by J. T. Edson
Gripping Colin’s arm, and giving him no opportunity to complete his introduction of Dusty, the Vicomtesse led him into the small dining room at the left of the hall. For a moment de Brioude seemed to be on the verge of speaking to Dusty. Deciding against it, the Vicomte went after Colin and his wife. Eyeing Dusty’s gun belt with the kind of mocking amusement that the small Texan had seen on other faces, until he had been given cause to draw the Colts, Peet followed the others.
Watching them go, Dusty smiled sardonically. During the War, he had met several members of the European aristocracy, either as combatants or military observers. Accustomed to the near-feudal class-distinctions of their society—as strong in the French Republic as elsewhere in the Old World—they had often failed to appreciate that more free-and-easy conditions prevailed upon the United States’ Western frontiers. So he felt neither surprised nor annoyed at the de Brioudes’ behavior towards him.
Regarding Dusty as a mere employee—and probably not an important one at that—the de Brioudes did not want him around while they talked business with Colin. Although the Vicomte had hidden his feelings, his wife had made no attempt to do so. Dusty felt relieved that he had not been introduced. If Colin had done so, it might have been an embarrassment for all concerned. Learning Dusty’s identity would have most likely changed the de Brioudes’ feelings and caused them to invite him to join them. After which, if either of them had asked Dusty’s advice, his answer might be detrimental to Colin’s trading.
All in all, Dusty decided that he was better off unrecognized and waiting in the barroom until a deal had been concluded. Then, if Colin felt so inclined, he could perform the introduction and most likely hand the de Brioude family something of a surprise.
On entering the dining room, Beatrice directed Colin to a table covered with a white lace cloth probably brought out by the owner in honor of her visit. Crossing to the window, Peet leaned his shoulder on the wall and looked out. The hunter’s presence did little to relieve Colin’s annoyance at how the de Brioudes had treated Dusty. Obviously they regarded Peet as suitable to listen to their business. Possibly they felt that they might need the hunter’s specialized knowledge, which was understandable.
Turning his attention fully to the Vicomtesse as she asked if he would care for a drink or anything to eat, Colin decided that she had taken care with her appearance. Under the black top hat, with its silken retaining band extending to her waist, her hair looked perfectly groomed and face faultlessly if tactfully painted and powdered. Her snow-white blouse and black riding habit exhibited her physical attractions without being blatant. Diamonds decorated her wrists and fingers.
After Colin had declined Beatrice’s offer, de Brioude made no attempt to start discussing business. Instead he repeated his thanks for Colin saving his wife and commented on Mogollon’s excellence. Colin sensed an air of tension shared by the other occupants of the room and wondered at its cause.
Could it be that de Brioude had got Colin alone to try to force him into selling Mogollon?
That seemed highly unlikely. Perhaps Peet did not know Dusty Fog, or recognize the small Texan’s potential, but he would be unlikely to be party to such a scheme. Nor would de Brioude contemplate making the attempt, even with the favor of Kerrville’s citizens swinging his way.
Yet there was something. Just what, Colin could not decide. As if becoming aware of the Scot’s thoughts, Beatrice put on her most charming manner.
‘And do you plan to make Texas your home, m’sieur?’ she inquired.
‘Aye, that I do, ma’am,’ Colin replied and turned to her husband. ‘I don’t want to sound impertinent, sir, but you have this reception soon and Captain Fog’s waiting in the bar for me.’
‘Cap’n Fog!’ Peet yelped, thrusting himself away from the wall. ‘You mean that short—that—the feller who was with you’s Dusty Fog?’
‘He is,’ Colin agreed.
‘Dusty Fog!’ the Vicomte croaked, staring at the door.
‘Mon Dieu!’ Beatrice gasped, almost at the same moment.
Only by making an effort did Colin keep his face impassive and hide the amusement he felt at the surprise shown by the de Brioudes and Peet. Having seen several people’s reactions at discovering that the short cowhand was the legendary Dusty Fog, he found nothing unusual in their startled exclamations.
‘You ain’t joshing us?’ Peet demanded, crossing the room.
‘If you think that,’ Colin replied calmly, ‘go over to the bar and ask him.’
‘Hell!’ ejaculated the hunter, glaring as he meant to follow the Scot’s suggestion. ‘Then—!’
‘Arnaud!’ Beatrice said loudly, chopping off the hunter’s words. ‘What must Captain Fog think of us, acting as we did?’
‘We must make amends!’ de Brioude went on. ‘Abe, would you go and ask Captain Fog if he will join us?’
At that moment, the crackle of gunfire sounded from across the hall. The barroom lay in that direction, so Colin did not hesitate. Drawing his Dragoon, he sprang to and jerked open the door. Followed by Peet, the Scot darted across the hall.
