by J. T. Edson
A hand reached by Lindy and lifted the revolver out. She turned and found Dusty by her side. He had seen the girl’s hesitation and came to help her select the weapon for he knew the danger of buying a secondhand revolver. He turned the gun over in his hands, looking at it. He drew back the hammer, checking how it felt, shook his head and delivered his judgment.
“Was I you I wouldn’t buy this one. It’s been worked on by a would-be gunfighter. The safety notches have been filed level and the hammer spur checking removed. Look at the way these screw heads are bushed out. That means the man who made the alterations didn’t know much about guns. You’d have trouble with this, was you to take it.”
Dusty replaced the gun again and took out another. The pearl-handled Colt was a flashy-looking gun but not for someone who did not know how to handle a weapon worked on for extra speed. The hammer spur would slip from under the thumb with ease, that was why the checking had been filed off. The trouble was it might slide free at the wrong moment, firing the gun before the handler was ready.
The second gun was all right in appearance but a test showed that the chamber was loose. It was not serious yet, but would shoot looser until the gun became inoperative and needed costly repairs. The third gun was discarded when Dusty’s keen ears and sensitive fingers detected a gritting which told of dirt in the internal mechanism. It was something an experienced man could correct, but the Mahons did not have the experience.
“How about this one?” asked Lindy, indicating a Smith and Wesson.
“Looks all right, but I’d take me a Colt, was I you. The Smith and Wesson’s accurate, real accurate, but it’s delicate.
Needs too much care and attention to keep it working. Take a Colt Peacemaker now—you can drop it, bust up near on half the working parts and it’ll still fire. Let’s try this one.” Taking another gun he checked it over. The gun was made in the cheapest finish but it was mechanically sound, the working parts clean, the barrel rust-free and unpitted, the ejection rod and spring working and the chamber firmly aligned. He handed the girl the revolver and closed the lid.
“Let’s see if I can get lucky and pick you out a rifle that works.”
Lindy stood back willingly for she was in the presence of a master. Dusty’s knowledge went far beyond handling and keeping guns clean, he knew them as a gunsmith would. Mary came to join her friend and watch Dusty pick the best of the three Winchester rifles in the rack.
“Is it as bad as all that, Lindy?” she asked.
“It could have been. Loncey stopped the first bunch. If they come back papa wants to have a decent rifle on hand.” Lindy accepted Dusty’s choice, paid for the two weapons and a supply of ammunition then checked her money. She found that, by doing without a new dress she could afford a double-barreled shotgun her father wanted. She had often heard him express his regret at not being able to afford a shotgun for the range held a plentiful supply of prairie-chicken and wild turkey.
“What now?” Lindy asked as the two Texans carried her purchases out and placed them in the back of the buggy.
“Go round to the Hollister’s and leave the horses,” Mary answered. “Then we can—”
Mary’s voice trailed off. She stared along the street and all the color drained from her face. The others looked in the same direction and saw two riders coming into town. Lindy gasped, paling as she recognized them. Dusty and Mark could tell that something was bad wrong. It was not the fact that the horses were running at a good speed, that was nothing out of the ordinary when cowhands came to town. It was the way they rode ,one hanging forward over his saddlehorn and apparently lashed in the saddle, the other bending forward, gripping the horn and swaying from side to side.
“Dusty!” gasped Mary, “it’s my brother and our foreman.” The horses were running at a fair speed and the man did not appear to be able to control them as he swayed from side to side. The second horse was fastened by its reins to the swaying man’s saddlehorn and following him. Dusty and Mark leapt forward, into the street, fanning out so the horses could not get by them. It was Mark who lunged out and gripped the reins of the swaying rider’s horse, bringing it to a halt. Dropping the reins he jumped forward as the rider began to slide from his saddle. The man was a tall, craggy-looking old-timer and no light weight but Mark braced his powerful legs and took the full weight in his arms. He carried the man to the sidewalk with no more effort than if he had been handling a baby, then turned to see if Dusty needed any help.
