by J. T. Edson
“What’re you getting at, nester?” Blayne roared and threw back his chair.
“Hold it!”
Dusty’s matched guns were out and lined on the rancher. Blayne stood still, hand gripping his gun butt, frozen by the fastest draw he had ever been privileged to see. The Rands were coming to their feet, swinging their rifles up but Mark Counter acted with a speed which almost equaled Dusty Fog’s. The Rands found themselves looking at the muzzles of two ivory-butted Colts and remained still, their rifles only half raised. The cowhands found themselves facing Wes Hardin’s Colts, and the nesters were held down by the combined efforts of Hollister’s old Army Colt and Bohasker’s twin-barreled ten gauge.
The moves came so fast the crowd were taken completely by surprise. Every man thought the guns were picking on him personally as a target and so stayed rooted to the spot. Not one of them doubted that if the issue was forced the five men would shoot and friendship would not prevent them.
Even at that moment, Hollister found time to marvel at the speed with which Dusty, Mark Counter and Wes Hardin moved. He also realized how fast Mark Counter was. Hollister had thought Mark was just a good man with a gun, could never remember hearing the big Texan’s speed mentioned.
From what he had just seen, Hollister knew Mark could be classed up there among the best, the top-guns: he was as fast as Wes Hardin and almost as fast as Dusty Fog.
“Sit fast all of you?” Bohasker’s bellow rang out, as he jerked back the hammers of his ten gauge. “Damn it to hell, what’s wrong with you. Snapping at each other like a pack of cur dogs.”
“That’s right,” yelled the coroner. “Sure the bullet went through the gunman but that wasn’t what killed him. He was dead before the bullet hit him. That was what Captain Fog meant about there being so little blood. The leg wound killed him, loss of blood and shock. Being bounced on a hoss didn’t help any either. Walt Simmonds didn’t even fire the shot, he was dead before it happened. I’m sorry to have to say it plain like that in front of you, Mary gal. But I’ve got to stop these fools before they start shooting at each other. That gunny was dead for at least an hour before Walt Simmonds.”
“What do you make of it, Brick?” Blayne asked, sitting again.
The Rands settled down once more and the rest of the men took a lead from the heads of their groups.
“Let’s listen Cap’n Fog out, shall we?” asked Hollister, waving his empty left hand, then dropped his Colt into leather.
Dusty holstered his guns again and relaxed. Then he looked at the men with annoyance and contempt plain on his face. “This was all part of a plan to set you folks at each others’ throats and it damned near came off. Way I see it the killing of Mr. Simmonds and the raid on Mahon’s place tie in. Mahon was to be taken to the place where Simmonds was killed and left there, made look like they’d fought and each hit the other. The Ysabel Kid spoiled that play. Mahon wasn’t at home but the Kid was and he fought them off. He got two and wounded a third; the two are most likely at the bottom of the Gunn River. The wounded man was more use to them, so they took him along.”
“How do you mean?” asked Rand.
“Easy, you’ve likely seen what a Dragoon does when it hits bone?” Dusty said and Rand nodded. “It put a mark on a man that can’t be missed. That meant the gunny was a danger to them. They couldn’t take him to a doctor without having it remembered. They knew that the wound tied the gunny in with the raid on the Mahon place. Then they knew they couldn’t carry out their plan of taking Mahon and killing him. So they took the gunny and left him with Simmonds. To make sure, they put a bullet into the gunny from Simmonds’ gun. Now, happen you’d found them, what’d you think, Rand?”
“That Simmonds killed the gunny rather than have him took to a doctor. That he hired the gunny, then shot him.”
“Which same’s what you was supposed to think. The cowhands wouldn’t believe it or accept it even if they believed it. They’d say all the sign pointed to nesters killing Simmonds. There’d be hard feeling build up and sooner or later some hot-headed young fools’d start in to shooting. There’s not one of you’d likely have looked beyond the sign. You’d have painted for war and dug up the hatchet. Which same somebody wants real bad.”
“And who might that be, Captain Fog,” asked Rangoon mildly. “Do you suspect anyone in particular.”
Dusty might have been speaking to the other men but he was watching Rangoon’s face all the time. “Maybe.”
