by J. T. Edson
Hardin grinned just as broadly. The idea of him, the most wanted man in Texas, being a deputy sheriff appealed to his sense of humor. It would be a new sensation to wear a lawman’s star.
“Sure, I’ll do it. Be pleased to help you out.”
“I’ll give you a badge and swear you in as soon as I get a chance. We’ve got to cool those hot-heads down first.” They rode in silence for a time, then Hardin remarked, “This’s going to slow down you folks putting up Hantley’s statue. A range war’d just about break the folks around here.”
“Hantley?” asked Dusty. “You mean that Yankee colonel who was killed by the Apache Kid a couple of months back. The one who wrote his life story?”
“That’s right,” agreed Hollister proudly. “Escopeta was his home town. You know about him?”
“Why sure,” grinned Dusty. “I read his book. Said a few nice things about the ole Texas Light in it.”
“He sure did,” scoffed Mark, having also read the book. “It made you act so high-toned we had to throw you in the hoss trough. Hantley was the man who lost all his men holding a house on the Cumberland, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right,” said Hollister. The pride was even more in evidence now, pride in Hantley’s achievement and the fact that he was an Escopeta boy. “He was a lieutenant then and him and his men held that house for three days, against two Confederate regiments. The relief found him wounded and every man he’d got in his command dead.”
“’Cepting one, way I hear it,” corrected Dusty.
“Just some major from the Quartermaster Corps,” snorted Hollister, waving aside the idea that anyone but Lieutenant Tom Hantley did anything towards defending the house on the Cumberland. “He didn’t do nothing. It was good ole Tom Hantley who ran the whole shebang. That major got shot up some they reckon but it was Tom who ran the fight.”
“Town’s going to put up a statue to him,” remarked the coroner. “He went right through the War without taking another scratch. Went up north against the Sioux and come through it. Commanded the fort over by the reservation, then went to Arizona Territory and gets killed by that murdering renegade, the Apache Kid.”
Dusty lounged in the saddle, thinking of the wild days when he led his hard-riding company against the Union Army. He had heard of Hantley’s defense of the house, not against two regiments, but a weak battalion. For all of that, it was no mean feat and one which brought rapid promotion to Hantley, carrying him to Colonel. Dusty regarded the man’s career after the fight as being ordinary and not marked with any other brilliant strategy such as the defense of the house against a superior force. Being a soldier at heart Dusty could always find time to admire an enemy if he was efficient and brave. He held no views for or against Hantley, never having met the man. Dusty rode in silence, imagining the defense of the house and wondering who the major of the Quartermaster Corps had been.
Seven – The Inquest
All thoughts of Escopeta’s hero were forgotten as the posse came back to town. There was a brooding silence in the air which men who rode long with danger could feel and read. Military Avenue was deserted, looking like the main street of a ghost town as the nesters stuck to the Banking House saloon and the ranch crews stayed in the Gunn River saloon at the other end. No citizen of the town showed his or her face on Military Avenue; that would be like walking between two herds of buffalo as they charged at each other.
Hollister licked his lips as he rode along the deserted street. He looked at the three Texans who were to be his deputies and on whom he now relied to keep the peace. It was well to be backed by such men at a time like this, they were as good as a troop of cavalry. Even with them it would be touch and go if trouble was to be averted. Hollister paused, not sure what orders to give. He had never come up against such a situation before and did not know how to handle it.
“Reckon we ought to get a scatter each?” Hardin inquired.
Dusty shook his head. “No go, Cousin Wes. That’d be like waving a red flag at a bull. We’d best play it—” The words died off as Dusty remembered he was not in command. “Sorry, sheriff. You tell us what you want doing.”
Hollister was wise enough to know the small Texan was the best man to handle things. “I’ll play it any way you say, Cap’n.”
“All right.” Instantly Dusty was giving his orders. “Mr. Hobart, take the bodies down to your place, then come back to the Gunn River and start the inquest. Mark, head for the sheriff’s house and bring Miss Mary and Lindy back with you, if Mary can manage it. Wes, you go ask the nesters to come along to the Gunn River for the inquest.”