Dusty started to unfasten the ropes which held the unconscious rider in the saddle. They had been tied hard and it took him a couple of minutes to get them free. He caught the young rider and Mark lowered the old-timer, then jumped back to lend a hand. The stocky, young rider was lucky, there was blood on his head, another inch to the left and the bullet would have spread his skull’s top wide open. There was a second bullet hole, just over the hip, but the bleeding had stopped from it.
Mark took the young rider’s weight and carried him to the porch, laying him down by the old-timer. Dusty was by his side, looking down. The old-timer was barely conscious and would not be able to answer questions unless they were asked quickly.
At a time like this Dusty acted like a trained lawman. He found a crowd gathering fast, coming from the eating house and the two saloons. Mary and Lindy were on their knees by the side of the two men and Dusty gave his orders fast.
“All right, back off there, all of you. Come on, make room. Pronto!”
There were big men in the crowd, men who towered over Dusty but not one of them thought to argue about his orders. They might not know who he was but they knew what he was—he was not the sort of man one argued with when he gave orders in that tone of voice.
Mary bent over the old-timer. “What happened, Hank?”
“They bushwhacked us, gal. Get the sheriff,” the old man croaked out the words in agony. “Got your pappy.”
Mary stiffened and Lindy gripped her arm, lifting her to her feet. The ranch girl was pale and stood rigid. There was no hysteria in her face, or tears, yet, the reaction would set in later. Dusty gave Lindy a grateful glance for the last thing he wanted right now was a grief-stricken girl on his hands. He took charge of the situation.
“Go fetch the sheriff, friend,” he snapped to a cowhand, then to a nester, “Fetch the doctor. The rest of you keep well back. Any of you ladies know anything about handling bullet wounds?”
A middle-aged woman stepped forward. “I help Doc with his work.”
Doctor Bohasker came fast, he had been on his way for an after-lunch drink when he got the word. The crowd scattered from his path like cowhands avoiding a fresh-branded steer. At a time of emergency Bohasker was likely to kick any man who got in his path out of it again. He stalked forward, nodded his approval when he saw the way Dusty was handling things, then looked down at the woman.
“How is it, Jenny?”
“Not good. Both of them’ve been hit hard.”
“All right,” Bohasker barked, seeing there was no need for him to make any temporary treatment in the street. “Get them down to my place. I’ll need you along with me, Jenny.”
The old-timer was trying to sit up, his leathery face working in agony. “Lemme get up—I’ve got to get after that bunch—They downed the boss!”
“Lay back here, damn you to hell, Hank,” growled Bohasker. “You’re not fit to ride any place. Where the hell’s Hollister?”
“Coming now,” answered Dusty for he had seen the sheriff approaching at a run. “Can I talk to the gent?”
Bohasker might have snarled out a refusal but he knew who Dusty was. His eyes went to Mary, seeing the rigid way her face was set. The girl was holding herself in control as he had expected she would. “You can have a couple of minutes, Cap’n. No more. I’ll get men ready to help carry them down to my place.”
“Where’d it happen, friend?” asked Dusty, bending over the old-timer.
Hank Strong looked up and even in his pain recognized Dusty for what he
was. “They was lined on a rim three mile out of town. Got us as we rode by. Never gave us a chance.”
“See who did it?”
“Nope. They must have hid up there and started to shoot as we went by. Got the boss first, then hit me ’n’ young Tad. Managed to get Tad clear—roped him to his hoss and got him here.”
“Any idea what they were using?” Dusty asked for he knew there was a considerable difference in the sounds made by Winchester and heavier caliber rifles.
“Heard a Sharps first, that’s what got the boss. Then Winchesters.”
An angry rumble sounded from the crowd, or from the cowhands in it. The Sharps rifle was something few if any cowhands carried; it was too long, awkward and heavy calibered for their needs, so they mostly carried the shorter, more compact repeating-fire Winchesters.
“Ain’t no call to go blaming the nesters!”