“Would I be in order if I asked who you suspect?”
“One thing my pappy taught me, Mr. Rangoon. Always to keep quiet when I suspect something, only talk when I’m holding enough evidence to hand to the court,” said Dusty. “You folks’ve all been living in Gunn River for some time?”
“Most all of us’ve been here for years,” replied Hollister, frowning and wondering what Dusty was getting at.
“And the trouble started about two or three months back? Who’s moved in to the county in that time?”
“Nobody, not permanent,” Hollister answered.
“I only arrived here four months ago, maybe a little longer,” interrupted Rangoon, coming to his feet.
“You” Hollister laughed. “Nobody suspects you, Rangoon.”
“We sure don’t,” agreed Blayne. “Do we, boys?”
There was a chorus of agreement at the words. The men in the room sounded as if all knew that Rangoon was above suspicion. There was a hint of condescension in the way the men voiced their opinion; the patronage of big men dealing with a small man. Dusty, watching the small saloon keeper all the time, saw the look of annoyance and anger which flickered for an instant on the mild face. None of the others noticed it.
“Let’s get this thing finished with, boys,” called the coroner, seeing that the men were thinking of what Dusty said and were settling down. There would be no trouble between the cowhands and nesters that day.
Colt Blayne came to his feet. “Been thinking, Brick. You could use a deputy, what with one thing and another.”
“I could spare Banjo for a few days,” remarked Rangoon, his face under control once more.
“Couldn’t deprive you of him, Rangoon,” said Hollister, knowing the saloon keeper liked to be called by his surname rather than his given name of Horace. “I’ve took me a deputy on. Mr. Johnson here.”
“Johnson!” Rangoon’s voice raised a pitch or so. “But he’s—”
“He’s what?” Hardin’s voice was soft and gentle.
“Er—He’s a good choice. It would be a brave man who’d make trouble in the county while Mr. Hard—Johnson wears the badge.”
The rest of the men were in agreement with this and with Hollister’s choice of a deputy. They knew Mr. Johnson and John Wesley Hardin were one and the same. They also knew Hardin’s word was his bond and once he took the oath of office he would uphold it to the best of his not inconsiderable ability.
“That sets well with me,” Blayne growled. “How about you, Big Hunk?”
“And me. Hardin’s a good Texas name. I’ll back him.”
“One thing, gents,” drawled Hardin, soft and threatening as the snarl of a crouching cougar. “If there’s any more trouble, come into town and let us know about it. Just to please me. I’ll thank the man who does—or doesn’t.”
The men set back their ears and listened real good. This was the man who made Wild Bill Hickok back water and caused other wizards of the tied down holster to sing low in his presence. Any request he made was likely to be listened to and acted upon. A man did not need John Wesley Hardin to raise his voice to know he meant every word he said.
“Will you take a drink with me, Hunk?” Blayne asked.
“Be pleased to, Colt,” drawled Big Hunk. “There’s a white-tail deer raiding my north forty, bigger’n a buck elk. Happen you got time come over and we’ll take a whirl at bringing him in.”
The coroner’s court was forgotten now but its purpose achieved for it had stopped a bloody war breaking out. The two fa
ction leaders were reconciled to the point where they could offer each other drinks and fix up a hunting trip. There would be no trouble in Gunn River County for a time.
The men gathered at the newly-opened bar or headed for the Banking House saloon which Rangoon gave orders to be re-opened even though he stayed on for the nightly poker game.
Dusty and Mark left with the sheriff and the two girls. On the sidewalk Hollister stopped, took out his bandanna and wiped his face. There were times in the saloon when he had felt as if he was seated on an open powder keg and people were flipping lit matches at it. Things were close in there and not just the atmosphere either.
“Man, I wouldn’t want that to happen every night. Come on down to my place, Cap’n Fog, and you, Mark. How’s Tad and Hank, Mary gal?”
“They’ll live, both of them,” replied Mary, still holding her voice firm, but as he took her arm, Dusty felt her shivering. “Who could have done it?”
“I’m reckoning, not saying,” drawled Dusty. “This thing’s deeper than I first thought. When I’ve proof I’ll make my move.”
