by J. T. Edson
‘It isn’t,’ the small Texan contradicted, throwing his right leg forward and over the saddlehorn to drop from the back of the big paint stallion more quickly than by dismounting in the conventional fashion.
‘What did you say?’ the burly hard case demanded.
‘There’ll be no lynching,’ Dusty elaborated, walking forward with what appeared to be leisurely strides.
For a moment, Scanlan stared at the disputer of his intentions. At a casual glance from ground level, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog was a far from impressive figure. Seen from the back of a big horse, he seemed even more diminutive and insignificant. However, never one to overlook a possibility, the hard case swung his gaze to the black dressed Texan. He was standing with the barrel of a Winchester Model of 1866 rifle resting upon his off shoulder. Gripping it with the right hand closed about the wrist of the butt, three fingers were through the ring of the lever and the fourth curled across the trigger. If anything, while somewhat more impressive by his companion, he looked even younger and more innocent.
‘You reckon you can stop us?’ Scanlan challenged, throwing a look at the other “warriors” from the Standing DMS ranch and, knowing they would support him if he should need assistance, dismounted:.
‘Do you reckon I can’t?’ Dusty countered, his voice as quiet and deceptive as the first warning murmur of a Texas “blue norther” storm.
For a moment, Scanlan did not answer. Never susceptible to atmosphere, he failed to draw any conclusions from the way he had been addressed. Instead, his gaze went to the weapons in the holsters of the smaller intruder’s gunbelt, then took in the big paint stallion standing ‘ground hitched’ by having had its split ended reins released to dangle from the bit.
‘Two white handled guns, toted for a cross draw,’ the hard-case announced, nodding to signify understanding. ‘Big paint stud-hoss and all. Just who the hell do you think you are, beef-head, Dusty Fog?’
‘Hombre,’ the Kid put in, before his companion could reply, voice hard beneath its pleasant and gentle tenor drawl. ‘He doesn’t have to think. He knows he’s Dusty Fog!’
‘Yeah?’ Scanlan scoffed, conforming to the belief of the unenlightened that a man who had attained the legendary status of the Rio Hondo gun wizard must be a vastly more impressive physical specimen. His eyes roamed over the speaker and, having taken in the magnificent white stallion standing like a statue in the background, went on, ‘And I reckon you must be the Ysabel Kid.’
‘Now how did you guess that?’ the Indian dark Texan asked, looking and sounding as angelic as a bunch of well-raised choirboys meeting the bishop. ‘Or did good ole Jose Salar there tip you the “yes he is”?’
Although the Mexican frowned and looked harder at the speaker, Scanlan was not impressed by what had been said. Instead, his gaze turned once more to the small Texan and his voice was dripping with sarcasm as he started speaking.
‘All right, Dusty,’ the hard case mocked and he waved his hand towards Homer “Bury ’Em’ Milton. ‘This here’s Bad Bill Longley and I’m John Wesley Hardin his—!’
At that moment, acting as if realizing something of the kind was required, the paint stallion moved enough for the members of the posse to see the brand it carried. Burned into the hip were two letters, a O and a D, the straight edge of the latter touching the side of the former. Although he was not a cowhand as such, along with the majority of his companions, Scanlan could read the brand for what it was.
OD Connected, owned by General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin!
Not only was Dusty Fog segundo of this ranch, he was Ole Devil’s favorite nephew according to all reports!
Briefly, a sense of alarm assailed Scanlan. Then he shrugged it off. Although the other might be the Ysabel Kid, such a short-grown runt could not be Dusty Fog.
‘Tell you what, Dusty,’ the hardcase went on, forgetting his intention to introduce other members of the posse by the names of equally famous gun fighters. ‘Happen you want us to ask us real nice afore we make him stretch hemp, we’ll up and say, “pretty please” to you.’
‘Hombre,’ the small Texan replied, his voice still holding a gentle tone anybody who knew him well would have realized boded unpleasantness. ‘I could §how you letters to prove who I am, but I don’t reckon you could read them. One thing I do know, though. Happen you want to lynch this feller, come ahead—All you have to do is pass me.’
