by J. T. Edson
Dropping the rifle she turned and darted across the room, taking the Pettingill revolver from the holster. She ran along the passage, facing the door and gripping the gun in both hands. The Pettingill was hammerless, a double-action weapon and it took strength to draw the trigger back. She lined the gun on the door as the handle moved, then jerked the trigger, tilting the barrel of the revolver up and sending the bullet into the wall over the door.
“What the hell’s going on, gal?” asked an irascible voice.
A big, burly man came from the end bedroom. His brick-red face was angry though partially hidden by an enormous moustache. He advanced on the girl shambling along like a huge bear.
“The men who shot Loncey have come back, Doc,” explained Lindy, pointing to the door. “They’re outside now.”
“Are they now?” Doc Bohasker growled. “Give me the gun, gal. I’ll drum up some business.”
Lindy did not argue, but handed the gun over for she knew Bohasker could handle it better than she. He hefted the Pettingill with some distaste and then strode towards the door, the girl following on his heels.
Dusty and Mark had reached the house and were flattened against the wall on either side of the door. They had seen the rifle leave the window and knew what might have happened. There was a chance they would get in and talk with the girl without being shot.
From inside the house came the flat crack of a light caliber revolver. Then behind them, Dusty and Mark heard the drumming of hooves and a voice.
“Hold it right there!”
They turned to see two men riding through the gate and up the path. The shorter of the pair must have been the one who spoke for he held a Winchester rifle across his saddle. He was a stocky man in range clothes, a county sheriff’s star on his calfskin vest. He rode with a cowhand’s grace, afork a good horse. The quality of his clothing showed he was an honest sheriff in a poor county. Around his waist was a gunbelt, a fighting man’s rig and the old 1860 Army Colt in the holster showed signs of use.
The other man was taller, slim and mild-looking and rode a tired horse. He was a poor nester, a man trying to wrest a living from an unfriendly land. It was he who spoke:
“What do you men want here?”
“Our pard’s been hurt, his hoss led us here,” answered Dusty, moving forward. “The lady inside won’t listen any.”
The farmer looked at his house with worried eyes. He’d seen the dead horse and the blood on the path and now this cowhand was talking about a wounded friend. It did not make sense to him. “But what happened? What is that dead horse—?”
“Don’t ask us,” replied Mark grimly. “We came up just now, that hoss’s been dead a piece. The lady started in to shooting as soon as she saw us and won’t let us talk any. If our pard is in there we want to know about him.”
Brick Hollister, sheriff of Gunn River County, kept his rifle on his knees, lining it without conscious effort on Mark. He gave Mark his full attention, making a basic and very dangerous mistake. His was disregarding Dusty Fog and it could cost him his life. He stiffened slightly as he heard the sound of a gun cocking on his other side.
“Boot the rifle, sheriff!” Dusty ordered.
Hollister looked across Mahon at Dusty, noticing the stance and wondering how he could have made such a fool mistake. “Go ahead and use it. If you reckon you can get me before I down your pard.”
“Don’t aim to try, sheriff. I’ll holster my gun if you boot the rifle.”
Hollister thought this over fast. He had made a bad mistake in dismissing the small man. That gun was held in the hand of a master. Hollister knew the small Texan did not need to call the play this way; the sheriff would have been dead without even knowing what hit him. So Hollister made the wisest decision. He slid the rifle back into the saddle boot.
“All right, let’s have some talk.”
At that moment the door of the house was thrown open and Bohasker came out with Lindy on his heels. She saw the sheriff sliding his rifle away and panic hit her. She grabbed the revolver and lunged forward, jerking it from Bohasker’s hand, yelling:
“Father, these men attacked us and shot the young man who tried to stop them.”
Mahon was a peaceable man, but no coward. He did not know what his daughter was talking about, but acted. Leaning over he started to jerk the long-barreled Army Colt from Hollister’s holster. At the same instant Lindy started forward, the Pettingill revolver swinging round to line at Dusty Fog.
