by J. T. Edson
“I want some answers, hombre,” growled a voice mean-sounding as a Comanche Dog Soldier’s. “Happen I don’t get ’em, I’m going to whittle your head to a sharp point.”
Chapter Nine – I Smell Trouble
COMING ALONG BACKSIGHT’S main street at noon, Mark Counter grinned at Dusty Fog and studied the deserted sidewalks. On the outskirts of the town, Doc Leroy held the remuda with the aid of a couple of youngsters from Caldwell’s wagon train. Three men would have found difficulty in holding so many horses, so Dusty decided to accept Caldwell’s offer that they travel along with the train. During the remainder of the trip, some of the youngsters travelling West helped handle the horses and learned many useful lessons in animal management. Reaching Backsight, the travelers halted their wagons pending a visit to the Land Office to learn where they might build their permanent homes. Doc knew that Dusty and Mark looked forward to meeting their friends in Backsight, so suggested that he hold the remuda while the other two rode into town.
“Let’s wake them up a mite,” Mark said, drawing his off-side Colt and aiming its nose into the air. Thumbing off three shots, he gave out a wild cowhand yell.
The doors of the Bismai Eating House, before which they sat, burst open and Maisie appeared, a double-barreled ten-gauge shotgun in her hands. Anger showed on her face, but it died, to be replaced by relief as she recognized the two Texans.
“I always knew old Biscuits was lazy,” grinned Dusty, “but I never figured he’d have you doing his law work for him, Maisie.”
“Where is the fattest marshal west of the Pecos?” Mark went on.
“In the back,” Maisie replied, the shotgun’s barrels slanting down to the ground. “He was shot last night.”
Pin-wheeling his Colt back into its holster, Mark dropped from the blood bay and Dusty swung out of his paint’s saddle.
“I’m sorry, Maisie,” the blond giant stated.
“You couldn’t have known,” she answered.
“How’d it happen?” asked Dusty, getting to the point without waste of time. “And how bad is it?”
“It could have been worse, but it’s pretty bad,” Maisie answered, trying to keep any emotion from showing in her voice. “He’s still unconscious, lost a lot of blood, so we don’t know much about how it happened.”
“Is the doctor with him?” Mark asked, thinking that maybe Doc Leroy’s services might be needed.
“He just left. It’s Doctor Wilmott who came out on the train with us.”
“He’s a good man,” Dusty said.
“Where’d the shooting happen, Maisie?” Mark inquired.
“At the edge of town. Biscuits must have been making his late rounds when it happened. The man shot him from the side, bullet went through his arm at the right. Doc says that’s what saved him.”
Only by exerting all her will-power could Maisie keep the anxiety and concern she felt for her husband out of her voice. Yet she knew that every detail remembered might help in locating and identifying the man who shot Biscuits. During the trip West and the early days of the town, Dusty had shown considerable ability as a lawman and Maisie wanted him to take charge of investigating the shooting. “He was shot last night?” Dusty asked.
“Shortly after midnight. Biscuits always made a round of the town about that time. The reason we didn’t find him until this morning is that he always sleeps at the office when there are prisoners in the cells. So I didn’t think anything of it until he missed breakfast.”
“Who’re the prisoners?”
“Bunch of cowhands who tried to tree the town. Biscuits salted them away for the night after they caused trouble in the Arizona.”
“Are they still there?”
“Yes. I thought of releasing them, but decided against it when I heard about Biscuits being shot. But they were in the cells all night and couldn’t have done it.”
“Likely not,” Dusty said, wondering how he could offer to take over the investigation and if his intervention would be necessary.
At that point Maisie suddenly realized that they stood on the sidewalk yet, also noticed the absence of one member of the floating outfit.
“Come inside and take the weight off your feet,” she ordered. “Where’s Lon?”
“Handling something,” Dusty explained and followed Maisie into the building.
Not until she had seated her guests and called up coffee and food would Maisie go into further details about the shooting.