‘Now hold hard there, Dusty!’ the Ysabel Kid protested. ‘You’re getting to be a regular hawg in such doings. Leave me have some of them for myself!’
Even as he was speaking, so mildly he gave the impression butter would be unlikely to melt in his mouth, the Indian-dark Texan moved. In an instant, the Winchester left its place of rest on his shoulder and its lever was flipped through the operating cycle almost more swiftly than the human eye could follow. While he did not offer to turn its barrel into a position which menaced the members of the posse, the speed with which he had acted suggested he could certainly fire the seventeen rounds of the fully loaded rifle at the two shots per second advertised as possible by its makers. Such rapidity might not allow anything close to extreme accuracy, but would be sufficiently lethal against a closely packed bunch of riders at close quarters.
Having swung from the saddle of his horse, rope in hand, Scanlan was starting to walk forward. However, his raised right foot descended almost in the place it had left. Yet it was not the implied threat of the Winchester held by the baby faced and black clad youngster which caused him to change his mind. In fact, he hardly noticed it under the circumstances. Instead, his gaze was fixed upon the small figure he had been addressing with such sarcasm.
Various things began to make themselves felt upon the far from agile and discerning mind of the burly hard case. There was a casual and seemingly relaxed air about the shorter of the cowhands. Instead of having adopted the so-called ‘gunman’s crouch’ which the uninitiated frequently employed in the hope of appearing menacing, he was standing erect with hands dangling loosely by his sides. Yet, somehow, his posture conveyed an impression of much greater potential threat than would have appeared possible on the surface.
Suddenly, such was the sheer strength of his personality, Dusty no longer looked small to Scanlan!
In an instant, the young Texan seemed to have taken on a size which made him tower over the burly hard case!
‘Slats!’ Salar said urgently, his English good though heavily accented in the Spanish fashion. ‘That is the Ysabel Kid. I recognize him now!’
‘Only now, Jose?’ the black dressed Texan inquired sardonically. ‘I knowed you straight off from back when.’
Already having serious misgivings, the two comments were all Scanlan needed to convince him!
With the apparently baby-faced Texan confirmed as the Ysabel Kid, that big cowhand must also have spoken the truth with regards to his identity!
Therefore, after the stand he had taken, the only way the posse could hang Morton Lewis would be by removing Dusty Fog from their path. Nor was he alone on the issue. He was backed by a fighting man with the reputation for being as deadly and efficient as the Comanche warrior which the Ysabel Kid now resembled and who stood ready, willing and very able to give him effective support.
' It was a daunting prospect!
On the surface, numbers appeared to favor Scanlon in his wish to carry out the instructions given by his cousin on behalf of their employer. However, of the dozen men present, only half were actually ‘warriors’ from the Standing DMS ranch. While three of the town dwellers were sufficiently beholden to David Masefield Stewart to have been willing to lend at least moral support, the rest were uncommitted and more likely to decline any such an action as was contemplated. What was more, Scanlan had an uneasy suspicion that he personally would be the first target selected by the big young Texan if trouble started. Nor, he also suspected, was he or any of his companions sufficiently fast to prevent him from being shot down if gun play commenced.
Seeing the intended victim had risen while the conversation was taking place and was looking at the Colt 1860 Army Model which lay a short distance away, Scanlan could not restrain a worried gulp. If he tried to go and pick it up, one of the posse was almost certain to intervene. In which case, others would follow suit and guns were going to roar.
‘Leave it there, mister!’ Dusty ordered, having seen and drawn a similar conclusion to the hard case. ‘And don’t anybody else make a move until the sheriff, or whoever this is coming has told me what’s going on.’
‘Whatever you say, Cap’n Fog,’ Mort assented, accepting to do otherwise would be futile and could lose him the support of his protectors.
Before anything more could be said or done, Sheriff Jerome Dickson came around the corner on his now badly limping horse. Bringing the animal to a halt and swinging from its saddle, although he normally would not have been so neglectful, he did not offer to look at the leg which was giving it trouble. Instead, he stalked past the rearmost members of the posse.