Four – The Trouble With Trouble
Brick Hollister gave a startled yell, hand slapping down at his side as he felt his gun being jerked from his holster. But he was too slow to prevent Mahon drawing the old Army Colt. Dusty Fog was moving with the speed which made his name a legend. He was in close as Mahon started to swing the gun around towards him. His reaching hands caught Mahon’s boot, jerked it from the stirrup then thrust upwards. Mahon gave a yell as he lost his balance and let the gun fall. He grabbed at, and missed, the saddlehorn, then fell, kicking his other foot free and breaking his fall with his hands. Even as he landed Mahon saw the small Texan picking up the gun.
Lindy lunged forward, the old Pettingill ready for use, meaning to protect her father. Mark Counter’s left hand shot out from the side of the door, gripping the chamber of the revolver and twisting it, preventing her firing. Then with a quick pull he plucked the gun from her hand. His right hand went down, came up again, the ivory-butted Colt lining on Hollister.
“Hold right as you are, sheriff!”
Hollister froze, bending forward with hands scant inches from the butt of his rifle. He stayed still, very still, knowing that there was another good man with a gun. He also knew that many a gun as good as either of the pair would have downed Mahon as soon as he made that stupid move. That they did not, warned Hollister that all was far from being as it appeared on the surface. These two Texans were no trigger-fast hired killers, for if they were both he and Mahon would be dead right now.
“Keep still, all of you!” snapped Dusty, moving to jerk the rifle from Hollister’s saddle boot. Now he and Mark held all the visible weapons.
Lindy stared at the rifle and revolver Dusty held, then at the Pettingill in Mark’s hand. She realized that they were now unarmed and at the mercy of the two grim young men. The Ysabel Kid’s old Dragoon revolver lay on the sideboard in the living-room, but it was empty. She felt ready to break down and sob, they were in the hands of two men she had tried to shoot.
It was Bohasker who broke the deadlock, moving forward and ignoring the Colt in Mark’s hand. “Reckon you don’t aim to use that gun, friend, so put it away. If you’d been fixing to kill any of us you’d have done it by now.”
Mark’s long-barreled Colt spun on his finger, dropping back into leather. He turned and smiled at Lindy. It was a smile which charmed kisses from girls and food from cooks from Texas to Montana and back the long way. Reversing the Pettingill, Mark held it out to the girl.
“Here, ma’am. I hope I didn’t hurt you when I took it. I don’t like these hammerless guns, a man never knows when the trigger’s far enough back to fire them.”
“Now let’s have some sensible talk for gawd’s sake!” Dusty snapped, handing Hollister the rifle and revolver. “We ran across two men in town, they’d got our pard’s horse and we wanted to know why. So we turned ole Thunder loose and he brought us here. Then somebody started shooting at us and wouldn’t let us talk. That’s why we came in like we did, tried to get near enough to make talk without being shot.”
Lindy saw the big white standing with the other two horses and remembered something the Ysabel Kid had told her.
“Loncey said he was going to meet two friends in town. You must be the two.”
“Why sure,” agreed Dusty, then nodded to Mark as he walked back along the path to the white, reaching out a hand to stroke its neck. Dusty went on, “I reckon Lon warned you not to touch his hoss, there aren’t many ole Thunder’ll let do it.”
“He told me that,�
�� Lindy smiled, relief flooding over her.
“If you look in his war bag you’ll find a Colt Dragoon,” Dusty went on, “one of the Third Model, with the detachable canteen-carbine stock. There’s a plate in the butt that reads, ‘To Mason Haines from his good friend, Jethro Kliddoe’.”
The others looked at each other now, knowing a tragedy had been averted only because the two Texans knew how to control their emotions and tempers. They did not need further proof of the connection between the two Texans and the man in the house. Lindy was sure they were the friends her guest was meeting in Escopeta. They were so much like Loncey, slow talking, polite, yet terribly swift in action. She had thought Loncey was fast, but not when compared with the small Texan. There was one more proof, she decided, no stranger could guess the white horse was called Thunder.
“Yes, you are his friends.”
“Yes’m!” answered Dusty. Mark was back by his side now and silent. Dusty hoped his friend would do the talking.
