by J. T. Edson
The other body was dressed in range clothes, the holster hanging low and tied down. He was face up, the features twisted in an expression of agony; under the dirt and tan the skin looked unusually pallid. He had been shot at close range, in the chest, there were powder burns and singeing which told of a close-fired revolver, not of a long-range rifle shot. There was little blood on the wound in the chest. Dusty saw this, then he looked down at the man’s right leg. The leg was a bloody horror of torn, lacerated flesh and splintered, mangled almost severed bone. The lower part was smothered in blood from knee to boot soles. There was no need to make a close inspection, few weapons made so severe a wound. A Colt Dragoon revolver, firing a soft lead ball with a full forty-grain charge would do so.
Hollister watched Dusty roll the body of the dead gunman over. The back was ripped open but there was little blood from the gaping hole. Dusty allowed the body to flop back to the ground and looked up.
“This’s Simmonds,” remarked Hollister, indicating the rancher’s body. “I’ve never seen the other one before. He wasn’t on the Lazy S crew last time I went out to the ranch. Simmonds’ crew ran to younger men.”
“Was I taking money I’d say he’s the man Lon shot in the leg,” Dusty drawled, watching the gambler’s face.
Banjo Edwards was frowning, puzzled by finding two bodies. Then he saw what Jarman and Lloyd’s bunch must have done. He kept his mouth shut, waiting to see what the others made of it and ready to steer their thoughts in the right direction. He also saw why Jarman came to town, and eyed Dusty grimly. The small Texan and his friends were spoiling all the carefully made plans.
“Not from me, you wouldn’t,” said Mark, twisting his face wryly. He had seen the Kid’s pistol work before. “He’s the one. Ole Lon’s Dragoon sure tears hell out of a man.”
Wes Hardin agreed with this for he also knew the damage the Kid’s old Dragoon caused when striking bone. His eyes flickered to Banjo Edward’s face, reading the trouble on it, his poker-playing training enabling him to catch signs which would have been invisible to less skilled men. He did not say anything, but his eyes were on the gambler as Edwards bent and lifted up the gun in the rancher’s hand.
“Been fired once. Must have shot this hombre here.”
“After being shot in the head?” Dusty inquired sardonically. “There’s a man with guts.”
“Could have been shot after downing this hombre” growled Edwards. “I know how it looks to me. Simmonds met up with this hombre, one of the bunch who hit at the Mahon place. Saw he was wounded bad and knowed he was going to need doctoring. Knew that Bohasker’d ask questions, then got rid of this jasper rather than take a chance on it.”
“Then shot himself in the head, put lead into his son and foreman,” Dusty scoffed, “all with one bullet.”
“Hank said they were hit by rifles from up on the rim,” Edwards pointed out.
The coroner was bending over the gunman’s body now, looking at it with the cold disinterested stare of a man who had seen violent death many time. He stiffened slightly as he looked at the body wound. Dusty was watching and their eyes met. The coroner opened his mouth to comment on the state of the wound but Dusty shook his head. The coroner shut his mouth again and Dusty bent over, mouth near Hobart’s ear.
“Not yet, friend,” said Dusty, holding his voice down so that only the coroner heard him. “I’ve seen it, too. Let’s see how the rest lays before we say anything about it.”
“Simmonds was bringing money to town, sheriff,” Mark said. “Looks like they cleaned him out.”
Hollister searched the body, doing it with cold distaste. The pockets were turned out and he could find no money. “They cleaned him out,” he agreed.
Banjo Edwards was prowling around, looking at the side of the slope. He stopped and bent forward to look at certain marks in the short grass. “Come down this way, fair bunch of them.”
The rest of the posse gathered and looked at the blurred, indistinct depressions in the springy grass. All but one set of tracks were unidentifiable one way or the other. The clear set showed up; heavy, blunt-toed and low-heeled boots set well apart, showing the wearer was a tall man. Mark turned and looked at his own tracks, they were not leaving such a clear imprint in the grass. It was almost as if the man with the blunt-toed boots meant for his tracks to be read.