“That’s taking a big chance, isn’t it, Dusty?” asked Hollister, using Dusty’s name for the first time.
“Sure, so’d any other way of doing be. That’s why I want the girls along. The men’ll be less likely to cause trouble if the girls are there. I want everybody to hear what’s got to be said. Who leads the two sides?”
“Colt Blayne, he’s a Texan, speaks for the ranchers; owns the biggest spread and been here the longest. Big Hunk Rand’s the one the nesters listen to and follow,” Hollister answered. “Funny thing, I’ve seen Colt’s boy, Sam and Silvie Rand around a few times, looks like they’re going steady. Be hell on if either Colt or Big Hunk got to know.”
The group separated, the two townsmen going to their homes, the Texans to follow Dusty’s orders. Dusty found Edwards sat his horse watching everything. The small Texan turned and halted not more than three foot from the gambler. His voice was low and gentle, deceptive as the first whisper of a Texas blue norther storm.
“Mr. Edwards, you try and open your mouth in there before the inquest, either about what we saw—or what you want folks to think we saw—and I’ll bend a gun barrel over your lil ole pumpkin head.”
Edwards noted the continued use of the word, “mister” and remembered what was said about the sons of the Lone Star State. “If a Texan calls you mister once, he’s curious. If he calls it you more than once, he just don’t like you.” Edwards was quick on the uptake, he got the idea. Dusty Fog did not like him.
“Yeah!” he growled, trying to sound savage and confident. “You reckon you could do it?”
“You reckon I can’t.”
Once more Edwards tried to meet Dusty’s eyes and failed. He was beaten and knew it. Turning his horse he rode for the livery-barn, leaving Dusty the undisputed master of the field.
Dusty swung down from his horse and left it at the hitching rail, then followed Hollister into the saloon. The low rumble of talk came to a halt and all eyes went to them. Dusty looked around the room, he could tell the different ranch crews from the groups which were formed. The ranchers sat at a table to the right of the room. Colt Blayne was prominent; one Texan could always tell another. The rancher was a short, grizzled, but quick-looking man. His son, a tall, handsome blond cowhand, was by his side.
“This here town gone dry, Brick?” Blayne asked.
“For now. Until after the inquest,” Hollister answered. “Get all your boys across the room to the right.”
“Why?” growled Blayne.
“As a favor to me.” It was Dusty Fog who replied. He moved forward to flank the sheriff and a low murmur went up from the crowd.
The cowhands moved, they guessed who Dusty was and no man was going to argue with him. The change of place was barely finished when the doors opened and Wes Hardin brought the nesters in. The hostility in the room hit with solid waves as the two groups faced each other.
If the nesters were not hunting for a showdown they managed to conceal the fact very well for every one of them wore a revolver or carried a rifle. They were led by a big heavy man who would have looked more at home in buckskins than in the dirty bib overalls he wore. He was Big Hunk Rand, a Kentuckian who came West to make a new life for himself. Across his right arm lay a Sharps Ole Reliable rifle, a .50 caliber weapon which was accurate to a mile.
The second man into the room was a picture of Big Hunk Rand when he was about twent
y years old. He was as tall, heavily built and dressed in the same way, with a Sharps in his hands. This was Lil Hunk Rand, the nester’s oldest son.
Dusty looked for Mahon but saw no sign of him. It was a pity for Mahon was a moderate man and would be a restraining influence on the others. The batwing doors opened and Rangoon stepped in; behind him towered Bohasker, a magnificent twin-barreled shotgun under his arm.
“What the hell are the fodder-forkers doing here, Brick?” Blayne growled.
“When you gets to be County Coroner you can ask questions at an inquest, Colt,” boomed Bohasker. “Until then shut and stay shut. And you, Big Hunk.”
Rand’s snigger died down, he went to a table, sitting at it with his rifle resting under his right hand. Lil Hunk settled on his haunches by his father, resting his back against the wall. Big Hunk watched the other nesters sit on the left side of the room, then his eyes swung to the cowhands at the right side. The doors opened and Mark came in with Lindy and Mary.
“What you doing, bringing gals into a saloon?” asked Blayne.
