by J. T. Edson
There was no hesitation about the way Mark moved. He knew just what was happening behind him and reacted with the speed of a master. Even as he flung himself to one side, right hand dropping and bringing out his gun, the roar and concussion of the shot filled the room. Mark heard the flat slap of a close-passing bullet, saw chips kick from the rough log wall. He landed, rolling and fanned off three fast shots. Flame licked from the barrel of his Colt, pointing at Grat as the big man started to swing his gun into line once more. Grat was thrown backwards by the impact of the bullets, crashing into Denver and staggering the man. It was an accident which saved Tommy’s life for the young cowhand was no gunfighter and not trained to handle such fast-moving action. Denver’s gun was out, lining on Tommy but Grat knocked him off balance and the bullet missed.
Still on the ground Mark threw another bullet into Grat, then started to lunge to his feet as Denver decided discretion was better than valor and hurled himself backwards through the door. Denver hurdled the hitch rail and tore the reins of his horse free, vaulting into the saddle and wrenched the horse’s head to make it turn. The horse was running as Mark came through the door, gun in hand and ready for trouble. Mark halted and bellowed an order to Denver to rein in but the gunman did not try, he turned, gun slanting at Mark but from the back of a moving horse there was no chance of a hit.
Mark lifted his left arm shoulder high, rested the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of his Colt on the arm and sighted. With the steady rest and the accuracy of the long barrel, Mark could call his shots with some skill. The gun crashed and Denver arched his back as the lead hit him. He tried to cling to the saddle, then slowly and almost reluctantly slid to the ground.
Gun held ready, Mark went forward with Tommy behind him. The young cowhand was pale now for he had never seen men die in the roaring action of a gunfight before. The sight was not pleasant. Tommy did not ask the questions which were seething inside him. All he wanted to do was go somewhere and be sick. Mark stopped by Denver’s side and rolled the man on to his back. He was still alive although he would not be for long.
“You was with the bunch who killed Simmonds, wasn’t you?”
Denver’s eyes opened, they were glazed with pain and did not recognize Mark. “Apaches—coming—tonight—”
There was a convulsive shudder and the man went limp. Mark shrugged and put the gun back into leather. He looked at Tommy’s face and said gently, “Go behind the trees there, boy.”
Tommy turned and went fast. He came back a few moments later, face still pale but looking better. “Mark—I—would you—I don’t want the other boys to hear about this.”
“I’ll not say anything, Tommy,” promised Mark. “I was took that way the first time I saw a man killed.”
“What’s it all about, Mark?”
“Those two in there were part of the bunch that killed your boss. I did a fool trick in there. I should have been set to take them. It was seeing those bib overalls that threw me. Thanks for yelling.”
Before Tommy could reply they heard rapidly approaching hooves. Mark drew his left-hand Colt and jerked his head. He was pleased to see that Tommy reacted fast even while feeling as badly as he did. The young cowhand went back onto the porch and flattened down while Mark moved to the side of the cabin. A young man Mark remembered seeing in town and a tall, well-made, pretty, dark-haired girl came into sight riding fast.
“It’s all right, Mark,” Tommy called and came out from the porch. “It’s Sam Blayne and Silvie Rand.”
The young man halted his horse, looking down at the body, then lifted his eyes to Mark and tried to move his horse so the girl could not see. Sam Blayne’s hand dropped to his gun butt, then relaxed slightly when he saw the Lazy S cowhand.
“What’s this all about, Tommy?”
“Found two of them using the shack here, Sam,” replied Tommy.
“Two?” Sam inquired, looking at the one body.
“Other’s inside, tried to kill Mark here.”
“Sure,” agreed Mark. “Claimed they worked for you.”
“Never saw this one in my life,” Sam Blayne answered.
“Didn’t allow you had, he’s one of the bunch who shot Simmonds,” Mark said and holstered his gun. “You’d best come and take a look at the other.”
Sam swung down from his horse, glancing at the girl as she sat pale and scared. “You wait there, honey. I’ll take a look at him, might know him.”
