by J. T. Edson
‘He took off running, went ’round the corner there,’ Tenby answered.
‘You mean that you missed him—with a shotgun?’ the saloonkeeper growled.
‘Hell, it was dark on the porch, Mr. Towcester,’ Tenby apologized. ‘You’ve seen how fast he can move. I didn’t have time to—’
‘You’ll have to find and arrest him,’ Towcester pointed out.
‘Yeah.’
Indecision showed in the one word answer given by the marshal. Clearly he did not relish the thought of tangling with ‘Ed Marsden’. An angry snort broke from Towcester’s lips as he read worry and not a little fear in Tenby’s attitude.
‘All right boys,’ Towcester told the assembled crowd. ‘The marshal wants deputies; and none of us can blame him when he’s got to deal with a gun-slick like Marsden. I’ve not liked the way Marsden’s been acting since he came here. So I’ll give any man who comes forward a free night’s drinking in my place.’
Dusty had noticed that the Golden Goose’s clientele that night included a good number of the usual type of range loafers, the kind of men who would do anything except work for a night’s free drinking. So Tenby did not lack volunteers, although several members of the crowd held back.
‘All right,’ Tenby growled when sure he would raise no more help. ‘Two of you go to the livery barn and watch his hoss. The rest of you split up and start looking for him.’
‘You’ve forgotten something, marshal,’ Towcester interrupted. ‘Marsden’s a killer and you don’t want any of these good gents gunning down. So make sure they know not to take chances.’
‘Yeah,’ Tenby agreed. ‘If you boys see Marsden, shoot first and ask questions after he’s dead.’
Lying beneath the porch, Dusty watched the crowd separate and depart. Everything began to flop into place, all the puzzling aspects of the affair growing more clear in the light of the new developments. There were a few gaps to fill in, but Dusty felt sure that Towcester was the man behind the hired gun who tried to kill Sandy McGraw.
Although Dusty hoped for a chance to reach Towcester, the saloonkeeper returned to the Golden Goose before the crowd dispersed. While waiting for a chance to leave his place, Dusty decided against bursting in on Towcester straight away. The element of surprise might be on Dusty’s side but there were too many people in town ready to shoot turn down for him to take risks. First he must escape, go to the ranch and gather reinforcements. Then he could have a showdown with Towcester.
Easing himself from under the porch, Dusty made a cautious way along the back street in the direction of the livery barn. Once he crouched in the darkness while a trio of Tenby’s ‘deputies’ passed by in what they imagined to be a conscientious search.
As usual the livery barn was illuminated by a couple of oil lamps and Dusty, looking in through the rear window, saw two men sitting on a bale of hay. Neither appeared to be taking his duty too seriously, nor had they interfered with the big paint. Not that Dusty felt surprised at the latter, knowing his horse’s temperament and general distrust of strangers. Carefully Dusty inched open the barn’s rear door and stepped in with his left hand filled with its Colt.
‘Just sit still, boys,’ he ordered as the men started to turn. ‘If you aim to move or shout, pray first.’
Two startled faces swiveled in Dusty’s direction. Although the men sat as if turned to stone, one of them began to open his mouth.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Dusty advised, making a convincing gesture with his Colt, and the mouth closed again. ‘Now both of you take out your guns and see how far you can throw them into the stalls—left-handed, hombre. That way you’ll live to earn your night’s free drinking.’ The last came as one of the pair reached gunwards with his right hand. Awkwardly drawing his gun, the man flipped it across the barn to fall into a stall. A moment later his companion’s weapon disappeared into the straw at the other side. ‘Now lie flat on your bellies,’ Dusty went on.
After one look at his grimly set face, the two men obeyed. Walking to his paint, Dusty tested the saddle and, satisfied that he could mount without the saddle slipping due to having its girths loosened, took the reins in his right hand. Watching the men, he led the horse across the barn and halted at the rear door.
‘Don’t come rushing to see me off, boys,’ he warned and vaulted into the saddle.
