the one listening forgot his lack of inches, feeling latent power and personal magnetism of the dusty blond-haired cowhand. While he wore a finely-constructed gunbelt with matched bone handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers butt forward in the holsters, he did not try to show them off in an attempt to increase his stature.
