by J. T. Edson
“Mr. Rangoon is sending one of his own men if I can’t find anyone suitable.”
“Do you know the man he’s sending?” Mark asked.
“Yes!” Mary’s tones showed she not only knew, but heartily disapproved of the man Rangoon was sending. “I know him. His name’s Vance and I don’t care for him. Don’t ask me why. He’s a good enough man with cattle, knows the business. It’s just blind feminine dislike. He’s big, good looking, a top hand. But he’s the sort who gets all cowhands a bad name. Rowdy, stupidly rowdy and wild at times. He drinks too much and acts bad when he’s in town.”
“That sort of man could stir up a whole of trouble, Dusty,” Lindy said echoing Dusty’s own thoughts.
“Reckon Rangoon’d accept either of us?” Mark said, his thoughts running parallel to Dusty’s.
“Of course. Mr. Rangoon said he would send Vance along only if I couldn’t find a suitable man,” Mary replied. “Everyone knows you are top hands. The boys would rather ride with you two than with any other men in the west. They hero-worship you.” She saw the expression which flickered on the Texans’ faces and smiled. “Don’t you worry, they won’t act that way.
Dusty made his decision. “We’ll do it. Mark’ll be your foreman, he knows more about the cattle business than I do.”
Mark knew that might possibly be true but Dusty’s reason for allowing him to be foreman was different. It would leave Dusty free to ride the range and look for further trouble. The foreman’s duties would keep him fully occupied with the ranch work and handling of the crew. Dusty did not want to be tied down at the moment for he knew there might be other attempts at making trouble between the nesters and the cattlemen.
“Then we can tell Mr. Rangoon?” said Mary delightedly.
“I’ll tell him for you,” answered Dusty. “I’ve got to go and see him.”
The girls walked to the town escorted by Dusty and Mark.
At the store, the Lazy S wagon was being loaded by a fat, smiling Mexican. Mark watched his small friend walk on towards the Banking House saloon and wondered what was on Dusty’s mind. To the best of his knowledge Dusty did not have any business with the owner of the bank. Shrugging, Mark started to lend the Mexican cook a hand in loading the wagon.
The Banking House saloon was empty of customers as Dusty opened the batwing doors and entered. The games were covered over and two swampers were cleaning the room up. Banjo Edwards lounged at the bar, running a linger down a list on a sheet of paper. The gambler looked up and favored Dusty with a scowl.
“Your boss in, Mr. Edwards?”
“Sure. In the back. Want to see him?”
“I didn’t ask just for the pleasure of talking to you.” Edwards scowled deeper, but he turned and went to a door at the side of the room. He knocked and entered, coming out a couple of minutes after. Dusty spent the time looking over the saloon. It was bigger and more garish than was usual in so small a town. Even with the percentage the gambling tables took, Rangoon would not be showing much profit on the place.
“The boss’ll see you,” said Edwards as he came out.
Dusty walked across the room, stepping by Edwards, then looking back at him. “This’s like it says on the door—private.” For a moment it seemed as if Edwards might object but Rangoon jerked his head and the gambler left. Dusty shut the door and walked towards the big, tidy desk in the center of the room. Rangoon was busily checking the figures in a book and did not look up immediately. Dusty looked over Rangoon’s office. The bank proper lay in a small room beyond the other door. A big, strong-looking safe was in one corner. This and a bookcase were the only other furnishings. Rangoon’s guests there being few. The bank’s business was carried on in the other room.
The bookcase interested Dusty. The books were mostly on tactics or military history. One book caught Dusty’s eye, it was new yet the back was broken. Dusty recognized it and could read the title; Hantley’s “Column South. A History of the War Between the States”. Dusty was not over surprised to see the book, this was Tom Hantley’s home town and Rangoon would buy it show he was proud of the local hero.
“An unusual hobby for a man like me, Captain Fog,” remarked Rangoon, looking up with a smile. “Military tactics and history.”
“Don’t reckon so. Know a man back to home, drinks like a fish, curses worse than a muleskinner and yet he reads Greek classics.”