“Could those yahoos Biscuits jailed have had a pard looking for evens?” asked Mark, looking around the room.
“There were only six of them in the bunch he arrested and they’re all in the cells,” Maisie replied. “Most of them are trouble-makers. They could have had a pard come in. But after he shot Biscuits, why didn’t he turn the others free?”
“Maybe in liquor, got all brave and went looking for evens,” Mark suggested. “Then got scared off when he realized what he’d done. Did Biscuits have any other enemies?”
“Every lawman makes a few, of course,” Maisie replied. “But I can’t think of any who’d hate him that much.”
“How about the Considine woman?” Dusty put in. “I heard she’s escaped from the Territorial jail.”
“So she has. Although I think her hate would have been more against you, or me. After all, it was me who shot her. She’d have no reason to go after Biscuits, even if she was around to do it.”
“You know where she might be, Maisie?” Mark inquired.
“Pinkertons traced her to New York and on to a boat bound for Europe.”
“Pinkertons!” Mark spat out.
“Don’t sell them short,” smiled Maisie. “I was one, you know.”
“We try to forget that,” grinned the blond giant, for no Southerner held the Pinkerton Detective Agency in high esteem.
“They are efficient though,” Maisie insisted.
In this instance the Pinkerton Agency had been too efficient and followed a very clever false trail arranged by Donglar. The woman trailed across country, while resembling Anthea Considine—even down to wearing, and letting be seen, a leather cuff around her right arm—was no more than a saloon girl and now enjoyed a boat trip, being under orders to disappear in London, England, for a time.
“Who’s handling the law in town?” Dusty asked casually.
A shade too casually, for Maisie felt relief at the words and saw one of her problems, how to suggest that he take over the office for a time, solved.
“Nobody, Biscuits never had a deputy. We never have any real need for it. The sheriff down at the county seat doesn’t bother us much up here and Biscuits draws pay as his deputy.”
Before any of the party could make more conversation, the main door opened and a trio of men entered. Coming to his feet, Dusty smiled and held out his hand to the approaching trio for he knew them all. Big, burly Jim Lourde, once a Confederate Army sergeant-major and now owner of a prosperous freighting outfit, took the small Texan’s hand. Thad Cauldon, the local gunsmith, greeted the Texans and Doctor Wilmott showed some relief as he looked at two of the quartet of men who helped bring their wagon train safely to Backsight.
“Maisie told you, Cap’n?” asked Lourde.
“She told me,” agreed Dusty.
“We’ve just held a meeting of the Civic Council, Maisie,” Cauldon went on. “Biscuits will be paid fully as long as he’s off his feet. But we’ll have to get a temporary replacement.”
“It’ll be a couple of months at least before he’s fully fit for duty,” Wilmott warned. “And an unfit lawman’s a danger to himself.”
“Don’t worry!” Maisie stated firmly. “Biscuits won’t be back to duty until he’s fully recovered.”
“Which means he won’t,” grinned Lourde, then lost his smile. “We wondered if you could suggest anybody to replace Biscuits, Maisie?”
“Why not come on out and ask Dusty here?” she smiled.
“I can hold the town for a week or so, until you can bring in some
body,” Dusty told the men without waiting to be asked. “Loan me a couple of men, Jim. I want the horses I’ve brought taken out to Colonel Raines’s place. Doc Leroy’ll go along with them. Mark and I’re going to be busy for a spell.”
“I’ll attend to it,” Lourde promised, knowing in what direction the Texans’ activities would be directed. “Come down to the jail and we’ll give you the oath of office.”
Shortly after, Dusty and Mark stood in the office of the jail building and pinned on their badges. Without wasting time, after being officially appointed, the two Texans started to investigate Biscuits’ shooting. Firstly they interviewed the six sullen hard cases in the cells, bringing them into the office individually and questioning them thoroughly. Faced by a pair of obviously tough and competent lawmen, the Whangdoodle hands caused no trouble and each of them stated that he knew nothing of the shooting. Dusty believed them and, on learning that all their fines had been paid, gave them a quiet-spoken but grim warning about their future behavior in town and told them to go back to their outfit.