“Reckon Banjo Edwards is in on it, Dusty?” asked Mark, taking Lindy’s arm.
“He’s not smart enough to plan a thing like this. Straight shooting’d be his way. I don’t reckon he’s the big augur.”
“Augur?” Lindy looked puzzled.
“Boss, the top man,” explained Mark.
“Texas talk,” Mary went on. “He’s all the time trying to stir up trouble for the nesters.”
“I’ve heard Lil Hunk Rand and some of the young farmers say Banjo blames the cowhands for everything,” Lindy objected. “Do you think he’s the one, Dusty?”
“Hell, Dusty, you must be funning,” said Hollister before Dusty could make a reply. “Banjo works for Rangoon.”
“So?”
Hollister laughed. “You’ll be telling me you suspect Rangoon next.”
“Couldn’t be him, now could it?” Dusty’s voice showed nothing of what he thought.
“’Course it couldn’t,” snorted Hollister. “Look at him. Hell, a small, fat hombre. I never seen him pack a gun, don’t reckon he’d even know how to use one. Him! Planning a thing like today. He’s only a little man, don’t stand no more than five foot six.”
“Sure,” agreed Dusty Fog. “I’m five foot five and a half myself.”
Eight – Captain Fog Makes a Call
Mrs. Mahon ushered Dusty Fog and Mark Counter into the small bedroom; the Ysabel Kid was conscious and awake. He lay back against the white pillows, looking pale and weak, yet there was something of the old grin on his face.
“How is it, boy?” Dusty asked.
“I’ve felt better. Hear tell you got two of them.”
“Sure,” drawled Mark. He sat on the edge of the bed and dipped a hand into the bowl of fruit on the small bedside table. Taking an apple he bit into it. “We’ll get the rest of them before you’re on your feet again. Then we’ll head for home. Was I you I’d lay back and take it easy for a piece.”
“Why?” asked the Kid.
“Ole Devil’s going to love you for holding us up. He’ll have you on the blister end of a shovel to get even.”
The Kid watched Mark and Dusty help themselves to his fruit. “Hope there’s worm in ’em. Say, Doc showed me the bullet, from a forty-five, he allows. Now that pleasures me no end.”
“Why?” inquired Dusty, eating the apple and chancing there being a worm in it.
“Goes to prove what I’ve been telling you all along. A forty-five’s no use as a man-killer. They don’t get up when I hit ’em with my ole Dragoon gun.”
“Did you know any of them?”
“Nope, none of them. Cheap hired guns every one. There wasn’t a cowhand there. You’ll know one of them, I hit him in the leg.”
Mark finished his apple and tossed the remains into the bowl. “We found him. He’s dead. Any more apples in there?”
“Huh!” grunted the Kid; eyeing the apple core, then his friend. “You can’t take him no place twice. They won’t even have him back to apologize for the first time.”
Dusty laughed. It was good to see the Kid talking, even though he was far from recovered and in no condition to take care of himself. It was this thought which worried Dusty and had been since the previous night. Dusty and Mark ate at the sheriff’s house, then spent the night at the small hotel in town. There was some talk and many theories discussed. Hollister still held that Rangoon was above suspicion and Dusty said nothing to dissuade the sheriff’s beliefs.
The Kid twisted his head to look at the gunbelt which hung over the back of Dusty’s chair. Mrs. Mahon left the weapons there, for the Kid was insistent about it and would not settle down. She did not want him to keep on fretting, so she hung the gunbelt close to his hand; Dragoon full loaded and bowie knife sheathed.
“Tell you, Dusty,” said the Kid. “I don’t like being this close to an Apache reservation and tied down in bed. I’ll feel better when I can get to my gun and sit up with it.”
“You lay back there and relax, boy,” Dusty snapped. “Don’t start fussing or fooling. Happen you do I’ll tell Mrs. Mahon to hawg-tie you.”
“And I’ll write Miss Juanita that you got all shot up saving a pretty gal,” warned Mark. “She’ll be down here painted for war.”
The door opened and Mrs. Mahon looked in. “Time’s up boys. Doc Bohasker warned me not to allow you to stay too long.”