“Nester boots,” said Edwards triumphantly.
That was plain from the sign. The cowhand, spending most of his time on a horse, wore sharp-toed, high-heeled boots and not blunt toes or low heels. They were the sort of things a man would wear for following a plough or any of the other nester tasks a cowhand would find infra dig.
“You sure about it?” Dusty asked mildly.
“Sure? Of course I’m sure. Look at them toes, them low heels. Did you ever see a cowhand with boots like them?”
“Can’t say I ever have,” agreed Dusty, eyes going to the blurred sign left by the other men from the rim. “Wonder how it’s so plain and the rest’s blurred?”
“They came down and went back on the same tracks, that’s why.” Edwards used the first explanation to come to him.
Dusty refrained from asking where the heavy sign went on the way back for it was only in view coming down, well separate from the rest. It puzzled him for a moment, then he got the answer. The man wearing the nester boots was big and heavy built, likely, but he should not, even with heavy stamping, leave such a plain track. With the extra weight of carrying the dead gunman across his shoulders the man would leave a clear print. Dusty started to tie things up with what he knew and what he suspected.
“Best get on and read some more sign for us, mister,” suggested Dusty waving a hand to the slope.
Hollister opened his mouth to object, then shut it again. In the short time they had know each other, the sheriff had formed a good impression of Dusty Fog’s ability and knew the small Texan did nothing without good reason. Hollister know Banjo Edwards was a gambler and rarely if ever went out of the saloon. It was not likely he would know anything about the mysteries of reading a track.
With eyes on the ground, giving a fair impersonation of a trailing buck Apache, Edwards went up the slope. The others followed him, also examining the ground but with more attention than was obvious. The crushed grass showed that Edwards made one correct guess. The men came down and went back on the one line. All except the one in the nester‘s boots who appeared to have only come down. There was no sign of the plain tracks going back up again.
There was more sign at the top of the slope. The grass was crushed down where several men lay. That the men waited some time was plain from the cigarette butts and a couple of cigar stubs which lay around, mingled with empty cartridge cases. Most of the cases were the short brass tubes of the Winchester rifle, but one Edwards picked up was almost twice as long.
“Sharps bullet case,” he stated.
“Looks that way,” agreed Dusty gravely. “Wonder why it was left.”
“How do you mean? Why it was left?” growled Edwards.
“Just what I said, why was it left lying here?”
“It’s been fired,” snorted the gambler, “anybody can see that.”
Dusty nodded in agreement. “Why sure, it’s been fired—and left. Mister, Sharp shells cost good money. A man doesn’t just leave them laying around. He takes them back to be reloaded. Why’s this one lying here?”
“Couldn’t find it, or didn’t have time.”
Dusty did not point out that the case lay in plain view all the time or that the man who had fired it found time to wait around and go down the slope to the dead rancher. “That could be it,” he said, mocking disbelief in his voice.
The men fanned out to make a more careful search of the area. Now was the time Dusty found himself missing the skill of the Ysabel Kid. The young man would have read the full story here and been able to give a very clear picture of what happened. Instead they would just have to muddle along as best they could, with Mr. Edwards’ invaluable
assistance.
Mark made the next discovery; he moved along the top of the rim while the others fanned out, making for the small clump of trees which lay back from the top. His shout brought them to examine his remarkable find.
Near the edge of the rim some freak of nature left a grassless, dusty depression in the ground. What caused this Dusty could not explain; he had seen similar things before and did not think anything about this one for it was not the cause of the dust patch which attracted Mark’s attention.
At the edge of the patch, showing clear and precise as if placed in with some care, were the imprints of a pair of low-heeled, blunt-toed boots. Beyond them, with equal care, was the shape of a big burly man, the marks of his bib overalls outlined clearly.
“It was a nester then!” Edwards sounded triumphant at having his theories proved to his satisfaction. “I never yet saw a cowhand who’d wear bib overalls.”
