by J. T. Edson
‘We’ll be gone,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Us and Clay Allison both.’
Masterson nodded. ‘Heard he’s coming north. I also heard some damned fool says I’ve passed word that he shouldn’t use Dodge. I never passed any word.’
Dusty knew this without being told. He could guess that the story had been spread by someone who wanted to see a gunfight, or wanted some excitement. ‘I’ll tell ole Clay.’
Masterson knew that, if he stayed in Dodge, there would be shooting and while not being afraid of Allison, was a realist. If he killed Allison, a lot of other men were going to look for him, and the reputation he gained. If he died, the City Fathers of Dodge would give him a first-rate funeral, but would only mourn him long enough to put in a replacement sheriff.
This way he could be out of Dodge while Clay Allison was there and not lose face by it.
The Kid jerked his rifle free and kicked his white forward, then stopped in disgust. The others all turned to see a fast-departing man headed for Dodge.
‘Who was it?’ Thora asked.
‘A skin-hunter. He must have followed you, to see what was happening, Bat,’ the Kid replied. ‘That proves Moxel shot Jackie.’
‘Likely,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Thora, you’re trail boss. Billy Jack’ll be segundo. Keep the herd moving. We’ll meet you outside Dodge.’ Turning to the other two members of Ole Devil’s floating outfit he snapped, ‘Let’s go ’
Thora watched the three young men riding towards Dodge, then turned back to the lawmen. ‘I think we could offer you breakfast and coffee back at the wagon, if we hurry.’
‘Thanks, Mrs. Holland. Like to say that Dodge City wasn’t behind the word Wyatt put out about Rocking H. There’s times I think Wyatt talks too much.’
~*~
The skin-hunter who had followed Masterson and Tilghman from Dodge made good time back to Dodge. He pulled up outside the Buffalo House, leapt up the steps and crashed through the doors.
‘You were right, Shag. Masterson went to the Texans and told them.’
Moxel turned. ‘That means they’ll be coming after us.’
Apart from Moxel’s men, only the owner, Ed Schieffelin, and his barman, Len, were in the saloon. Word had gone round Dodge that trouble was coming and, with that strange premonition which was peculiar to the frontier crowds, people stayed clear of both the Buffalo House and Sam Snenton’s Texas House across the street.
Schieffelin, a contrast to the untidy, dirty skin-hunters, with his elegant gambler dress, looked worried.
‘What you aiming to do, Shag?’ he asked. ‘You got the wrong man last night.’
‘I was telled the gunslick rode a paint. When I saw a Texas man riding a paint, and toting a fancy gun, I reckoned he was the one.’
‘It wasn’t Dusty Fog,’ Schieffelin warned. ‘But he’ll be here, looking for you.’
‘We stopping to fight?’ a tall, gangling skin-hunter asked.
‘Sure, but we takes them our way,’ Moxel replied, leering round at the others. ‘Where’ll be the first place them Texans head for, if they come looking for us?’
‘Texas House, like they allus does,’ Len suggested.
‘That’s right. We’ve seen all them Dodge City john laws pull out after Masterson went. Them Texans won’t go to the jail, having seed Masterson. They’ll come straight to the Texas House and ask Snenton where we are. I wants Blinky and Herb up on the roof. Bert and Case’ll be along the street a piece, one on each side. Then we’ll have ’em.’
‘Snenton’ll warn them,’ a man growled.
‘No, he won’t. ’Cause you’n Moe’ll be in thar with a gun lined on that pretty wife that Snenton’s so fond of. All right, Rut?’
Rut nodded, then went on: ‘Where’ll you be?’
‘Right here at the bar. Me’n ole Len’s going to have our ten-gauges lined on that door. That’ll be the only way the Texans can run. Where you going, Schieffelin?’
The saloonkeeper had left the bar and was walking across the room. He stopped. ‘Got me some office work to do in the back.’
‘All right. But, happen you don’t come out when the shooting starts, I’ll burn your place down.’
Schieffelin tried to smile, but he was cursing the luck which made Wyatt Earp his customer. Earp had left money for Moxel’s bunch to stay on with, and now Schieffelin was deeper in trouble than he ever had been before. He went into the back room, opened his desk-drawer and lifted out his short-barreled Webley Bulldog revolver. He knew that he had to help Moxel, whether he liked it or not.