Mark and Sam entered the cabin together, leaving Tommy outside with the girl. The big Texan was wondering about Sam Blayne and this nester girl being together. He smiled, a good-looking girl like that would not be short of visiting young men and Sam Blayne would be real slow if he did not make one of the number. He indicated the Sharps rifle on the bunk and showed Sam the bib overalls but Blayne proved that he was well able to use his eyes.
“Was something said about the man who shot Walt Simmonds wearing nester boots, wasn’t there?” he asked.
“Why sure,” drawled Mark, looking at Grat’s feet and wondering where he kept his eyes. The man’s boots were low heeled and square toed.
For some reason he could not explain, Mark did not mention seeing the meeting with the Apaches. He told Sam most of the rest of what happened but decided to leave out all reference to the Apaches until he had found time to discuss it with Dusty Fog.
They heard hooves and a voice came to them. “Howdy gal, you’re a mite off your home range, ain’t you?”
Sam darted to the window although he knew who was speaking. There was a worried look on his face as he turned to Mark. “It’s pappy—well, it’s time he found out about us.”
“Don’t your pappy approve of her?”
“Don’t approve of nesters. There’ll likely be hell on when I tell him.”
“Then hold it off for a couple of days,” snapped Mark. “We’ve got enough to make him raise hell over, right here.”
The two young men came from the cabin to find Silvie attempting to explain her presence without involving Sam. Her father did not approve of her meeting and walking out with any cowhands and she was sure Colt Blayne would not regard her as a suitable person for a daughter-in-law. Nor did Silvie wish to cause trouble between Sam and his father. She did not want to lose Sam either. It was something of a relief to find that Colt Blayne was more interested in the body than in her.
“Howdy, Pappy,” greeted Sam, not knowing how he would explain Silvie away. “Mark here just got two of the men who downed Uncle Walt. The other’s inside, Sharps rifle, nester boots, bib overalls and all.”
“I’d best take a look,” growled Blayne and dismounted.
The men went into the cabin and Silvie Rand sat her horse without a move. She thought she should turn her horse and go but knew Colt Blayne would be just as curious about her absence. He might even form an entirely wrong idea of her being here, one which could make trouble for everyone. She saw the men coming out and heard what Blayne was saying.
“One thing’s for sure. Boots or no, that man’s no nester. I never saw a fodder-forker yet with hands as well kept as that,” he said, his eyes went to Silvie and he was about to say something more.
Mark stepped to the girl’s side, looking up at her. “Look honey, I can’t take you home right now. I’ll let Tommy ride back with you and come over to see you tomorrow some time.”
Whatever Silvie Rand might lack in schooling she was far from being slow-thinking. She managed a smile at him although she never felt less like smiling. Her voice was a pleasing southern drawl as she replied.
“All right, I’ll see you tomorrow, at the same place.”
Tommy was about to go to his horse when Colt Blayne spoke. “You busy over to the Lazy S, Tommy?”
“Allus busy, Colt,” Tommy replied.
“Can’t have you traipsing off, wasting good time then can we?” Blayne went on. There was a glint of something in his frosty eyes. “Sam here ain’t got a thing to do. How about taking the gal home, boy?”
“
Me pappy?” Sam asked, startled and hardly able to believe his ears.
“Sure, you. Can’t have the hands wasting their time and we can’t let a real nice young gal like this ride the range without an escort.”
Same Blayne tried to sound nonchalant and unconcerned, as if he would rather be working than taking a pretty girl for a ride. “Sure, I’ll take her. Come on, Miss Rand, we’d best get moving.”
Colt Blayne watched his son and the girl disappear into the woods, then turned back to eye Mark speculatively. The frosty glint was still in his eyes as he said, “Fine looking gal. Make a good wife for some man. One of the Rand gals. Susan Mae ain’t it?”
“Sure,” Mark agreed for he could not remember what Tommy had said the girl’s name was.
“No, Silvie!” Tommy spoke fast, seeing Mark getting all tangled up.
Colt Blayne chuckled, pure amusement showing in his eyes as he looked Mark over from head to foot. “You’re Ranse’s youngest boy, ain’t you?”
“Why sure.”