Mark did not speak. His throat felt as if it was blocked and his usually glib tongue stilled. He did not dare ask the question which seethed in his mind, but neither he nor Dusty dared hope the Kid was still alive, not after the way the girl had spoken when they arrived. The Kid was dead, they were both sure.
At last Dusty drew in a deep breath. His fingers worked spasmodically by his side, his face set grimly. “Is he—?”
Even now he could not bring himself to finish off the sentence.
“No he ain’t,” replied Bohasker huffily. “I might not be a halfway good doctor, but when I get to them in time they mostly live.”
It took some seconds for Dusty and Mark to understand what was said, to understand what it meant. Then a relief almost too great to bear flooded over them. The Ysabel Kid was not dead after all: he was alive. With an ornery old cuss like Lon that was all that mattered; give him anywhere near a fighting chance and he would come through.
Mrs. Mahon advanced from the passage where she had been watching. “He’s badly hurt, but he’ll live.”
“Yes’m,” said Dusty. His face showed the relief he felt and he sighed. “Can we see him, please?”
Mahon got to his feet, shaken by the fall and still confused. He looked around him, then asked, “What’s been happening here? What horse is that out there?”
His wife ignored the questions, she was watching the faces of the two young Texans. Both were under a considerable strain, worrying over their friend’s fate. It struck her in that moment how lucky her husband was to still be alive. Many men, particularly when as fast and efficient as these two, would have shot Mahon down and never given it a second thought. Even two such pleasant-looking men might, under the strain, have lost their tempers and acted without thinking. She knew the best way to ease the tension.
“Come inside, all of you. There’s a lot to tell and from the looks of these two they need a seat and a cup of coffee before we tell it.”
Dusty and Mark looked at each other, seeing the signs of the strain they had both been under. Dusty suddenly felt as he had the time he spent over three days continuously in the saddle dry-driving a trail herd. ii He was tired and exhausted but managed a smile.
“How bad is he?”
“Not another word until you’ve taken a cup of coffee!” Mrs. Mahon interrupted. “Let’s go inside.”
Dusty was a cowhand; he thought of his horse before his own welfare. “We’ll tend to the horses if you don’t mind, ma’am. And bring Lon’s gear in the house.”
Mrs. Mahon spent the time explaining to her husband and the sheriff what had happened. Hollister listened to the story without a word. He was thoughtful, wondering what was behind the trouble in the Gunn River country. Then when Dusty and Mark returned, the party went into the house. Mahon led the way to the living-room and the men sat around. Hollister tilted back his chair, resting it on the back legs as he studied the two young men, wondering who they were. One thing he knew for sure—they were more than just fast with their guns: they belonged to that magic-handed group known as top-guns. He was willing to go further and say they were the fastest he had ever seen and quickly ran his mind over the descriptions of such wizards of the tied-down holsters as Ben Thompson, Clay Allison, Bill Longley, Jim Courtright or Bass Outlaw. None of the descriptions fitted either of these two young men. Neither one could be Wes Hardin, for Hollister knew who “Mr. Johnson” in town was. There was the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, the big man might be him, except that Dusty Fog used the cross draw. Hollister’s eyes went to Dusty’s guns, noticing how they lay, butt forward. That was how the Rio Hondo gun wizard wore his guns, but a small, insignificant boy like this could not be Dusty Fog.
The coffee was cowhand style, thick, hot, strong and sweet. The Texans drank the scalding brew with relish. Mrs. Mahon waited until they had finished, then opened the door and smiled.
“Come along and see your friend now.”
Dusty and Mark followed the woman from the room. Lindy, not wishing to miss anything, swooped along the table, cleared up the cups, took them into the kitchen and then followed her mother. Bohasker looked up with an annoyed grunt, but allowed the two cowhands into the room. He growled a warning that they could not stay long and moved back.
The Ysabel Kid lay in the bed, clean sheets drawn up to his chin. His face was pallid under the tan, but the pain was gone and he might have been asleep. His clothes lay in a tidy pile on a chair by the bed, his gunbelt hung over the back, the holster empty and the knife still sheathed.