~*~
The Texas House was empty at this early hour and Sam Snenton was helping his wife to make the final arrangements for the arrival of the cattle-buyers at lunchtime. Snenton was tall, wide-shouldered and heavily built. He was a happy man, dressed in a spotless white shirt and comfortable jeans. Around his waist was an apron; but, tucked in his waistband out of sight, was a Remington double derringer.
The place was quiet, except for the occasional noise made by Hop Lee, the Chinese cook and general handyman, working in the kitchen. The dining room was large, and tables were large enough to accommodate six men each. Behind the bar, burned in the woodwork, were many brands—for this was the first place every Texas trail-drive crew made for when they hit Dodge at the end of the drive. Nearly every ranch-owner in Texas had left his brand burned on the wall backboard. Amongst them was R. and C. brand of Mark Counter’s father’s Big Bend outfit. In a place of honor was the OD Connected brand of Ole Devil Hardin. Snenton was proud of that backboard, it had come with him from Hays, Abilene and Wichita. On hooks made from the horns of a Texas steer hung the famous brand he used to mark the sourdough kegs of the different spreads which came to Dodge.
Selina Snenton was small, dark-haired and pretty. It was her capable business sense that turned this place into a financial success, for Sam was a genial host and liable to forget to collect pay for the meals eaten by a crew. She brought a solvency to the business, whilst he handled any trouble with a fast-pulled gun, or a punch like a Missouri mule-kick.
Two men entered the dining room. She turned and frowned. They were skin-hunters, part of Moxel’s bunch. ‘We’re not serving yet, gentlemen,’ she said.
Snenton turned and frowned; he disliked the Moxel bunch and tried to keep them out of his place. ‘Best come back in a couple of hours, if you want food. We won’t have any until then.’
The men moved to either side of the door, both drawing their guns. Rut growled: ‘Just stand still, Sammywell, and nobody’ll get hurt.’
Snenton did what any man with gun-savvy would have under the circumstances. He stood still, but his hand dropped casually towards his waistband. ‘What’s the—?’ he asked softly.
‘Stand real still, Sammywell, if you don’t want the missus hurt,’ Moe snarled, cocking his gun and lining it on Selina. At that range he could hardly have missed.
‘All right. But, if this is a stick-up, you’ve picked a real poor time. We banked last night.’
‘Ain’t sticking you up, Sam,’ Moe answered. ‘We wants to wait here for some friends what’s likely to arrive sudden and unwelcomed if we don’t do it for ’em.’
‘Friends?’ Sam Snenton felt suddenly cold. He had heard of the killing of the Texas boy, and guessed why the skin-hunters were here. ‘Your friends wouldn’t come here.’
‘These friends would. See, they’re them Texans what’s coming after ole Shag for killing their pard last night.’ Moe had been drinking and was slack-jawed through it.
‘Moe!’ Rut growled. ‘Shut your face and get across the room. Set at that table with your gun on Miz Snenton. Set down, ma’am. I’ll keep watch out the winder.’
Selina sat at the table and the man took a chair near her, his gun resting on the top of the table. She looked down at the cloth and asked, ‘Did Moxel kill that boy last night?’
‘Sure. Allowed it was Dusty Fog, after him for gunning Ben Holland last year,’ Moe replied. ‘Ole Shag’d downed Holland. but the charge was weak.
’
‘Why did Moxel shoot Ben Holland?’ Snenton asked casually.
‘Shag don’t like Texas men. He heard Holland was tough, and wanted to try him out.’ Moe grinned as he talked, a drunken leer. ‘Last night he saw that kid on the paint. He figgered it was like the little fat feller said. Dusty Fog was in town looking for him, so he got out his ole ten-gauge and dropped the boy.’
‘And you reckon to take Dusty out here?’ Snenton watched the men, waiting his chance. ‘Knowing Dusty, he’ll head straight to the jail, to ask Bat Masterson instead of coming here.’
‘Naw, they won’t,’ Rut sneered. ‘Ole Shag’s real smart. He had Bert follow Masterson and Tilghman out of town. They went to the herd to tell them Texans. They’ll come here first. Ole Shag’s smart—he’ll take him some reb scalps.’