“Same as you, attending the inquest,” Bohasker barked. “So shut your face. This Coroner’s Court’s going to be run peaceable one way or another.”
“Gentlemen!” Dusty’s voice cut over the angry mumbling of the crowd and brought a silence to the room. “I agree with Doc. The name is Dusty Fog and any man who doesn’t agree with me, step outside and say so—but bring a gun.”
The silence which followed Dusty’s words could almost be felt. A whisper ran around the room, telling any doubters that the small Texan spoke the truth: he really was Dusty Fog. Big Hunk looked at the small Texan with interested gaze and Lil Hunk’s eyes glowed with hero-worship for both were Confederate supporters, even with the war so long over. One thing they, and every other man in the room knew, Dusty Fog meant just what he said; he would kill any man who made trouble.
The threat, along with the presence of the two girls and backed by Doctor Bohasker’s shotgun, brought peace to the room. How long it lasted would depend on how Dusty’s views on the shooting were taken.
The coroner was in the saloon; he crossed to the bar and jumped up to sit on it. Bohasker joined him, resting the ten-gauge across his knees and looking mean as a starving grizzly bear.
“All right!” Bohasker boomed. “We’re here to investigate the killing of a citizen of the—”
“We don’t need no damned inquest!” yelled a cowhand, leaping to his feet. “It’s them damned nesters who—”
“Sit down, Bell,” said Rangoon gently, “or I will be compelled to fire you.”
The cowhand sat down and Bohasker nodded his thanks to Rangoon while the nesters grumbled angrily. Banging the butt of his shotgun on the counter, Bohasker shouted, “One more interruption and I’ll use this. Sheriff, tell us what you found out.”
Hollister stepped in front of the bar, cleared his throat and began to tell what they had discovered. Dusty was pleased with this; it gave him a chance to watch the reactions of the crowd. The sheriff was telling everything just as it was, without any attempt to point out the things he must know were wrong.
An angry rumble came from the cowhands when Hollister told of the sign and of the plain marks in the dust patch at the top of the rim. The cowhands and the ranch owners acted just as Dusty expected them to, they looked at the one fact.
“Never saw a cowhand wear boots like that,” shouted Colt Blayne.
“Colt!” Bohasker bellowed. “I ain’t warning you again. Sit down and shut your face—or get out of here.”
Blayne, face working angrily, started to come to his feet but his son caught his sleeve and held him down. Bohasker glowered at the rancher; they were good friends who drank, played poker, hunted and fished together. The doctor also hunted, drank, played poker and fished with Big Hunk Rand.
“There were two men, Brick,” said Bohasker, when silence fell again. “Who was the other man?”
“A hired gun from the look of him. I’ve never seen him before and there was nothing on the body to identify him.”
“How’d he been killed?”
“Shot from close up.”
“Was that his only wound?” Bohasker went on.
“Nope. He’d been shot in the leg. Real bad wound.”
“Could he have ridden far with the leg wound?”
“Not without help,” answered Hollister. He could see the way the nesters were looking at each other; what had happened at the Mahon place was common knowledge. So was the fact that one of the men on the raid was wounded in the leg, badly wounded at that. Rand had called in at the Mahon place on his way into town and heard the full story. “That’ll be all, Brick. Stand down now,” growled Bohasker, then caught the sign Dusty made to him. “Captain Fog, you take the stand and tell your side of it.”
Dusty moved to the front of the crowd, halting and hitching up his belt. “I agree with the sheriff on what we found. We saw those things and we were supposed to think such and such happened. The sign was plain, too plain. It was planted to stir up trouble between the nesters and the ranchers. That wounded gunny—sure, he was likely the one the Ysabel Kid wounded at the Mahon place.”
“Then that means—” began a nester, but Rand waved him to silence.
“I know what it’s supposed to mean,” agreed Dusty. “It’s supposed to mean Simmonds met up with the gunny, his man, saw he was bad wounded, daren’t risk letting Doc there see him, and shot him down.” Dusty ignored the angry growl from the cattlemen and Mary’s gasp. “Then we’re supposed to think a bunch of nesters saw what was happening and gunned Simmonds down. That sign in the dust patch, where a man lay down to line a rifle, was real convincing. It showed the man was big, heavy built, wore blunt-toed boots, used a Sharps and wore bib overalls.”