“That young cuss should be dead by any fair means,” growled Bohasker with some satisfaction. “The bullet hit him in the body, glanced off his ribs, made a real bad tear and broke the rib. He’ll live, his kind’s too tough to die of something as simple as a broken rib. Lucky I was over to the Temple place, handling a confinement. Heard the shooting and came over.”
“Thanks, Doc,” said Dusty, gratitude plain in his voice. “You get him on his feet again and I’ll cover any bill you want to put in. Not that he’s worth a cuss one way or another, but we’ve had him around so long we’ve got used to him.”
“Say,” put in Mark, he had been looking at the empty holster and was puzzled. “Where’s Lon’s handgun? They didn’t tote it off with them, did they?”
Mrs. Mahon shook her head. She watched the way the two men tried to hide their feelings for the boy. They must have been suffering the tortures of the damned not knowing what had happened to him. Now, even more than before, she saw how lucky her husband was to be alive.
“No,” she replied, “they didn’t take the gun. We brought it into the house and I left it in the living-room.”
“Pity,” grunted Mark. “I thought we’d seen the last of that damned relic.”
The Ysabel Kid’s preference for his old, four-pound, Colt Dragoon revolver was a standing joke with the other members of the floating outfit. It was one of the square-backed trigger guard, Second Model, made around 1850, and was superseded by the Third Model Dragoon, the 1860 Army model, various conversions by Richardson or Thuer to fire metallic cartridges and by the 1873 Model P., Colonel Sam’s fabulous Peacemaker. Despite all the developments, despite the advantages metal cartridges gave for ease of loading, the Kid clung to and swore by his old Dragoon. He frequently declared, and proved, the Dragoon’s reliability and man-stopping power.
“I think we’d better leave now,” Mrs. Mahon said, catching Bohasker’s sign. “He mustn’t be disturbed from his sleep.”
“That’s right. Sleep’s what he wants,” agreed Bohasker. He was looking at Dusty and wondering who the small Texan was to speak with such authority about meeting the bill for the treatment of his friend.
Mrs. Mahon followed the Texans to the living-room again. Hollister watched them come in but did not speak. He tilted himself further back on the chair legs in his favorite way of thinking. Over the years he had learnt to tilt a chair to some amazing angles without falling over backwards. He was a strong believer in thought before speech and was t
urning everything over in his mind. When the time came he would be ready to ask any questions he thought necessary.
Mark asked Mrs. Mahon if he could fetch the Kid’s saddle from where he had left it at the door. She took him out and Dusty went to the sideboard, picking up the old Dragoon. Setting the gun at half-cock he rolled the cylinder under his thumb and checked the chambers. The gun was empty, that meant some of the other men were dead. The Ysabel Kid might speak disdainfully of pistol shooting and boast of being a poor shot, but he could hit his mark when he needed to do so.
Mark brought in the saddle, laying it carefully on one side, then took the bedroll, opened it and removed the powder flask, bullet bag and roll of cleaning gear. Joining the others at the table he started to clean the old Dragoon, handling it with a care that his earlier scoffing did not warrant.
Lindy picked up the old rifle and looked down at the open breech. Dusty saw the expression on her face and joined her. “What happened, the usual?”
“Usual?” inquired Lindy, looking puzzled.
“Sure, the extractor ripping the head off the cartridge. That’s the usual thing goes wrong with the Springfield.” He told her, “Fact being, along with the stupidity of their leader that’s what cost Custer’s command their lives. I’ll dig out the burnt case if you’ll promise not to shoot it off at me again.” Lindy’s face reddened, then she smiled, realizing Dusty was only having a joke. Mark looked up from the gun, studied the girl for a long moment, frowned and said:
“Know something? This’s the first time a daughter ever took a shot at me—at least, it’s the first time one took a shot at me on my way in.”
“What happened here?”
All eyes turned to Hollister as he spoke. His deliberations were complete and he was ready to get information. Mrs. Mahon told him the story for the second time, going into everything she could think of. The men sat in silence, all could imagine the scene. One man facing eight, and fighting them off.