“I don’t like it, Mark,” Dusty said as they watched the Whangdoodle hands leave town in a far quieter manner than used on entrance. “Don’t ask me why, but I smell trouble.”
During the years he had ridden with Dusty, Mark could remember other times when his companion had the instinct for trouble—it always came shortly after.
“You reckon there’s more than just revenge or an accident behind Biscuits being shot?” asked the blond giant.
“I don’t know. All I know is, nobody shoots a lawman without damned good cause. Now all we have to do is learn why.”
“Best take a look at where it happened,” Mark suggested.
“Know something, Mark?” asked Dusty as they walked towards the place where Biscuits had been found. “I wish Lon was here.”
“Which makes two of us,” Mark agreed.
While both of them could do a certain amount of sign-reading, neither thought he could handle such a chore as well as the Kid. Maybe that Indian-dark young man could have found some sign left by Biscuits’ assailant, but the hard-packed ground kept its secrets from Dusty and Mark.
“Let’s make the rounds and start asking questions,” Dusty said.
During the time they held law badges in Quiet Town and Mulrooney, Dusty and Mark had handled murder investigations and knew the routine. Despite their attempts, neither Texan could find anybody able to shed any light on the affair. Eddy Last stated that to the best of his knowledge no other Whangdoodle hands visited town, nor had any strangers been into his place the previous night. None of the people living close to the scene of the shooting could say for sure if they heard the shot. Visiting the livery barn, Dusty learned that no stranger had put up his horse. Mark saw Doctor Wilmott and obtained the bullet taken from Biscuits’ big frame. While distorted, it appeared to be whole and might possibly tell the Texans something. With that thought in mind, Dusty and Mark made their way towards Cauldon’s gunsmith shop.
So busy had the two Texans been that neither noticed the passing of time. On entering the shop, they found that their work had lasted long enough for Caldwell to have settled his business. The young man stood at the counter of the shop and held a Remington Double Derringer in his hands. Clearly Cauldon’s business was doing well, for he had a good display of arms, ammunition, other shooting items and fishing tackle about the place.
“I thought, after what happened on the way here, that I’d buy a house gun, Captain Fog,” Caldwell explained, although neither Texan saw anything strange in a man buying a firearm.
“They do say the time to buy a gun’s before you have trouble,” Mark said dryly. “How well can you shoot?”
“Well, I—” hesitated Caldwell, not wanting to admit his lack of knowledge to such competent performers.
“Have you ever used a gun before?” Dusty inquired.
“Not one of this type,” Caldwell said evasively. “It’s quite simple to handle though.” While speaking, he proceeded to demonstrate his knowledge of firearms. “All one does is press the catch here, break open the gun,” he performed the necessary actions, then reached for the box of bullets which he had purchased, thought better of it and merely went through the motions of placing a round into each of the super-posed barrels. “Then close it up—”
“And blow a hole in your belly,” Dusty finished. “Do you have a sighting alley out back, Thad?”
“Sure thing, Captain,” Cauldon agreed.
In common with many similar establishments, Cauldon offered his customers the opportunity of test-firing any weapon purchased. He led the way through the rear of the building and into a small dry wash. At about thirty yards range stood a back-stop made of two stout timber walls about twenty-four inches apart, the gap between packed with earth; not even one of the heavy caliber buffalo rifles could throw a bullet through first one wall, then the earth and finally out of the rear, so the range could be used without danger to anybody beyond the line of fire.
Taking the Double Derringer from Caldwell, Dusty broke it and, gripping the barrels in his left hand so that the muzzle pointed away from him, placed home two bullets. He took the butt of the weapon in his right hand and closed the working parts. The instant the breech clanged, a crack sounded, flame lanced from the Derringer’s upper barrel and a bullet smacked into the back-stop.
“What the—?” gasped Caldwell. “The gun must be faulty.”