“Showed all that did it?” Blayne growled.
“Why sure. Could see the mark of the top of the overalls real plain” Dusty said, then looked at Lil Hunk Rand. “You help me, friend?”
“Sure will, Cap’n Fog,” replied Lil Hunk, uncoiling his long body and coming to his feet faster than any man ever had seen him move, unless there was a chance of hunting or fishing involved. “What you want me to do, Cap’n?”
“Come out here and get down like you was going to line a rifle.”
Lil Hunk shambled forward, Sharps on his arm. In the center of the room he went to his knees, and lowered himself forward. His left hand supported his body, he rested his right elbow on the ground and tucked the butt of the Sharps into his shoulder. The upper half of his body, including the top of his bib overalls, never touched the ground at all.
“Thanks,” Dusty said drily. “Want any more men to get down and show you, gents?”
The men watched Lil Hunk get to his feet, they had all got down with a rifle at one time or another and saw what Dusty was getting at. There was no way a man could leave the mark of the top of his overalls unless he lay flat on his stomach.
Colt Blayne growled in his throat. “A big man with a Sharps, wearing bib overalls.”
“That’s right,” agreed Dusty, “just like that.”
“A nester?” Blayne went on, eyes on Rand.
“That’s the way it was meant to look.”
“Meaning me?” There was menace in Rand’s angry drawl. “That’s the way it was supposed to look,” answered Dusty, then turned to Blayne. “You’re an intelligent man, Colt. Would you have laid out there some place that would show plain sign. Now would you?”
“Can’t say I would.”
“Then do you reckon this gent’s dumb enough to do it? A mountain man, a man who knows about hunting and tracking. Would he make a damned fool play like that.” Blayne might be hard-headed and hot-tempered but he was a fair man and knew Big Hunk Rand. “Naw, I reckon not—Wait a minute. Blunt-toed boots? I never yet saw either Big Hunk or any of the Rands wear boots, allus moccasins.”
“That’s right,” Hollister spoke up, face lighting with relief. “I’ve seen Big Hunk digging and wondered
how the hell he did it with moccasins on. His feet must be like iron.”
“We never had no trouble until them sod-busters come in,” yelled a cowhand.
“Us nesters had trouble, too,” came the reply from a nester. “That’s right, and you all know it,” Mary Simmonds said, getting to her feet. Her face showed signs of her grief but her voice was under control. “You know it is, Uncle Colt. You sent Sam and the boys to help the Rands with a burning barn. Pappy had all our boys riding the river range to keep cattle from off the farmers’ crops.”
The girl’s intervention placed a temporary damper on the tempers of the men, reminding them that ladies were present and any fighting might endanger them. Dusty was grateful to Mary for speaking when she did.
“The nesters have been around here for a piece now,” Dusty reminded them quietly. “Yet the trouble only started three month or so back.”
“How about them rifles that downed Walt Simmonds?” a rancher asked. “One of them was a Sharps. Brick says they found an empty Sharps case up there.”
“And I got a Sharps,” growled Rand.
“Only rancher who’s got one is Colt and he was with me all day,” replied the rancher.
“Sure Rand’s got a Sharps,” snapped Dusty. “So’s my Uncle Devil and maybe two or three thousand other folks. You reckon ole Christian Sharps only made the one and sold it to Rand?”
“One thing, Cap’n,” drawled Rand. “Sheriff allows, that gunny with the leg wound couldn’t ride far without help. Sheriff reckoned Simmonds’ gun had been fired, what at?”
“The Wounded gunman.”
There was an angry roar at the words, the cowhands knowing how the nesters would see this and not liking the implication. For a moment trouble seemed to be certain but Dusty waved the men into silence and went on. “Sure, into the gunny and out at the back. There was hardly any blood at either hole.”
“What’s that mean?” Rand inquired. “Way I see it Simmonds knowed that gunny.”