Reaching into his desk drawer Rangoon took out a bottle of blended whiskey and a box of cigars, setting them on the desk top before him. “What can I do for you, Captain. Smoke, drink?”
“No thanks,” Dusty replied, sitting on one end of the desk. Rangoon set the bottle and box at the other. “I’d like some help from you.”
“Certainly, if I can.”
“It’s like this, Mr. Rangoon. You know why Mark and I stayed on here?”
“Because of what happened to your friend,” Rangoon answered. His voice was polite but disinterested, his face mild and bland.
“That’s right, because of what happened to the Ysabel Kid. He was wounded, Lindy Mahon made the men think he was dead and they didn’t check up. He’s still alive, but hurt bad. I’ve been thinking some about it. The men who are left in that bunch know he can recognize them. They might be back after him.”
“The possibility occurred to me, also.”
“Now you’re a real important man in this section, Mr. Rangoon. Saloon keeper, banker, rancher and all that. Maybe you could get word to the men who hit at Mahon’s place,” Dusty drawled, waving aside Rangoon’s objections before they started. “What I mean is sort of pass the word around that if there’s another try at the Kid accidents are going to start happening.”
“Accidents?” Rangoon asked. He sat just a little straighter in his chair although his tone and expression did not alter.
“Why sure,” agreed Dusty. His left hand Colt came into his hand in an idle appearing gesture. The gun began to spin and revolve on Dusty’s trigger finger, turning like a Catherine wheel. “Accidents. Look at it this way. I can near enough name the man who’s behind the raid on Mahon’s and the killing of Simmonds. I’ve not got enough proof to take the man to court, so I’m sitting back and saying nothing. I don’t know why he wants to make trouble, this man. All I know is it’d be best for there to be no more tries at the Mahon place. The moment I hear there’s been another, accidents start happening,”
“What sort of accidents?” Rangoon asked, his eyes on the gun in Dusty’s hand. He had often noticed a tendency amongst men who used guns extensively to spin one while they talked idly. It was an exercise which strengthened the trigger-finger. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
The four-and-three-quarter-inch barreled Colt continued to turn and spin on Dusty’s finger as if it possessed a mind of its own. “Something real easy. You know how they can happen. Take like now, man fooling with his gun, doesn’t mean a thing by it. Like I said, you own a saloon, could maybe pass the word out for me and pass it strong.”
“The word?”
“Keep clear of the Mahon place and the Ysabel Kid. If anything happens to him I’ll say to hell with taking time out to get proof—and the accidents start to happen.”
The gun stopped spinning at the same moment that Dusty finishing speaking. The bone handle of the Colt slapped into his palm, his thumb eared back the hammer and flame lashed from the barrel of the gun. Rangoon flung back his chair, rising with his right hand flashing up under his coat. The move was fast, far faster than would be expected from a man of Rangoon’s build. Then he stood still, hand under his coat. His eyes went to the bottle at the other end of the desk, the cork was shattered by the close-passing bullet.
The door was flung open and Banjo Edwards entered, gun in hand. He stood very still as he saw Dusty’s Colt lined on him.
“It’s all right, Banjo,” said Rangoon without even a tremor in his voice. “Captain Fog was just showing me a trick when the gun went off.”
Dusty’s lips held a mirthless smile as he watch
ed Edwards holster his gun. The bone-handled Colt in Dusty’s left hand whirled once more and flipped back into the holster, then he hitched himself from the edge of the desk. “You’ll see what you can do for me, won’t you?”
Rangoon pretended to dab sweat from his face. “I’ll see what I can do for you, Captain.”
Dusty walked across the room, through the door and closed it behind him. He did not even offer to look back and ignored the interested stares of the swampers as he walked out of the saloon.
Rangoon sat down at his desk again. He did not speak for some minutes but when he did his voice sounded harder than usual. The effect was still mild but it did not fool Banjo Edwards.
“Tell the boys to steer clear of the Mahon place from now on.”
“But you said—”
Rangoon’s hand smashed down on the desk top, the force of the blow made the bottle and cigar-box bounce. “And I just said keep clear.”