‘Like hell!’ Snenton scoffed. ‘Moxel’s no good without it’s dark and he’s behind a man.’
‘Yeah?’ Rut was bursting with misplaced pride in his boss. ‘He knows they’ll come here fust. He’s got the sweetest lil ole gun-trap a man ever saw laid on here. Two boys up the street, two on the roof of the Buffler House. Me’n Moe here, and him in the saloon—at the bar with the bar-dog and two scatters. We’ve got them rebs whipsawed.’
Snenton knew this to be sure; from the window he could see the two men moving on the Buffalo House roof. He also knew, as did Moxel, that the Texas men would come here looking for information. That was as natural for a Texas man in Dodge as it would be for a homing pigeon to make its way back to the loft it left. The three or more Texas men would come riding towards the Texas house—right into an ambush that gave them no chance of escape.
Snenton tried to sound mocking, but he knew the skin-hunters were right in their thinking. ‘You don’t reckon Dusty Fog’ll fall for a play like that?’ he asked. ‘The skin-hunter doesn’t live who can do anything better than Dusty Fog. He’ll bust your trap, like it wasn’t there.’
‘Be that so?’ Moe growled. ‘Well, when they buries them Texans you’ll know you wuss wrong.’
‘They’re coming, Moe.’ Rut’s voice was urgent. ‘Folks’s clearing Trail Street.’
Selina watched the man at the table. He was sweating now. She waited for a chance to do something; for she knew, and liked, Dusty Fog.
Rut pulled a handkerchief out and rubbed the sweat from his face. He shoved the bandana back into his pocket and rubbed his palm against his trouser leg.
‘Scared, Rut?’ Snenton asked. ‘Don’t reckon it’ll work now, do you?’
Rut snarled a curse and looked back out of the window. He knew the reputation of those three Texas men who would be leading the attacking party. If there was the slightest flaw in their plans, things would be going real bad for Shag Moxel’s men.
From the kitchen came a wailing, high sound, which bit into Rut’s nerves like a red-hot knife. He had never heard Hop Lee, Snenton’s help, singing, or he would have known that this was an Oriental version of some popular ballad.
‘What the hell is that?’ Moe croaked.
‘Our kitchen help,’ Selina answered, her hand dropping below the level of the table and holding the edge of the cloth.
Rut roared out for the man to be quiet, but Hop Lee was used to the Occidental barbarians showing a lack of appreciation for music. He had long since learned the only thing to do was ignore them and carry right on with his song.
‘Lee doesn’t know any English,’ Selina remarked.
The skin-hunters listened to the wailing notes for a time. It was bad enough waiting for the Texans, without having that banshee call jarring at the nerves. Rut gave in. ‘You know how to make him understand?’
Selina nodded.
‘Then stop him—and quick.’
That was what Selina had wanted Rut to say; she and her husband both knew Hop Lee spoke good enough English. Speaking in the fluent Mandarin dialect Hop Lee had taught her Selina gave rapid orders. The singing stopped abruptly. The room was silent, except for the ticking of the wall clock. The two skin-hunters were sweating freely now, both wondering why Shag Moxel had chosen to remain in the comparative safety of the Buffalo House, instead of fighting out on the street. The bottle-poured Bravemaker was laying cold on them.
‘They’re coming down Trail Street now!’ Rut hissed. ‘Keep that gun lined on the woman.’
Snenton half-turned; he saw the kitchen door slowly opening, a slim yellow hand pushing it. Catching his wife’s eye. Snenton nodded. The time was coming to take action. Selina gripped the tablecloth. She was pale, her face showing the strain. Looking out of the window, she saw three men riding into view.
Moe’s hand jerked as Selina heaved on the tablecloth. The gun was out of line and the woman dropped to the floor. Moe roared out and tried to bring the gun into line. At the same moment, Snenton drew and fired at Rut, missing him. Hop Lee threw open the kitchen door, his hand swinging forward, a meat-cleaver flying from it. Moe’s gun swung down, then he pitched to one side, the cleaver having split his head open. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Rut twisted round as the bullet slammed into the wall. He saw the double-barreled derringer in Snenton’s hand. Panic hit him. He twisted back towards the door, tore it open. At the same moment Snenton roared out. ‘Ambush. Dusty!’