Giving the men no chance to make a hostile move, Dusty started the paint moving. He did not know what kind of conditions he might meet on the backstreets and decided against risking laming his horse. So he swung the paint between two buildings and reached the main street. He set his spurs to the big horse’s flanks and started it galloping. Behind him a voice yelled, then more. Two shots crashed, but Dusty did not hear their bullets. Then he passed the last houses and the darkness swallowed him up as the paint galloped along the Lazy M trail.
A mile from San Garcia, Dusty eased the paint to a halt and sat listening for sounds of pursuit from town. Although he could hear none behind him, hooves drummed on the trail ahead. Nobody from town could have passed him, riding across country, without his being aware of it. Nor did he believe Tenby possessed sufficient experience or reasoning ability to send men out with the intention of cutting off the way to the Lazy M. For all that, Dusty took no chances. Ahead of him, a clump of bushes offered a hiding place and he rode towards them. Slipping from his saddle, Dusty held the paint’s head ready to silence any sound it made.
Three riders came along the trail, moving at a purposeful trot and in silence. Despite the darkness, Dusty recognized them. He started to whistle the opening bars of ‘Dixie’. Instantly the trio halted, Red Blaze and old Cactus swinging their horses in front of Betty Hardin, and each reached for his favorite weapon.
‘You’re jumpy tonight,’ Dusty said.
‘Dusty?’Red challenged.
‘You’re expecting maybe Robert E. Lee?’ Dusty replied and rode from behind the bushes. ‘Where do you three reckon you’re going?’
‘Into San Garcia to save you from being lured into a life of sin,’ Betty told him as Red holstered his revolver and Cactus replaced the Colt rifle across his knees. ‘I’m sure Aunt Betty wouldn’t approve of that Stevie Cameron as a daughter-in-law.’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Dusty drawled. ‘I don’t approve too strong of her myself. She tried to make herself a widow even afore we got to church.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘I think you’d better tell us about it,’ Betty remarked.
‘Let’s get off the trail first,’ Dusty suggested.
‘Ain’t as smart as I used to be,’ Cactus began.
‘And you never were,’ Betty put in.
‘Which same when I was young a gal knowed her place and didn’t speak ’cepting when spoke too. But, like I was saying afore I was interrupted, I ain’t as smart as I used to be, but I’d allow you’ve had a mite of trouble, Cap’n Dusty.’
Once clear of the trail, Dusty verified Cactus’ statement. Quickly he told of the incident in town, from meeting Stevie to his escape. At the end he asked what brought his cousins and Cactus to the scene.
‘We were looking for you,’ Betty explained. ‘Bringing some interesting news. While Cactus ain’t as smart as he used to be, he once in a while uses his head for something besides a peg to hang that smelly old hat on—’
‘It ain’t so smelly at that,’ Cactus objected. ‘Anyways, Cap’n, me ’n’ Rache goes out this morning and combs the area where we lost that greaser’s tracks yesterday. Found ’em in the end, only they weren’t headed for Cordova’s spread—’
‘They were coming to town,’ Dusty guessed.
‘Ain’t no use trying to surprise these uppy young ’uns,’ Cactus sniffed.
‘Tell him the rest of it and see,’ Betty said.
‘We follows the trail for a spell, it heading for town all the time, and finds a place where that “greaser” gets off his hoss to tighten a girth. Must’ve been after dark, or he’d got careless. Left a good clear footprint—�
��
‘Have your moment of glory,’ Dusty sighed. ‘But the night’s going fast.’
‘That “greaser”, Cap’n,’ Cactus replied. ‘Turns out he warn’t wearing range boots, but low-heeled town redjacks.’ xii
‘Which same Ortega had range boots on,’ Red went on.
Range boots invariably bore high heels to give the wearer a better grip of the stirrup irons, or allowing him to dig into the ground when holding back on a roped animal while afoot. Being designed for walking rather than horseback work, town footwear had low heels.
‘We’d best go back into town,’ Dusty stated.
‘Straight down the main drag, heads held high and chests puffed out in righteous pride?’ Red asked.
‘Waal no,’ Dusty replied. ‘I was thinking more of sneaking in on foot. And don’t you worry none, we’ll ride as close as we can.’
~*~
Frenchy Becque stiffened in his chair at the telegraph table as he heard a gentle knock at the door. Scooping up his revolver, he crossed the room.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dusty Fog.’