“Huh!” Blayne snorted. “I might be old and near on ready for sitting back and hard wintering, v but I ain’t blind nor dumb.” He cackled derisively. “And I’d surely hate to think any Counter ever took a gal off a Blayne.”
Ten – New Winchesters, New Wire
Dusty Fog was riding the other side of the range with a cheerful Lazy S cowhand known as Howler, a Texas boy who left his home to see something of the West. Now Howler was doing something he never thought he would, not even in his wildest day dreams. He was riding with the Lone Star State’s favorite son, the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. Fowler was bursting with pride but he was not acting respectful or admiringly. He rode alongside Dusty, trying to top the windies Dusty spun about hunting or fishing.
It was shortly before noon and they were looking for a straying bull which took off with a string of cows. The hunt was not successful but they were trying and, topping a rise, looked down on to a well-marked trail. A wagon drawn by two horses was moving along the trail, two men sitting on the box. Howler’s face showed relief for he was out of tobacco. That would not be so bad but Dusty was also out and Howler was a smoking addict.
“Let’s head down and talk some,” he suggested.
“Sure,” Dusty agreed, starting his horse forward, headed for the wagon. He saw the men watching him, hands dropping to their sides but ignored the move. In a wild land like this a man took elementary precautions. “Howdy gents.”
“Howdy,” replied the man driving the team. He was a bearded, dirty-looking man of medium size, dressed in fringed buckskin shirt, old cavalry trousers and calf high Apache moccasins. A livid scar started at the left side of his face, up near the hair-line and ran down into the whiskers. There was an expression in his eyes as he looked at Dusty, as if he thought he should know the small Texan. Then his eyes went to the Lazy S roan Dusty was riding.
“Wouldn’t have the makings, would you, friend?” Howler asked.
The bearded man dug out a sack of Bull Durham and passed it over. That was part of the code of the range. A man could ask for tobacco and the request was never refused except as a deliberate insult. The other man looked them over and grinned.
“You wouldn’t work hereabouts, would you?”
“Why sure,” agreed Dusty and took the sack after Howler got his smoke rolled. “Ride for the Lazy S. We’re out looking for strays.”
Dusty was sure that he should know the bearded man, but his memory would not work. The man was feeling the same way, Dusty was sure, it was only the horse which was fooling him. Dusty was pleased he had decided to rest his big paint and take out a Lazy S remuda horse.
“Town far off?” asked the bearded man.
“Three, four miles at most,” replied Howler, not knowing Dusty was worried by the nagging thoughts, trying to recollect where he had seen the bearded man. “You haven’t seen a big roan bull and maybe a dozen or so cows?”
“Lost ’em?”
“Sure, that damned fool bull’s wuss’n any Apache for roaming off. Trouble is he always comes back but the cows don’t.”
“It’s hell when you get one like that, ain’t it?” the second man inquired, for he had worked as a cowhand and knew the curse of a roaming bull. “Don’t know which’s the worst a bull or an Apache.”
Howler made a simple reply, “Bulls don’t tote rifles.”
Dusty saw a furtive expression cross the face of the two men. He did not know what brought about the change but it was something to do with the innocent words Howler just spoke that made the men show tension. He saw the hands which left the gun butts as they came up moving back again. Yet not by any sign did he let the two men on the wagon know he had noticed any change.
“This’s not going to get that old bull found, Howler,” said Dusty, his voice even and friendly. “Let’s get to looking for him.”
Turning his horse Dusty headed back up the slope. Howler raised his hand in a gesture of farewell and followed. The bearded man sat watching them go, his face scowling and troubled. After Dusty and Howler passed out of sight he started the wagon team forward and growled:
“I’ve seen that short growed runt some place before.”
“Totes two guns,” the other man answered. “Don’t look hardly old enough to. I bet he bought them to show off with. What you reckon he meant about Apaches and rifles?”
“Just making talk. You know what cowhands are, allus talking.”
The man seated by, the driver looked back over his shoulder at the boxes in the back of the wagon; some were long, rectangular in shape, others were square. One thing they all showed in common, no sign of what they contained. The man knew what the boxes held and was worried by the casual remark.