That was true enough. The cowhand would never wear shoulder-strapped bib overalls of that kind. They were the clothing of the nester and no self-respecting cowhand would be seen dead in them.
For all that, Wes Hardin appeared to be disturbed. “What I don’t see,” he grunted, “is why a man should lay here in the dust when he could have been in the grass with the others.”
“Nesters aren’t smart,” scoffed Edwards.
“They’re too smart for a damned fool trick like that,” Dusty answered, he was studying the marks in the dust. The man must have stepped forward from his clear pair of tracks and got down with considerable care, pressing himself close to the ground, then getting up again with the same care. “Let’s take a look at where they left their horses.”
A quick search of the trees showed where several horses had been tied. They had been left for some time, from the droppings scattered around. Hardin went on through the trees and at the other side found where other horses had been fastened. He called the other men to him and showed the sign. “Five hosses, one led without a rider,” he guessed.
“What do you make of that, Cap’n?” asked Hollister. “What lays over thataways?” Dusty asked, waving a hand in the direction the tracks approached from.
“The Gunn River and the nesters!” Edwards spat the words out. He was beginning to realize that the other members of the posse were suspicious. Those stupid fools, making sign as plain as that. It stood out clear, too clear, too obvious.
“That figures,” Dusty agreed, his eyes went to the sheriff. “I’d bet there are a couple of bodies in the Gunn River, was a man able to check on it.”
“Couple of bodies?” Hollister growled, his hackles rising at the thought of more killings in his county. “How do you mean?”
“The two Lon downed. Be the easiest way to get rid of them. Leave them out on , the top of the ground and they’d get found. Bury them and the coyotes might dig them up.
Sink them in a good deep hole in the river and they’ll likely never be found.”
“That’s right enough,” agreed Hollister. “There’s plenty of holes like that on the river.”
“How’d you know they were the same bunch who downed your pard?” Edwards asked, watching Dusty with a grim stare.
“Easy, were eight of them. Lon got two, wounded one and killed a hoss. Left six men, seven horses. Two of the men came into town, leaving four, including the wounded man, and five horses. Sign shows that only four of the horses were carrying weight, the other was being led,” explained Dusty. “They’d bring the horse along with them, must have been carrying a brand that could be read. Came here and joined the bunch who got Simmonds.”
“But the bunch that hit Mahon’s place were cowhands,” Hollister objected.
“And this bunch here are supposed to be nesters.” Edwards growled out an annoyed curse which brought the attention of the other men to him. “You seem dead set on proving the nesters didn’t do it.”
“Near on as set as you are to prove they did,” replied Dusty. Edwards glanced at Mark and Hardin before facing Dusty, his fingers spread over the butt of his gun and his eyes locking with the small Texan’s gaze. Tie was suddenly worried. Hardin was real fast, a man, Edwards knew, who could cover any bets in the shooting game the gambler might bring up. Edwards thought Hardin would move in and take his cousin’s part, but he showed no sign of doing so. Rather, both he and Mark Counter lounged back with complete indifference as if they knew Dusty Fog could handle any move the gambler made. His eyes went to Dusty again and met the small Texan’s own. Met them and read something in them which made him pause.
There was neither fear, nor indecision in the small Texan’s gray eyes. Only the cold, complete confidence of a man who was real fast with a gun. Edwards thought of himself as a good man with a gun; he believed that there were few better. Yet, he knew that here stood one who was better. A man who did not think anything at all about it but was faster than Edwards ever would be. Slowly Edwards let his hand drop to his side, turned and walked away.
Hollister let his breath out in an audible sigh of relief for he knew Edwards and had expected trouble. “We’d best check on where they went, I reckon,” he said.
“Looks as if they scattered,” remarked Dusty. For him the incident was over. Banjo Edwards joined the ranks of those Dusty was forced to face down.