Dusty and Mark rose and went towards the door, then turned to give the Kid a final word of good cheer. “See you, Lon,” said Dusty. “Behave yourself.”
“Sure,” agreed Mark, grinning. “Don’t go away.”
“I’ll be here,” promised the Kid, settling back again, exhausted by the effort of talking to his friends.
Mrs. Mahon took the two Texans into the living-room and waved them into seats. Mahon filled his pipe and then turned to the cowhands. “I hear the Kid saved my life yesterday. Big Hunk called in on the way back and told me about the inquest. You made quite an impression on both him and Lil Hunk. I’m sorry about Walt Simmonds, he was a good man.”
“Is Lindy all right?” asked Mrs. Mahon.
“Sure, ma’am,” Dusty replied. “She’s staying on to take care of Mary.”
“Told us to say she’d be going out to the Lazy S with Mary for a few days,” Mark went on. “If that’ll be all right with you.”
“Tell her to stay as long as she wishes,” replied Mahon. “Mary’ll need a friend by her.” He laid his hand on the butt of the shotgun which the Texans brought from town for him. The new rifle and revolver were on the sideboard, his eyes went to them. “I reckon we can take care of ourselves and Lon for a few days.”
“We’d best head back to town then. Mark and I want to see if we can track down the men who shot Simmonds. Thanks for taking such good care of Lon.”
Mahon smiled. He had never really known cowhands before but these two Texans were making him change his opinion about the reckless, hard-working, hard-playing sons of the saddle. “That’s all right. He took care of us.”
Dusty and Mark rode back to Escopeta. The small Texan was silent and Mark, who knew Dusty well, made no attempt to converse. There was something worrying Dusty and Mark knew when his friend had sorted it out he would talk.
They reached town in time to see the mourners leaving the graveyard after Simmonds’ funeral. Mary Simmonds and Lindy Mahon were at the gate as the two Texans rode up. The girls wore sober black and Mary’s eyes were red with tears. But she was controlled and looked relieved to see Dusty and Mark riding toward her. The rest of the mourners were making their way back towards town. Dusty watched Rangoon and the sheriff walking side by side and hoped Hollister did not say anything about the theories they had discussed the previous night.
“Could I have a word with you, please?” Mary asked coming forward. “I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“How’s Loncey?” Lindy said, before Dusty and Mark could reply.
Dus
ty swung down from his big paint and Mark dropped from the back of his bloodbay. The big cowhand smiled. “Better. He’s too mean and ornery to—”
The words died away before he ended the sentence for Mark did not wish to remind Mary of her father by his flippant reference to his friend.
Lindy and Mary exchanged glances. The small girl seemed to be embarrassed about something. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Lindy nodded as if encouraging her friend to go on but still Mary did not speak, not straight off. When she began, the words came out hurriedly.
“I saw Mr. Rangoon this morning. He was very kind and understanding when I told him about pappy and the money. I can’t meet the note at the bank until the next time our spread’s turn comes to sell a herd to the Apache reservation agent.”
“Is he pressing for the money?” Dusty asked.
“No, nothing like that. He was kindness itself to me. He’s quite willing to give me an extension to tide me over until Tad and Hank are back on their feet. But he says—”
Dusty and Mark waited for the girl to carry on. She stopped, the embarrassment even more plain now. She looked again at Lindy who nodded.
“But what, Mary?” Dusty prompted.
“He wants an older man in charge.”
“That’s reasonable,” drawled Dusty. Rangoon was merely taking a precaution any banker would under the circumstances. It would take a man to run the ranch. “Can’t one of the hands take over?”
“We hire a young crew. Not one of them is much over twenty. They’re loyal enough to the brand. But there isn’t one of them with the experience to run the spread for me. So—”
“You want either Mark or me to handle things for you,” finished Dusty as the girl stopped talking again.
Mary’s face reddened at the thought of asking a comparative stranger a favor. She knew both the Texans were looking for the men who shot down their friend and might not want to be side-tracked or delayed in their hunt.
“You’ll do it, won’t you, Dusty?” Lindy pleaded. “It’s real important to the Lazy S. Besides—well, you’d better tell them, Mary.”