Dusty straightened up, turning to discover who was speaking. Banjo Edwards and Rangoon stood in the forefront of the crowd. The gambler met Dusty’s eyes for an instant then looked away, making no attempt to comment further.
It was too late. The cowhands in the crowd were growling angrily as they heard the words. The nesters in the crowd moved close together and the cowhands began to bunch. There was danger in the air which must be nipped in the bud before it could fan up into open hostility.
“Nobody blamed the nesters,” Dusty’s voice cut through the noise and brought it to a stop, “except you.”
Edwards studied the small Texan for a long moment without saying a word. His frown deepened and he growled, “See you’ve come back again.”
“Why sure, have you paid Cousin Wes yet?”
Edwards opened his mouth to reply but Rangoon brought his elbow round, slamming it into the gambler’s side. This might have been an accident and was done so fast as to pass unnoticed. Dusty was the only man who, noticing the move, attached any importance to it. The others, if they thought about it at all, would have dismissed it as a simple accident. Accident or intention, the change in Edwards was immediate, the truculent attitude left him and he relaxed.
Mary stood with Lindy’s arm around her shoulders. She looked straight at the gambler. “I’ll never believe the nesters had anything to do with the shooting, Mr. Edwards. No matter what you say.”
“Me?” shrugged Edwards. “I’m only saying what a lot of folks’ll think.”
Hollister came up at that moment, stopping any more talk. He looked at the two wounded men, then at Bohasker who shook his head. Turning to Dusty the sheriff asked for information. Quickly and without wasting words Dusty explained all he knew, allowing Hollister to form his own conclusions. The county sheriff’s office was responsible for investigating the shooting. Dusty did not envy Hollister his task in doing so under the present circumstances.
“You’ll want a posse, Brick,” remarked Rangoon.
“Yeah, I’ll want a posse,” Hollister agreed, looking around the crowd at the mixture of cowhands and nesters. He could read the signs and knew that forming a posse from either group would cause resentment and trouble. If he took all cowhands the nesters would refuse to believe anything they learned; it would be the same if he took all nesters. Even a mixed posse would be no better for there would be doubt and mistrust amongst the members.
“Count Mark, Cousin Wes and me in, sheriff,” said Dusty Fog.
Hollister was more than grateful for the offer. It solved the problem of who to take along. The three men were known for their skill with guns and would be more than a match for any gang they might meet.
“All right, Cap’n Fog. We’ll get horses and head out.”
“I’ll go along with you, Brick,” Edwards put in.
“It won’t do any good, Mr. Edwards,” snapped Mary. “Those three men won’t listen to your trying to blame the nesters.”
“What’s that mean?” Edwards growled.
“Every time there’s trouble in Gunn River County you start to blame the nesters for it. I’ve heard the hands at the spread talking about it.”
Banjo Edwards growled under his breath. The crowd would remember what was said and how the girl defending the nesters was the daughter of a rancher.
The friendship between the two girls was a serious stumbling block to certain well-laid plans. Mary’s father was the most moderate of the ranchers. The other cattlemen, Colt Blayne particularly, would be less likely to keep the peace. Mahon was also a moderate man, not given to roughness as were the Rand family and some other nesters. However, the two girls were friendly with most of the people in their own factions and would be listened to before any violent action was planned.
“There’s no need for you to come along, Banjo,” Hollister replied, for he did not care for the gambler.
“I think it might be advisable, sheriff,” stated Rangoon blinking mildly. “After all—with no disrespect to these three gentlemen—they are all cowhands, having the interests of the cattlemen at heart. It might be as well for an unbiased observer to be along. Not, of course, that I’m implying Captain Fog and his two friends would be influenced by personal bias—but you know how people think and talk.”
Hollister was willing to concede the point to Rangoon. The small man knew how people thought and reacted in this kind of condition. The nesters would never be willing to accept that three men with roots so deeply embedded in the cattle business would play fair. Banjo Edwards was a man who might be termed neutral. The gambler worked in a saloon which drew trade from both sides of the county. It would not do the saloon any good to take sides in the trouble and Edwards was, in consequence, as near a neutral observer as Hollister could take along with the posse.
