by J. T. Edson
A belt meant that man was more than just one of the top guns. Old Joe Gaylin, the El Paso leather worker, would sell his saddles or boots to any man who could meet his high prices; not so his gunbelts. He chose the men who wore his belts, chose them and made each belt with care and attention. There were not more than thirty in the West. Dusty had one, Mark Counter another. A third was owned by another member of the floating outfit who stayed at the OD Connected.
Dusty and Mark rode slowly along the street, headed for the livery barn. The few people about at that early hour gave them no more than a passing glance. At the door of the barn the two men swung down from their horses and led them into the cool of the building. The owner, Blinky Holmes, watched, studying them with eyes which knew cowhand sign and read them for what they were.
“Ole Thunder’s not here, Mark,” said Dusty, looking at the line of stalls. He knew the Kid would never leave his horse in an open corral for Thunder took exception to strange horses.
“Never thought he would be.” Mark’s voice was a deep, cultured Texas drawl. “Had he been here we’d never hear the last of it. I told you we shouldn’t have gone visiting with Cousin Dan. We’re two days late.”
Dusty did not point out that it was Mark’s cousin they went to visit. “Anyways, ole Lon’s not here, nor likely to be unless Miss Juanita got sense and run him off.”
“Howdy gents,” greeted Blinky, coming forward. His eyelids flickering in the manner which gave him his name. “Rid far?”
“Fair piece,” Dusty agreed.
Mark was attending to his big horse, loosening the girths and working the saddle back and forwards to cool the bloodbay’s back. He knew that, along with barbers, livery barn owners were amongst the world’s great gossips, so the old timer would be the best one to ask about the Ysabel Kid.
“Have you seen anything of a Texas boy, rides a big white stallion, dresses all in black. Totes a Second Model Dragoon gun and a bowie knife. Had him a real good Winchester, unless he gave it to Miss Juanita.”
“Ain’t seed him,” answered Blinky. He could think of only one young man who answered to that description and that gave him a possible clue to these two. “Sounds tolerable fierce, toting all that armament.”
“Sure does,” Mark grinned, “but don’t let it fool you any. He’s not.”
“Any other place he could leave his hoss, friend?” inquired Dusty, taking the double-girthed saddle from his paint. “We’ll leave our’n here and our gear in the office, if we can. We’ll be back for it if we decide to stay on.”
“Ain’t but the one livery in town—ain’t hardly enough trade for this one, comes to that. He might be at one of the saloons. Or there’s a hotel back of here, but it don’t have no stables.” Blinky replied, then went on to answer Dusty’s second request. “There’s a burro over in the corner, hang your saddles up. Leave your bed-rolls in the office. You wanting to use the corral, or have a stall each?”
“Stalls,” replied Dusty. “We’ll give the hosses a treat.”
Blinky eyed the two stallions with the air of a man who knew horses. “Yours or mine?” he asked.
Dusty and Mark carried their saddles to the burro, the inverted V-shaped structure which ran along one side of the building. A cowhand would always use a burro if one was available. One worth his salt would never neglect his saddle; without it he was helpless for the cowhand’s work was almost all' done from the back of a horse. Unstrapping the bedrolls, Dusty and Mark went to the office and put the bundles in the corner out of the way.
All the time Blinky was watching them with undisguised interest. He knew cowhands, knew the pair to be top hands and guessed they were outstanding. Both Dusty and Mark realized the old man was seething with curiosity and let him seethe, not offering to introduce themselves. By the unwritten law of the West, Blinky could not ask them a direct question. A man did not ask another’s name. At least not twice.
“I ain’t seed either of you gents afore,” said Blinky, trying tact to satisfy his curiosity.
“You sure have, friend,” corrected Mark. “Afore and behind. Afore when we came in here and behind when we walked away from you. Mind you, ole Dusty here looks better from behind.”
Dusty favored Mark with a look of disgust, then turned to Blinky and lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Truth is, Mark and I haven’t been this way before. We came to see what they did with the leavings when they finished Texas.”