“Reckon he knows what’s in them boxes, Poggy?”
“How the hell could he?” growled the driver. “Rangoon don’t talk, or make mistakes. I bet there ain’t more than Rangoon knows about what we’ve got, or what they’re for.”
“You worked with him afore this?”
“Yes, up in the Black Hills just after the War. Don’t you go letting his looks fool you. He’s the hardest man I ever came across.”
“Wonder what he wants them for?”
“Revolution below the border,” Poggy growled in a voice which warned the other man it was a closed subject and the questions died away.
Poggy did not know why Rangoon wanted the goods he was carrying and did not mean to ask questions either. Like he said, he had worked with Rangoon before and was accepting, if not entirely satisfied, with the explanation given for the collecting of his cargo. Rangoon was not the sort of man one argued with, or questioned.
The two men rode on towards Escopeta without talking, both busy with their own thoughts. They came in by the Gunn River Saloon as the batwing doors opened to allow a man to pass through into the street. He paused on the sidewalk looking at the wagon with some interest, then spoke:
“Howdy Poggy!”
The voice brought Poggy’s attention to the man, taking in the gambler’s dress, the deputy sheriff’s badge and the hat pulled forward so as to throw the face into deep shadow. Slowly Poggy dropped his hand to his side, rubbing the butt of his old Army Colt gun.
“You know me?” he asked.
Wes Hardin stepped forward, left hand thrusting back his hat to allow the tanned face to show clear of the shadow.
“Hardin!” Poggy brought out the word in a strangled gasp.
“As ever was,” replied Hardin mockingly. “What’re you doing here, old friend of my youth?”
Poggy overlooked the fact that such a question was a breech of Western etiquette and a deliberate insult. “Just making an honest living, Wes.”
Hardin laughed, a savage cough of laughter which brought Poggy’s hand well clear of his gun butt. “Making a living, an honest living, is it. What’s in the wagon, Poggy?”
Licking his lips nervously Poggy replied, “Supplies for the Banking House Saloon down there.”
“Move over!
”
There was no arguing with Hardin. Poggy knew it, and so did the man by his side. Poggy crowded up to his companion and allowed Hardin to climb up on the box. Looking inside the wagon Hardin studied the contents. His eyes narrowed and his voice was a suspicious growl as he asked: “What’s in the boxes?”
Glasses, some fancy likker, stuff like that. Long ’uns hold a new gambling set-up,” replied Poggy, fighting to hold his voice even. “Got it on my bill of loading here.”
Hardin thought of opening one or two of the boxes but before he could make a move to do so saw the sheriff stepping from his office. Hollister raised his arm and called to Hardin, who reluctantly swung from the wagon and looked up at Poggy, his eyes hard and cold.
“You wouldn’t be up to your old tricks now, would you?”
“Me, Wes?” yelped Poggy, well simulated innocence in his voice. “Once’s enough for me. I’ve done with that sort of thing now.”
Hardin grunted and walked away along the side of the street. Poggy’s hand moved gunwards again but sanity returned to him. He held his move uncompleted and started the wagon forward. He knew that if he shot and missed he would never get a second chance. Hardin would see to that. If he shot and hit, his position would not be much better. Hardin wore a law badge which meant he and the sheriff must be friends. Poggy could not hope to get both sheriff and Hardin. He also knew Rangoon would not want any trouble.
“What’s Hardin doing here and as a john law?” Poggy’s companion asked.
There was no direct reply to the question for seeing Wes Hardin jogged Poggy’s memory. “You know who that short-growed cowhand we saw out there was?”
“Naw, why should I?”
“He was Dusty Fog.”
“Dusty Fog?” Poggy’s companion snorted. “A short-growed runt like that?”
“Short-growed, or tall as a cottonwood tree, that was Dusty Fog,” said Poggy, worry in his tones. “When I’ve delivered this stuff I’m pulling out—fast.”
Wes Hardin walked on along the street and joined the sheriff. They strolled along the sidewalk together. Hardin was frowning, thinking of Poggy coming to Escopeta. The man could be telling the truth, making an honest living, but life had made Wes Hardin a suspicious man.