One thing Banjo Edwards learned early in his association with this mild little man was never to argue with his orders; more so when his voice took on that note of anger. The resulting sound might be amusing—but not to Banjo Edwards; he knew Rangoon too well.
“What happened, boss?” he asked in a worried tone.
“I’ve just been given a warning; Dusty Fog knows I’m behind the trouble in Gunn River County,” answered Rangoon. If he was worried he did not show it. Rather he sounded pleased, as if he welcomed a man of Dusty’s caliber suspecting him.
“Can he prove it?”
Rangoon smiled mockingly as he watched the gambler’s face. “No. I wouldn’t be here now if he could. He’s a gentleman, Banjo. Something you’d never understand.
Edwards tried to read something in the bland, mild, gentle looking face; tried and failed. He had seen Rangoon in a tight corner and knew how little fear the small man ever showed. Yet it must be fear which prompted him to alter his plans. Only that morning Rangoon gave an order to get rid of the Ysabel Kid. Now he was cancelling it.
Banjo Edwards’ hand shook as he took the bottle and managed to pry out the remains of the cork. He poured himself a drink. Things were not going as they should with his boss. It might be a good time to get out.
Rangoon looked at the bottle and smiled. That was real shooting. The gun had been pinwheeling around right up until the shot; not much time to take careful aim. The gun just stopped, lined and fired all in a single breath. Few men, and none of them in Rangoon’s crew, could have equaled that shot. He laughed as Edwards asked if one of their men could not remove Dusty Fog.
“There isn’t a man in the crew who’s fit to wipe Dusty Fog’s shoes when it comes to using a gun. You’ll leave the Mahon place strictly alone.”
“You mean give up what you want doing?”
“I don’t mean to give up anything at all. I just don’t want any added complications. So we leave the Mahon place strictly alone. When the Ysabel Kid’s back on his feet they’ll he headed to Texas. Send word to the Reservation and tell Juan Jose to meet Jackley out at the line cabin.”
“Juan Jose?” Edwards growled. “That damned Apache again?”
“That damned Apache again. Poggy should be here in a few days with the goods I ordered.”
“Sure boss,” said Edwards. He knew little enough of why Rangoon was stirring up the trouble in Escopeta and did not fancy asking. The small man’s plans were made and mostly worked. Only the chance arrival of the Ysabel Kid had spoiled the previous day’s scheme, otherwise it would have worked. Edwards studied the other man and took a big chance. “Does Dusty Fog scare you, boss?”
“He scares me. I’m not afraid of the United States Marshal, the sheriff, of Mark Counter or Wes Hardin. They’re big men, all of them, but that small Texan is more dangerous than they ever will be. He’d kill me without thinking twice about it if anything happened to his friend. There’s loyalty for you, Banjo. Captain Fog would throw over everything, risk being tried for murder, lynched even, to avenge his friend. With that kind of loyalty from my men I could carry out any plan I made.”
Edwards scowled. He did not know what to make of the words. What Rangoon planned was not known to any of the men who worked for him. Even Edwards had no more of his confidence. All the gambler knew was he followed orders and received good payment for so doing.
“What’re you going to do about them Texans if they don’t pull out when the Kid’s better?”
“That I haven’t decided, Banjo,” replied Rangoon thoughtfully. “It’s as well not to make any plans when fighting a man as shrewd as Captain Fog. When the time comes we’ll strike if we have to. Until then, see the men know to steer clear of the Mahon place.”
Dusty left the saloon and headed for the general store. There was no reason that Dusty could see for Rangoon to be causing trouble between the cattlemen and the nesters. He might want land but if that was the case there was plenty to he had for the buying further West. A man so shrewd and smart would not be wasting time stirring up trouble just to get land when it could be obtained cheaper and with less bother ... There was more than that behind Rangoon’s moves. It was something Dusty could not guess at and he did not waste time in trying.
Rangoon was no easy mark, Dusty’s every instinct warned him of that. The little man was an opponent worthy of his best tactics. Rangoon was deep, very deep, no fool and far from what his surface appearance made people think he was. The way he had moved when Dusty fired the shot gave warning of that. The move was so fast and practiced, Dusty was not sorry Rangoon did not wear a gun. If it ever came to a gunfight Rangoon, despite the town’s opinion, would not be a helpless bystander. His draw, had he been armed, was fast, real fast.