Blinky snorted in annoyance. He was New Mexico born and proud of it. “If Texas’s so good how come the Grand Canyon’s in Arizona?”
“Just goes to show the folks in Arizona don’t know when, to stop,” Dusty answered. “If that hombre we were asking about comes in looking for us, tell him we came and have gone to the Gunn River for a meal.”
“Who’ll he ask for?”
“Likely to ask for near on anybody,” replied Dusty, grinning.
Blinky showed his disgust as he studied every detail of their dress and armament. His next question bordered on the verge of polite frontier conversation. “How’ll I be able to tell him your names if he does ask?”
Dusty and Mark were already walking towards the doors. They halted and looked at the old man. A mischievous smile played on Dusty’s lips as he said:
“Why, ole Lon’s known us for years now. He knows our names.”
Before the enraged, spluttering Blinky could say another word the two young men had walked through the doors. He stopped, muttering to himself, a crafty gleam in his eyes. Turning, he went towards the stall to see what brands the horses carried. He stopped, an angry grunt coming from his lips. The two big stallions stood facing him, he could not read their brands. Curious or not, Blinky was too wise a man to enter the stalls. Any man who did, if he was a stranger to either paint or bloodbay, would not walk out again and would not be nice to carry out, either.
“Huh!” grunted Blinky, eying the horses in the same way he had looked at their masters. “Texas men and Texas hosses is all alike. Awkward, plumb awkward.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “Now who be ye? Dusty and Mark! Naw, it can’t be.” Turning, he ambled towards the office, then stopped as a thought struck him. “Wes Hardin’s in town. Wonder if they’re looking for him?”
Unaware of the speculation they had aroused, Dusty and Mark walked along the sidewalk, making for the Gunn River Saloon. They could see no sign of either the Ysabel Kid or his horse and Thunder stood out in any crowd, for there were few as big and well-shaped as the white stallion.
Being new to this section, Dusty and Mark gave the town a little attention. Escopeta was no different from many another cow town they had seen in their travels around the country. It was pleasant enough but nothing when compared with such cow land capitals as Dodge City, Newton, Hays, Fort Worth or El Paso. The few people they saw were either nesters or cowhands.
The two Texans could feel an undercurrent of dislike and distrust between the two groups. Nesters and cowhands made a dangerous mixture and rarely came together without some kind of trouble. The dislike showed on the faces of the nesters as they passed, for Dusty and Mark were cowhands, tough gun-toting cowhands. In a town where dislike had turned to open war, such men as Dusty and Mark would fight for the ranchers.
The Gunn River Saloon was reached without incident. It was empty at this early hour of the morning, and would not have been open at all but the owner was cleaning up from the previous night’s poker game. Frank Gunn put his broom by the side of the counter, mentally decided that he would change his rule of, “Win or lose, the game closes at eight thirty in the morning,” and went behind the bar to greet the two customers. He leaned his elbows on the bar, watching the two men. Gunn was big, almost as big and broad as Mark Counter. His shirt neck was open and stained with sweat from the all-night game. He was tired but always a good host and never turned away custom. Frank Gunn was an accomplished talker, and a better listener. He could, and liked to, talk and listen on any given subject: there were few better informed men in
New Mexico Territory.
“Howdy,” Mark greeted, halting at the bar. “Two beers and take something yourself.”
Gunn reached under the bar, producing three bottles of beer: he made it a rule to drink the same as his customers. He opened the bottles and slid glasses along the bar to Dusty and Mark. His eyes studied them, eyes, which read the signs as well as had the old-timer at the livery barn. He could see Dusty and Mark were good with their guns and wondered if they were looking for Wes Hardin, who was at the Banking House saloon after playing in the poker game. Wes Hardin, the notorious Texas gunfighter was in Escopeta, under the thin alias of Johnson, to play poker—and avoid the Texas law.
Frank Gunn shook his head when Mark inquired after the Ysabel Kid. He noted the description given and was thoughtful. He was interested in the newcomers, more so because of certain happenings in Gunn River County.
“Do you serve food, friend?” inquired Dusty, picking up his glass.