‘What’s going on, Scanlan?’ the peace officer demanded, after having glanced at Dusty and the Kid.
‘We’ve caught Lewis,’ the hard case replied sullenly.
‘I can see that,’ Dickson claimed. ‘What’s the rope for?’ Knowing how little his profession of salty toughness impressed the sheriff and remembering the posse had been warned there would be no attempts at summary justice if they caught the fugitive, Scanlan did not reply!
Being less acquainted with Dickson, but desirous of proving himself to be ‘wild, woolly, full of fleas and never curried below the knees’, the youngest of the ‘warriors’ elected to deliver the explanation!
‘We was figuring on saving the county the cost of a fancy trial and hanging.’
‘I’ve told you there’ll be no lynching while I’m running things!’ the sheriff growled, turning to look at the speaker, despite being conscious of how little support he could count upon from the other members of the posse.
‘Could be that won’t be so all fired much longer,’ the young man replied with a mocking sneer directed towards the rancher. ‘What I hear, old Banker Humboldt ain’t going to take kind to you being so careful about a feller’s was figuring on raising half-breed whelps with his daughter.’
‘Stay put, Mr. Lewis!’ Dickson commanded, as Mort let out a growl of anger and made as if to lunge towards the man who had spoken. ‘Do as I say, damn it!’
‘Hell, you can let that god-damned half-breed come, happen he’s so minded!’ the youngest “warrior” offered truculently, watching the rancher—who had realized to do otherwise would be playing into the hands of his enemies—freeze into immobility. ‘I reckon I can stop him afore he’s took two steps!’
‘Hombre, he doesn’t have a gun,’ the Kid put in, speaking with what sounded to be a meek and gentle voice although his demeanor indicated he was neither. Rather he gave the impression of being as ready to erupt into sudden and violent motion as a cougar crouching for a charge. ‘Which I reckon you’ve already took into account. Now me, I’m part Comanch’, same as he is. So, happen you’ve a mind to bum that “half-breed” brand on me, get to doing her and I’ll come right on over to see can you stop me and my ole yellowboy afore we’ve took them said two steps.’
‘Keep your god-damned yapper shut, Tim!’ Scanlan snarled over his shoulder, the warning being elicited by his belief that a hostile act upon the part of the loud mouthed young “warrior” would almost certainly bring part of the Texans’ wrath upon him.
‘Damned if he’s not a whole heap smart’n he looks,’ the Kid declared and went on to confirm the hard case’s suppositions. ‘See, hombre, he knows that come’s gun play, ’less Dusty beats me to cutting loose, he’ll be the second of you to die. And, should I open up, I aim to keep throwing lead regardless until my ole yellowboy’s emptied out. Which not all of it’s going to be needed for you.’
‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Lon,’ the small Texan praised, although he considered the point had been made adequately by his amigo. The man who had provoked their intervention was glancing around and finding that the other members of the posse were looking distinctly uneasy at the prospect facing them. Turning his attention to the peace officer, he continued in a more polite tone, ‘I’m Dusty Fog, sheriff. Do you mind if the Ysabel Kid and I ride into Holbrock with you and your prisoner?’
Dickson suspected a joke for a moment, or that a piece of attempted aggrandizement had led to the adoption of the two famous names. However, there was no suggestion of amusement or the kind of bombastic truculence which would have accompanied the second alternative. Then, being a man of discernment and with a shrewd assessment of character very useful in his present line of work, he saw beyond mere external appearances and knew the pair were who they claimed to be. He also deduced why nothing had happened to Mort Lewis prior to his arrival.
If the sheriff had needed further confirmation to support his judgment, the glance he took at the members of the posse supplied it. Like Scanlan, Salar and Milton were making sure their hands were prominently displayed well clear of the butts of their respective weapons. There was an equal eagerness to exhibit pacific intentions on the part of the other “warriors”, all of whom were glowering in a threateningly prohibitive fashion at the provoker of the potential danger. The town dwellers Dickson suspected of being eager to earn the approval of David Masefield Stewart were moving their horses away from the Standing DMS hands.