Shoving the revolver into his waistband, Becque drew open the door and stood aside to let Betty and the three men enter. A blocky, black-haired man with a heavy Gallic moustache, Becque managed to look French even clad in range clothes. His eyes went from one to another of the visitors, admiration flickering at Betty’s buckskin jacket, male shirt and levis pants, and taking in the saddle-guns each man carried. Quickly he closed the door and watched Dusty lean the Winchester carbine against the wall.
‘They’ve stopped looking for you, Cap’n Fog,’ Becque said. ‘And none of ’em rode out after you.’
‘You know why they’re after me?’ asked Dusty.
‘They say you killed Agent Corlin,’ Becque replied and tensed slightly as the matched Colts left Dusty’s holsters.
Twirling the guns, Dusty held them butts first to Becque. ‘Look them over.’
While Becque examined the Colts, Dusty removed his gunbelt. When the Wells Fargo official offered to return the guns, the small Texan shook his head.
‘Have they been used tonight?’ Dusty asked.
‘Nor all day at least,’ Becque replied.
Black powder made a considerable mess when exploding and nobody, not even the fabled Rio Hondo gun wizard, could have cleaned the two Colts so effectively in the dark, or in the time since his hurried departure from town. Pretty convincing proof to Becque’s mind; especially when he had not believed Dusty to be guilty in the first place.
‘Then put them in your safe and lock it,’ Dusty said.
‘What?’ Becque almost yelped and the other three also showed surprise.
‘Lock them in the safe,’ Dusty repeated. ‘Folks in this town think I killed a man in cold blood and I want to prove I didn’t. Showing them that my guns haven’t been fired ought to do it.’
‘Sure, but—’ Becque began.
‘Just look at my carbine too, but I’ll be needing it,’ Dusty interrupted.
‘So that’s why you brought it along,’ Betty breathed.
‘I telegraphed Sheriff Washbourne,’ Becque remarked as he checked that the carbine had not been fired. ‘Was waiting for an answer when you came in. Who do you reckon’s behind this business, Cap’n?’
‘Towcester and the marshal,’ Dusty replied. ‘Proving it’s going to be the hard part.’
At that moment the telegraph key started to click and Becque crossed to its table. He laid aside Dusty’s carbine and started to write down the message flashed over the wires.
‘It’s from Wash,’ he said. ‘Tells me to take whatever action I figure’s needed. So tell me what you want me to do.’
‘I’d like to know what Towcester’s doing first,’ Dusty remarked. ‘Only it won’t be safe for any of us to walk the streets.’
‘Then stay here and I’ll go,’ Becque answered. ‘I do it every night, so nobody’ll think anything should they see me.’
As a result of Becque’s report on his return, Dusty’s party made plans and set off to carry them out. It seemed that Towcester had entertained a number of Tenby’s unofficial deputies at the Golden Goose, honoring the promise of free drinks. At least fifteen men remained in the saloon, although all the paying customers had left. Becque’s views on the type of men in the saloon was uncomplimentary to them, although true. Guessing that Towcester kept the men around as protection against his return with reinforcements from the Lazy M, Dusty based his strategy on something more Becque told him. Although Dusty wanted Becque to remain in the Wells Fargo building, the man refused.
‘I’ve been pulling down a deputy’s pay for a fair time, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘It’s time I earned some of it.’
~*~
Stevie Cameron stirred uneasily in her bed as the room’s lamp flared up. ‘Wh-what now, Tony?’ she began, then jerked into a sitting position and stared at her visitor. ‘You!’
‘Me,’ agreed Betty Hardin. ‘Get up, Stevie dear, we’re going to have a little talk.’
On learning that Stevie had already left the saloon, although the other girls remained to entertain the customers and share their boss’s unusual bounty, Betty insisted on being given a chance to interview her. Knowing his cousin’s strength of will when she made her mind up, Dusty arranged his plans to satisfy her. Nobody saw the party moving through the streets and they found the house door open. That did not surprise them, but none expected to have the good fortune of Stevie’s suite being unlocked. They came prepared to break open the girl’s room and were grateful that the need did not arise. Inside the suite, Betty insisted that the men left Stevie’s interrogation to her.