Fifteen – Mark Counter Throws a Barrel
The word ran around Dodge City faster than a wind-swept prairie fire. Trouble was coming soon. The Dodge City police force, those tough, rough handlers of drunks, got the word. They had seen Masterson and Tilghman go from town, and took their departure right after. Not one of the police force wanted to be here when Rocking H came to town, looking for the men who had downed their pard. It wouldn’t be a safe location for a lawman who was supposed to stop shootings in Dodge City.
By the time the three members of Ole Devil’s floating outfit rode into town, Trail Street was as clear of human life as Death Valley on a real hot summer’s afternoon. The street was deserted, not even a horse standing at the rail of a saloon. Yet, in every building, from every window, faces looked out, watching the three men riding slowly towards the Texas House.
As always in these matters, Dusty rode in the center of the trio, Mark at his right and the Kid at his left. They rode slowly, relaxed in their saddles. For all normal signs, they might have been three drifting cowhands, coming into town for a spree. The Kid alone gave the lie to that; he rested his old rifle across his knees. In affairs of this nature, he preferred his rifle to an opener and, after that, he might use his old Dragoon to take the pot. Dusty and Mark left their rifles booted; they were trained cavalrymen, and preferred their Colts for combat in the saddle.
Moxel’s guess had been correct in one thing; and so had Snenton’s. The three Texans were headed for the Texas House, but they weren’t riding blindly into a trap. All three of them sat their horses in the relaxed, easy way of the cowhand. They appeared to be looking ahead, but never had they been more alert than they were then. All could read the signs; they knew Moxel was waiting for them, ready and prepared to fight.
A movement and a splash of color where no such movement, or color, should be—caught the Ysabel Kid’s attention. He saw the two men on the roof of the Buffalo House an instant before Dusty and Mark picked them up.
‘Two up there on the roof of the Buffler House, behind the false front.’
The Kid just breathed the words out.
‘See them,’ Mark answered, just as softly. ‘Two more ahead there—one on either side of the street.’
Dusty was silent, he too had marked the four men. The pair up on the roof were dismissed from his calculations as a factor in the game. Those two men were as good as dead; or, if they weren’t, the Ysabel Kid was losing his skill with a rifle. Yet, there should be more men. Moxel had six men in his bunch, and only four were in sight. The rest might be in the Buffalo House. If that hadn’t been Sam Snenton’s Texas House across the street from Schieffelin’s place, Dusty would have expected men there, too. But Snenton would never
allow a Texas man to be attacked from his place.
‘Waiting for us, just like you said,’ Mark went on, just as quietly as before. He had long since stopped marveling at Dusty’s ability for putting himself in the place of the other man, then thinking as he thought. It was an ability which had long stood Dusty in good stead, and it stood by them today.
‘Yep, only four of them. The rest must be in the Buffalo House,’ Dusty replied. ‘Is Moxel out on the street?’
‘Nope, he’s a big, heavy hombre—less’n Red Tolliver called him wrong,’ the Kid answered. ‘Red allows to have known Moxel in Wichita.’
They were in front of the Texas House now. All halted their horses, knowing it wouldn’t be long before the shooting started. The Kid watched the men on the roof, but his Indian intuition warned him all was not well.
From inside the Texas House a shot sounded and a voice yelled, ‘Ambush, Dusty!’
The Ysabel Kid left the saddle of his white in a dive, his rifle crashing even as he fell. Up on the roof one of the two men reeled back from out of cover, a hole between his eyes. Even as that man went down, all hell tore loose on Trail Street.
At the shout, Dusty and Mark sent their horses leaping forward, both drawing their guns as they charged at the two men along the street. The door of the Texas House was pulled open and a man leapt out, gun in hand.
Rut landed on the street, his revolver lining on the fast-rolling Ysabel Kid. He fired one shot, the bullet joining the dust-spurts following the rolling black shape. Then a shadow fell on Rut and he heard the wild, terrifying scream of a fighting stallion. Rut twisted round. A scream broke from his lips as he saw a huge white stallion rearing over him, iron-shod hooves smashing down at him. The scream stopped as the hooves thudded home. Rut went down with the white horse, fighting screams shattered the air, smashing at him with battering hooves.