Dusty joined the others at the store, Mark put a last sack of flour into the wagon and turned to Dusty with a grin on his face.
“I allus thought the foreman was supposed to tell the others to work, not do it himself.”
“You know what they teach an officer, lead by example,” answered Dusty. “Is there much more?”
“No, you can come out now.”
Dusty turned back to the girls. Mary was unfastening her horse and she looked back, a worried smile on her face.
“Did you see your brother?” Dusty asked.
Mary nodded. She bit her lip as she thought of her brother laying in a bed, only just conscious and not able to speak to her. “I saw him, he couldn’t tell me anything, nor could Hank.”
Dusty remembered something the Ysabel Kid had told him. “Lindy, the men who hit at your place weren’t cowhands, they were hired guns. You might not be able to tell the difference but he could.”
“I never thought they were cowhands,” Lindy replied. They mounted their horses and rode from the town, the wagon following them. Mary remembered why Dusty and Mark were coming with her and twisted in her saddle. “Did you see Mr. Rangoon?”
Dusty did not reply for a moment. He smiled, thinking that he had not mentioned the Simmonds ranch. He nodded his head.
“I saw him.”
Nine – Mark Counter Takes Over
Mary Simmonds brought her mount to a halt, her face drawing into angry lines as she saw what was happening outside the Lazy S bunkhouse. Then she sent the horse leaping forward fast, headed for the bunch of men.
A fight was going on, if fight it could be called, for the two men were not evenly matched. One was handsome, Mark’s size, a hefty, rough handful in any company. The other, getting a beating, was a lithe, tow-headed youngster; he was game, but mere gameness could not offset the extra size of the other. The big cowhand laughed and looked at the surrounding circle of faces. The crowd was mostly young cowhands but there were four hard-faced gun-hung men mingled with them.
Slowly the young cowhand forced himself up on to his feet, blood running from the corner of his mouth. Gamely he came at other man. Laughing the big man thrust the wild punch to one side and drove the other fist brutally into the cowhand’s stomach folding him over. Up smashed the big man’s knee, driving into the cowhand’
s face and throwing him over backwards. The cowhand lit down flat on his back and the other threw back his head, roaring with laughter.
“Come on, Tommy,” he jeered. “Let’s see if you can get up.”
Mary brought her horse to a sliding halt and dropped from the saddle, the crowd parting for her to come through. She halted in front of the big man with anger blazing in her eyes.
“Vance, what’re you doing here?”
“The boss sent me to ramrod the spread. Tommy here didn’t like it. Though I’d show him and the rest of the hands who’s boss.”
“You keep away from him,” snapped Mary as Vance turned back towards Tommy. The young cowhand was trying to force himself up. “Don’t you dare touch him!”
Vance laughed, reaching forward to grip Tommy’s hair and drag him into a sitting position, then drawing back his fist.
“Let loose!”
The voice was hard, tough and masculine. It brought Vance round to see who had dared to speak to him. His eyes went to the handsome blond giant swinging down from the big bloodbay stallion. Then he glanced at the small Texan who dismounted from the big paint. A grin flickered on Vance’s face as the two men came through the bunch of cowhands.
“You wanting something, maybe?”
“Sure,” agreed Mark. “I’m wanting to see how you stack up against a man your own size and heft.”
“Do huh?” grinned Vance and swung his fist.
Mark Counter moved with a speed and skill which was a joy to watch. His left hand came up, deflecting the punch, and allowing it to pass over his shoulder. The right fist shot out with the full weight of Mark’s powerful frame behind it. Vance was not expecting anything like that, he walked forward on to the punch, taking it while off balance. His nose appeared suddenly to burst into agonizing pain, his head rocked back and he sat down hard.
There was murder in Vance’s eyes as he came to his feet. He rubbed the blood which gushed from his nose, looking at the red smear on the back of his hand. “Dick, Hen!” Vance snarled. “Hold that other one. Spike keep this bunch back. Me ’n’ Jack’ll see how good the big man is.”