‘I’d be pleased to have you along, Captain Fog, Kid,’ the sheriff declared, then looked at the rancher. Tick up your Colt and come hand it and your knife over, Mort. You’re coming back with us.’
‘Whatever you say, Dicks,’ the rancher assented.
‘Should anybody reckon they can make out they figured he was fixing to turn that hawg-leg on ’em,’ the Kid announced. ‘They’d better say their prayers afore they make their move, ’cause there won’t be no time for them to do it after and they won’t be going to hell alone.’
Conscious of the hate filled eyes which watched him, Mort collected his revolver from where it had fallen. Holding it by the barrel, he took out and grasped the knife by the center of the blade. Having done so, he walked over and presented them to the peace officer with a gesture of resignation.
‘That’s fine,’ Dickson said quietly. ‘As soon as I’ve found out what’s wrong with my horse, we’ll go back to Holbrock.’
‘It’s none of my never-mind, sheriff,’ Dusty drawled. ‘But do you reckon there’s need keep all these fellers waiting for us?’
‘There isn’t,’ the peace officer confirmed.
‘Let’s get going, boys!’ Scanlan ordered, deciding the wisest course was to return to town and inform his cousin of how the situation had turned out.
‘Is Mr. Stewart likely to be in today?’ Dickson inquired, as the hard case was walking to his horse.
‘Nope,’ Scanlan replied, swinging on to the saddle. ‘H’s gone over to Austin for a spell on business, but Cousin Leftie’s waiting for us at the Golden Hind.’
‘I’ll be seeing him when I get back,’ the sheriff promised. ‘You bunch,’ the Kid supplemented. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think I don’t trust you, ’cause I don’t, so make sure I can see you all the time as we ride in.’
Eleven
I Don’t Do No Fist-Fighting
‘Looks like you’ve got a welcoming committee, Dicks,’ Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog commented, studying the crowd assembled outside the jailhouse.
‘Might be those high mucky-mucks’re waiting to say they’re so pleasured by the way you’ve done your duty, they’re figuring on raising your pay,’ the Ysabel Kid went on.
‘That’s about as likely as you voting Republican,’ Sheriff Jerome Dickson claimed dryly.
‘I always thought he did,’ the small Texan declared, then grew serious. ‘Would they be Mr. Brenton Humboldt and the rest of the County Commissioners?’
‘They would
,’ the peace officer confirmed.
‘Wouldn’t’ve been one of them’s did the meanness to your hoss, you reckon?’ the Kid inquired.
‘I can’t say I like any one of them,’ Dickson replied. ‘But I’d be inclined to say more “no” than “yes” to that. Besides which, none of them would have had a chance to do it between me passing the word I was taking a posse after Mort and leaving.’
On examining his horse, the peace officer had discovered a tendon in its near front leg had been nicked—but not fully severed—by a well placed thrust from the thin and very sharp blade of a knife. He knew this was an old trick practiced to adversely affect the performance of a racehorse. Its value arose from the effects of the injury not becoming obvious until the animal was being used and lameness developed. 28 There had been several members of the posse waiting at the livery bam when he had arrived to collect his horse, including some of the Standing DMS ranch hands who had not come along. However, of one thing the sheriff felt certain. The only hostler on duty was a friend of long standing and the injury could not knowingly have been inflicted in his presence. On the other hand, a skilled operator could have done so while he was distracted in some fashion. Even without knowing the animal might be crippled permanently , Dickson promised himself he would try to discover who was responsible and take punitive action.
Clearly, having taken the warning given by the Kid to heart, Jacob ‘Slats’ Scanlan and the rest of the ‘warriors’ had set off while the examination of the horse was being carried out, and they made sure they did as he had stipulated, even though travelling at considerable speed. However, as had been the case with the other town dwellers, the trio who felt obligated to David Masefield Stewart had elected to wait until the sheriff was ready to return. In fact, wishing to avoid being suspected of collusion in the intended and thwarted lynching of Morton Lewis, two had offered to share a mount and allow Dickson to use the horse this made available.