“Sure, got me a Mex who cooks a mite. I’ll tell him to throw some more food in the pan for you. What’ll it be, french fried, eggs and ham?”
“We got a choice?” Mark asked.
“Not unless you want to go out, rope and butcher a steer.” With that Gunn turned and yelled an order for two more meals. A blistering retort in Spanish echoed from the kitchen.
“Reckon it’ll be french fried, ham and eggs, then,” said Dusty, then turned to Mark. “We’ll give Lon a couple more days, looks like we beat him here.”
“He often late?” Gunn inquired, joining in the conversation once more.
“Sure. Only one I’ve seen worse is Mark here.”
Mark looked shocked at this. “Me! Why I’ve never been more than three days late—she was. worth it, too.”
Gunn was still studying the two Texans. He knew their kind, knew them as enemy in the War, and friend in time of peace. He was not deceived by Dusty’s insignificant appearance recognizing his true potential.
“Just rode in, gents?” he inquired, using the recognized opener to a conversation. It left them free to give such information as was necessary. That much and no more.
“Sure,” answered Mark, “just been over to Cochise County with a herd for Texas John. Stopped in at Dan Mason’s on the way back. Told us to say hello to you when we got here.”
“How’s Dan, ain’t seen him in a coon’s age?”
“Nor likely to. Cousin Dan’s Diana just had her third. A right smart lil shaver he is. We wound up being godfathers.” There was a pointer in the words. Dan Mason was a Texas man who owned his own spread and was kin to some well-known Texans; one family in particular, the Counters. The big blond cowhand must be one of Ranse Counter’s sons; he certainly showed his father’s heft. The small man called him Mark. If he was Mark Counter the smaller man must be ...
“The name’s Frank Gunn, gents.”
“Howdy, I’m Dusty Fog and this is Mark Counter.”
The Mexican brought food on a tray, taking it to a table. Gunn came out from behind the bar and joined the two young men. They ate the meal in silence, got their smokes going and leaned back in their chairs. Gunn pulled at his cigar. He watched his two customers and wondered if their presence in town was just an accident, or if they were here for some reason. Colt Blayne, leader of the Gunn River ranchers, was a Texas man and might have written to Ole Devil Hardin for help. Gunn hoped this was correct for with Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid in the area there was a chance of ending the trouble.
Gunn loved his county. He had been the first white settler here; the Gunn River was called after him. He had seen it turn from a wild land where Mexicans and raiding Apaches roamed to a peaceful cattle range. He had seen the nesters come and be received as friends; and now the mysterious trouble for which there was neither reason nor cause had started. Gunn knew the effect of a range-war on a peaceful country: it would ruin many of his friends.
“Nice lil town you’ve got here, friend,” Dusty remarked, guessing at the interest he was arousing. “Much trade for two saloons?”
“Enough. We make a living. I thought I’d lose some trade when the Banking House opened. Did at first but it works out about even.”
“The other place looks all right,” Mark put in, “a mite flashy though!”
“It is all right. Feller as owns it sees to that. Rangoon’s a real nice lil gent. Got him good sense, hires some hard boys to keep things quiet.”
But neither of the Texans were listening to him. With a gunfighter’s precaution they had seated themselves facing the doors of the saloon and could see anyone passing either door or windows. Their faces set in grim lines as they saw two men riding by. Gunn turned and saw the men, one of them leading a big white horse.
Dusty gripped the edge of the table hard, his knuckles white under the skin. His eyes met Mark’s as he thrust back his chair. “Let’s make some talk!”
They came to their feet and walked from the saloon without a word of explanation. Their full attention was on the street, on the two men who were riding towards the Banking House saloon; and on the big white stallion one of the men led. Dusty and Mark were now sure: that horse was Thunder, they were certain of it for they knew the big white as well as they knew their own mounts. The Kid was afoot, in bad trouble. There were questions to be asked and Dusty Fog meant to see the answers were forthcoming.