“Get your hoss then, Banjo,” Hollister ordered. “And you, Wes.”
Hardin turned, making for the livery-barn. His face showed nothing of the fact that he had been up all night playing poker and not managed to get to bed after the game broke up at eight-thirty in the morning.
The crowd left as the two wounded men were carried to the doctor’s house. Dusty watched them go, seeing the way the two factions stayed apart. They were going about their business, apparently leaving the sheriff and his posse to handle things. The trouble would remain smoldering until the posse returned, then it would fade out—or burst into roaring flame.
A hand touched Dusty’s sleeve and he turned to find the two girls standing behind him. Mary was still holding her emotions as best she could; her eyes were dulled with unshed tears and her lips were tight to stop them quivering.
“Dusty, pappy was bringing in some money to meet our note at the bank. I—would you—please—”
“Don’t worry none, honey,” replied Dusty gently. “We’ll tend to it all for you.” He pressed her arm, then went on. “You take care of her, Lindy. Take her to Hollister’s and wait until we come back.”
Edwards and Hardin returned with their horses and the sheriff’s daughter brought his, saddled and ready. A thin, sallow-faced man drove up in a buggy, a man wearing sober black clothing. He was Hobart, the county undertaker and coroner, going along to help with the investigation. It was a grim-faced party which rode out of town.
“This’s where we could use either the Kid or young Waco,” growled Hardin. “They can both read sign like they made it.” Dusty agreed with this. The Ysabel Kid and Waco, iv another member of the floating outfit, were experts at reading sign. Dusty and Mark could follow an easy line, but they were mere beginners compared with the others, to whom a few broken blades of grass told a story.
Dusty knew his own limitations at following a track and wondered if Hollister was skilled in sign reading. Most county sheriffs could read a certain amount, they needed to in their business. Dusty was willing to go along with Hollister in charge as long as the sheriff proved to be competent at his work. If the sheriff was to prove incompetent Dusty would feel free to go his own way.
There was little talking as the men rode along; they were alert and watchful for the men who did the shooting might be around. Holl
ister led the posse, keeping to the well-marked trail which led to the Simmonds’ ranch. The trail ran along the bottom of a valley, the sides of which rolled up gently on each side. Turning a bend they came on the scene of the killing and brought their horses to a halt.
“This’s where it happened,” announced Edwards unnecessarily.
“Why sure,” Dusty agreed, looking ahead. “There’s only one thing wrong. The old-timer didn’t tell us half of it.”
“He didn’t tell us there were two bodies here.”
.
Six – Banjo Reads Sign
The posse swung from their horses. Hobart, the coroner, brought his buggy to a halt and climbed down, reaching for the bag which lay on the seat. The men waited for Hollister to make the first move but the sheriff did not go forward immediately. First he looked up at the top of the slope, trying to detect any sign of life which might warn him of danger. The men who had done the shooting might still be lining the rim, guns trained on them. His eyes flickered to the horse which stood with hanging reins near the bodies, then up to where, high in the sky, buzzards wheeled. The birds would not be there if men were on the rim. Already they went spiraling away as if knowing there would be no meal for them.
Drawing in a deep breath, Hollister said, “Let’s take a look.”
He walked forward with the men following him. Hollister knew one of the still shapes, and cursed for Walt Simmonds had been a good friend. The other body was a stranger to him.
Dusty Fog and Mark Counter were flanking the sheriff now. They were both trained lawmen and knew what to look for. The tall, gray-haired man would be the rancher, they guessed, that much was obvious from his clothes. He was laying on his back, his head shattered by the heavy bullet. Death would have been instantaneous, nothing was more certain. In the rancher’s stiffened right hand was a Colt revolver, his holster empty. His pockets were turned out and his shirt ripped open. There was no sign of the money he was bringing to the bank.