“No. But your knowledge is,” Dusty corrected. “The Remington Double Derringer’s a fine little gun, but it has one real bad fault.”
“What is it?” Caldwell asked, staring at the gun and remembering how he held its muzzle towards him when he demonstrated the wrong method to load it.
Opening the gun once more—it worked on much the same loading principle as a double barrel shotgun, the barrels hinging down from the butt and the bullets being fed directly into them—Dusty pointed to the striker of the hammer.
“See this, well with the hammer down, it sticks forward far enough to touch the rim of the bullet. Happen you try loading with the hammer down, the striker hits the rim and fires off the charge when you snap the gun closed.”
“Then how do you do it?” Caldwell inquired.
“Just pull back the hammer to half cock,” Dusty explained, demonstrating. “Now the striker’s back out of the way. You can carry the gun safely like that and when you need it, just draw back and cut loose.”
“Was it me,” Mark put in. “I’d buy me a revolver, or a shotgun, they’re a whole heap safer for a man who doesn’t know sic ’em about guns.”
“But I only want the gun to scare people,” objected Caldwell.
“Then don’t buy it,” warned Dusty. “One thing you never want to do is point a gun at a man unless you’re willing and ready to use it. Come on, let’s see how you can shoot.”
During the next hour or so Caldwell learned much about both practical gun handling and the deadly business of fighting with a firearm. While he had merely intended to buy the Derringer as a house defense to be used to frighten away intruders, he soon learned that such an idea was regarded by the Texans and Cauldon as stupid. Being a smart young man, Caldwell listened to what the others told him and accepted Mark’s offer of instruction in the use of weapons.
“You’d best let Thad do that, Mark,” Dusty remarked. “We’ll have too much on for you to handle it properly.”
“Will you, Thad?” asked Caldwell, looking at the tall, slim man and wondering why the Texans accepted the bespectacled gunsmith as their equal in such matters.
“I’ll tend to it,” Cauldon agreed. “Only you’d best leave the gun’s purchase until after you know how to handle it.”
“You couldn’t be in better hands,” Dusty told Caldwell as they left the building. “Thad’s the best gunsmith in Arizona Territory.”
Beyond that Dusty did not go, although he could have told Caldwell plenty about the man called Thad Cauldon.
After returning to his wagon, Cald
well saw his family settled for the night and then went to the Arizona State Saloon. His presence at the wagon would not be needed for a welcome committee of the town’s ladies arrived to visit and his wife found herself busy making new friends. In the saloon, Caldwell was gathered in by several local men, Cauldon among them. During the course of an enjoyable evening, he learned much about the town and heard of the wagon train which brought Cauldon and the others to Backsight. It seemed that the Texans who helped Caldwell also did much to ensure the safe arrival of the previous train. Caldwell heard of the various adventures run into by the train, including an Apache attack which the Ysabel Kid brought to an end by shooting the war leader of the Indians at very long range, using a rifle borrowed from Cauldon.
Dusty and Mark looked in on the saloon for a short time, then returned to the Bismai Eating House. Shortly after leaving Caldwell and Cauldon, they had visited Maisie and learned that Biscuits had recovered but was too weak to talk. On reaching the Bismai, Maisie greeted them and one of her Chinese waiters brought a meal for the Texans.
“I talked with Biscuits,” she said. “He doesn’t remember a thing.”
“We got the bullet weighed,” Dusty told her. “It went two hundred grains on Thad Ba—Cauldon’s scales.”
“Which same, a .45 Colt takes two hundred and fifty grains of lead,” Mark went on. “We figure a .44-40 Winchester bullet’d be about right.”
“And that could explain why nobody heard the shot,” Maisie said. “Whoever did the shooting must have stood a fair way off—no, it was a dark night—”
“Sure,” Dusty agreed.
“But up close a Winchester—” Maisie stopped as she realized it was her husband she discussed.
“There’re revolvers built to take the Winchester .44-40,” Dusty pointed out. “We’ll just have to look for one that does, then find out where its owner was last night.”