The few people about watched Dusty and Mark leave the saloon and step on to the gunman’s sidewalk, the center of the street. They saw the two Texans out there and with Western insight headed for cover. Trouble was in the air, between the two young Texans and the men who were swinging from their horses in front of the Banking House saloon.
Jarman was not happy about the man with him. Smith was a fool; a drunken, loud-talking fool. The gunman was relieved when they swung down at the Banking House saloon. In a few minutes Banjo would have bought the big white horse and Jarman could be on his way. News of the Ysabel Kid’s death would get out soon enough and he did not want to be around. There would soon be a bunch of men here who could handle all his boss’s hired guns; they would be looking for the men who killed the Kid.
“Where did you get that horse?”
Jarman half turned. His face lost its color as he looked at the two Texas men: only a friend of the Ysabel Kid would ask such a question. Standing between the horses he studied the two young men, noting the butt forward, white-handled guns and knowing who they belonged to.
Smith turned, a truculent, drunken sneer on his face. He had been hitting a bottle on the way into town, it slowed his reactions and to his whiskey-dulled brain these two men were nothing but nosy cowhands.
“What’s it to you?” Smith growled, teetering on his heels.
“It belongs to our pard,” Mark said, in case there was a reasonable explanation of the affair. The Ysabel Kid might have been thrown and the big white found straying, although that was not likely. Thunder would never leave his master without orders.
“We bought him, didn’t we, Jarman?” Smith sneered, his drunken mind full of his own prowess.
“You’re a liar, mister!” Dusty spoke in a deadly voice. “Lon wouldn’t sell his horse.”
“That so?” Smith’s voice dropped to a snarl. “You keep pushing your face in and we’ll show you how we bought the white. Won’t we, Jarman?”
Jarman did not reply. He was partially hidden by the two horses and stood with his left hand gripping the hitching rail. Smith was not in the class to challenge Dusty Fog and Mark Counter to a shoot-out, but he was fool enough, and drunk enough, to try it, Jarman was scared for the first time in his life, scared and thinking fast. The Texans would be concentrating on Smith, Jarman hoped. When the shooting started he would swing himself on to the sidewalk, run round the side of the saloon and hide. The Texans did not know the town and he might escape them. Then he could get a horse and clear out of the town.
“This’s the last time I’ll ask,” said Mark Counter grimly. “Where did you get that horse?”
&nb
sp; Smith’s hand dropped to his side; Mark Counter’s right hand scooped his long-barreled Colt from the holster. The ivory-butted gun roared, kicked up and sent lead into Smith’s body, knocking him from his feet. He went down, hand clawing weakly at his chest; his gun not even clear of leather.
Jarman saw the trouble, ducked under the hitching rail and lit down on the sidewalk running for the corner of the building. He heard the crash of a shot and hoped both Texans were concentrating on Smith, allowing him to get away. It was a faint hope, for Dusty Fog was not bothering with Smith at all. Even as Jarman grabbed at the hitching rail, Dusty was moving to intercept him.
With the ability to look ahead and think as the other man was thinking, Dusty acted fast. He guessed the way Jarman was going and knew full well that Mark was able to handle the other man. He leapt forward to the sidewalk. His left hand crossed his body and the Colt slid from the right side holster. As he landed, drawing back the gun’s hammer, he barked out a command.
“Hold it up there!”
Jarman saw that he had made a mistake and came round, gun leaping from leather with the speed of desperation. Even though he had never worked faster, Jarman was off balance; he got off one shot and missed. Dusty’s gun roared back in answer. Flame blossomed from the muzzle of his Colt, the lead ripping into Jarman’s head. Dusty shot to kill. He regretted doing it but with a man as fast as Jarman there was no time to take chances.
“How’s yours, Mark?” asked Dusty.
“Cashed!” Mark replied. “And we still don’t know what happened to Lon.”
Three – A Real Nice Little Man
Men came from the saloon, pushing open the batwing doors at the sounds of shots. Dusty Fog and Mark Counter stood side by side, guns in hand, looking for the local law but seeing no sign of it. The men from the saloon gathered on to the sidewalk, looking down at the two bodies.