‘Get out of here!’ Stevie hissed, throwing hack the covers and starting to rise. She wore a nightdress of more flimsy material than Betty had ever seen.
As Stevie came to her feet, Betty glided in a step. Up lashed Betty’s hand in a nukite thrust, driving the stiff fingers under Stevie’s unprotected left breast. A gasp of agony tore from Stevie. Clutching at her bust, she spun around and collapsed on to the bed with her body twisting in suffering.
‘Come on now!’ Betty snapped, gripping Stevie’s shoulder and dragging her around. The material of the nightdress ripped, baring Stevie’s left breast, as she turned. ‘I didn’t hit you that hard! Oh my Lord!’
The last words came as Betty saw the vicious bruising on the lower side of the breast and mottling the white flesh as far as she could see.
‘He never marked me where it showed,’ Stevie gasped, sitting on the bed.
‘Did Towcester do it to you?’ Betty asked, her voice brittle.
‘He’d’ve killed any other man who laid hands on me,’ Stevie replied bitterly. ‘Tony’s full of husbandly love.’
‘I hope you’re not, because I aim to have the truth out of you. Even if I have to knock it out. And you don’t look in any shape for rolling around on the floor wrestling.’
True enough in view of the bruising Stevie’s body showed. In addition, she remembered how the small girl before her had tossed the one hundred and ninety pound cowhand through the air as if he weighed no more than a feather.
‘If I yell—’ Stevie began.
‘Try it!’ Betty challenged. ‘You helped set up my Cousin Dusty like a stool bird and I don’t like that one little bit.’
‘Dusty? Do you mean Ed Marsden?’
‘His name is Dusty Fog.’
‘Dusty Fog!’ Stevie gasped. ‘Then he’s not a Texas Rangers captain.’
‘Did you think he was?’
‘Corlin told Tony that he’d heard Ed was a captain in the Texas Rangers. He was running scared, Corlin I mean. That was why Ed killed him.’
‘And you helped blame Dusty for it!’ Betty hissed.
‘Have you ever had a man take hold of your apples and crush them as hard as he could?’ Stevie spat back, involuntarily touching her bruised breast. ‘Or sit on your belly and hold a pillow over your face until you’re unconscious?’
‘No,’ admitted Betty in a small voice.
‘Then don’t blame me for doing what I did. I took a beating this afternoon before I’d agreed to go along with Tony’s game. Even though I thought Ed—Dusty—was a Ranger captain.’
‘Did that make any difference?’ Betty asked.
‘I killed a drunk in Houston. He was trying to force me into bed with him and I pushed him away. He hit his head as he fell. Only the Gabrielle family aren’t going to let any calico cat get away with killing their son.’
‘When was this?’
‘A year ago.’
‘You’re sure it was Con Gabrielle?’
‘I knew him—’ Stevie began.
‘And so do I,’ Betty interrupted. ‘In fact I threw him off the porch back home not three months ago. He had the same general idea with us both.’
For a moment the meaning of the words did not seem to strike Stevie. Then she gasped, ‘But Tony told me he was in the next room and came in just after Con hit the floor. No wonder I never saw anything in the papers—although I’ve never been one for reading. All this time he’s been using me. Him and his “Let’s get married, Stevie. A husband can’t testify against his wife.” The lousy—’
‘And he said he would tell Dusty, or Captain Marsden of the Rangers, about you unless you helped him?’
‘Sure. I wanted to warn Ed, but the bartender was too close and kept his sawed-off shotgun in his hand under the counter. If Ed didn’t go along, the bar dog was to shoot him. At least outside Ed had a chance.’
‘Some chance!’ Betty spat out.
‘It was better than none,’ Stevie replied. ‘And I knew what would happen to me if anything went wrong.’
‘I don’t blame you too much,’ smiled Betty. ‘Get dressed and I’ll have Dusty in to ask you some questions. If you want to answer, that is.’
‘Do I want to!’ Stevie hissed. ‘You just give me half a chance.’ Drawing on a robe, Stevie sat down. She looked uneasy and not a little frightened when Dusty entered the room. Cold gray eyes raked her from head to foot and she writhed under the scorn in them.