The guess was correct, the men separated, splitting up into groups of two or three men. Further away from the trees they scattered again, going off singly. The reason for this was obvious, as obvious as the sign at the other side of the trees. A large group of men travelling would leave a plain track. Individual riders would be far harder to follow. They would come together at some pre-arranged rendezvous, or else head back separately for their headquarters.
“How about trailing them?” Hollister asked.
“Depends on how good you are,” replied Dusty, glancing at the tracks. “Mark and I aren’t better than fair and I don’t think Cousin Wes’s any better.”
“That just about covers me. I usually get young Johnny Brace from Blayne’s spread,” the sheriff admitted. “He’s been raised by Apaches and can read sign.”
‘How about our friend, Mr. Edwards?” Mark inquired. “Reckon you could trail them, seeing as they aren’t headed for the nesters?”
“Me?” Edwards snorted. “I can’t read sign.”
“We’ll make a try on one set, I reckon,” Hollister ordered. “Try and see where they’re headed.”
Before they could make a move a shout from beyond the trees stopped them. “Sheriff! Hey, sheriff! Where are you?”
“Here, through the trees!” Hollister yelled back. “Who is it?”
“Lonegan, from the Eating House!” The speaker was shouting as he crashed through the trees. A townsman came into sight, running, face flushed with the exertion. “There’s going to be trouble in town.”
“What sort of trouble?” Hollister growled.
“Colt Blayne and the other ranchers are in town and most of the nesters,” the man gasped. “Things are looking bad, they’re all in the Banking House. Doc Bohasker’s got his ten gauge out and he’s sat in the middle of them. Got them on opposite sides of the room and says he’ll give himself some trade if anybody makes a wrong move. He’ll do it, too.” Hollister knew full well that Bohasker was capable of doing just what he said. The doctor knew the danger of allowing the two groups to come together and was all set to prevent it. For all of that the situation was explosive and a wrong move on either side could blow the whole thing into the air. Turning to the posse he said:
“We’ll have to leave it for now. Even if it does mean losing them.”
“Sure,” agreed Dusty, “this’s more important than following a track and most likely losing it without getting anywhere.”
“Some of us should oughta go after that bunch,” Edwards objected.
“All right, you go,” snapped Dusty. He knew Hollister was going to need all the help he could get in town and suspected Edwards knew it also. That was why the gambler suggested following the tracks.
“Doc told them you’d hold an inquest when you got back, Brick,” the man from Escopeta told the sheriff. “They’re holding off for it.”
Hollister made his decision immediately. The murder of the rancher called for an investigation but the situation in town needed his attention. With feelings running high it would be easy for a spark to stir up a prairie-fire of violence. “We’ll get back. It’d be dark before we could follow the tracks any place.”
They returned down the slope and helped the coroner load his buggy with the pair of tarpaulin-wrapped shapes. Dusty helped the man fasten the ropes holding the bodies back whispered, “Don’t mention about that feller until you get back to town and start the inquest.”
“All right, Cap’n. I’ll play it your way,” replied the coroner. “This’s real bad business.”
“It’s bad,” agreed Dusty soberly. “Likely to get worse before it’s done with. I hope Doc holds them apart till we’ve had a chance to talk to them.”
A horseman came racing towards them. It was Blinky Howard, from the livery-barn, riding further than he had done in years. He brought his horse to a halt and almost before the dust had settled was giving his news.
‘Rangoon stopped selling likker in his place and the cattlemen headed for the Gunn River but Frank done the same. There’s some hard talk and they want you back in town as fast as you can make it.”
Hollister mounted his horse, his face thoughtful. Then he turned to Dusty, Mark and Wes Hardin. “I need some special deputies, will you three take on. Could even use one regular, how about it, Cap’n?”
“One, or two?”
“One, this’s a poor county.”
“Then we’re out. Mark and I want to work together until this blows over,” replied Dusty. “And we don’t want tying down with no law-wrangling chore until we find the men who shot Lon.”
Turning to Wes Hardin the sheriff grinned. “Don’t want to sound like I’m offering you seconds—even if I am, Wes. How about it. Will you be my deputy?”