Chapter Eleven
Entering the bar-room of the Logan Hotel, Dusty found its only occupants to be a slim, cold-eyed gambler seated at a table on the side facing the door and a bulky, surly-featured hard-case in cowhand clothing lounging at each end of the counter. They were the two men who had accompanied the hunter into the building. If he had recommended either man to the de Brioudes, the hunter possessed mighty poor judgment or some ulterior motive for doing it. No matter how they dressed, Dusty doubted if the pair had ever worked cattle on a ranch. However, it was none of Dusty’s affair.
‘Howdy,’ Dusty greeted, crossing to the center of the bar. ‘Isn’t anybody serving, gents?’
‘It sure as hell don’t look that way,’ the man at the right side answered.
If Mark Counter or Tam Breda had been present, they would have identified all three men. While Dusty had heard Mark mention Stagge, Coxin and Royce, he failed to identify them from his amigo’s brief, unflattering descriptions. The absence of Laura and the small man deprived Dusty of clues that might otherwise have helped him.
‘You don’t need no barkeep anyways,’ Coxin declared, from Dusty’s left and eyed him with disdain. ‘They don’t serve no hard liquor to frying-sized half-portions like you.’
‘Milk’d be more your needings, short stuff,’ Royce scoffed.
‘They do say milk never hurt anybody, mister,’ Dusty remarked quietly.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ Royce demanded, advancing along the bar in a threatening manner.
Despite sensing the two hard-cases’ hostility, Dusty made no attempt to leave the room. His every instinct told him that they were on the prod and determined to make trouble for somebody. Experience with their kind in the Army and since the end of the War had taught him that backing down would solve nothing. Revising his opinion, Dusty classified them as small-town loafers and bullies. Probably their arrival at the same time as the hunter had been no more than coincidence, for seeking regular employment rarely fitted into such men’s ways.
Deprived of drinks by the bartender’s absence, the pair most likely wanted somebody on whom they could work out their spite. Probably they had figured the gambling man to be too tough a proposition. It would be in keeping with their sort’s habits to pick on a small, unoffending and apparently harmless young stranger. If that was the case, Dusty reckoned they had made a mighty poor choice by selecting him as their victim.
‘I didn’t come in here looking for fuss,’ Dusty warned gently, swinging so that he placed his back to the bar. ‘So let’s forget the whole thing.’
Dusty spoke in a tone of voice that the enlisted men of Company ‘C’ and the OD Connected’s cowhands had come to know and respect as a danger signal. When he used it, wise men hunted for the storm-shelters or made good and certain that they respected his wishes.
Failing to identify Dusty, so not knowing his ways, Cox
in and Royce continued to move in his direction. While Royce held the small Texan’s attention from the right, Coxin glided closer as silently as he could manage. Aware of his companion’s ability in a roughhouse brawl, Royce was content to keep back and let Coxin make the opening attack.
Lulled into a sense of false security by Dusty’s small size and general air of unpreparedness, Coxin took a step away from the bar and shot out his hands. He clamped a hold on the front of Dusty’s shirt and left bicep, preparing to swing him bodily into the center of the room. To Coxin, there seemed no way in which his victim could avoid what he planned. Ignorance concerning the ‘Victim’, especially of one aspect, was about to cost the hard case dearly.
Down in the Rio Hondo, a short Oriental man worked as Ole Devil Hardin’s personal servant. Tommy Okasi claimed to be Nipponese and possessed devastatingly effective methods of barehanded fighting. To Dusty, smallest male member of the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan, the little servant had passed on a thorough working knowledge of ju-jitsu and karate. Those techniques, hardly known at that time outside the Japanese Empire, had helped Dusty to earn his reputation for defeating larger, heavier and stronger men.
Allowing Coxin to reach him ‘undetected’ and take hold, Dusty based his line of action on what the other planned to do. Blending his movements with the hard case’s lifting pull, Dusty twisted his hips and torso to the left. At the same moment he swung his free hand up and around so that it passed above his assailant’s arms. Extending his right arm, Dusty kept his hand open and fingers outstretched but together. The manner in which he struck at Coxin might have looked strange, awkward even, to Occidental eyes, but proved to be most effective. Dusty had learned from Tommy Okasi that the extended fingers, heel or edge of the hand could serve just as well as the knuckles when wielded correctly.
Although done with great accuracy, Dusty’s attack was not preformed at anything like his best speed. He needed Coxin to realize at which point he was aiming his hand. Becoming aware of the target as Dusty’s fingertips raked across his eyes, Coxin started to draw back his face. Pain and an instinctive desire to protect his sight caused the hard case to tilt his torso and snap his head hurriedly to the rear.
Having brought about the required reaction, Dusty clenched his fist and bent his right arm. Again he did not use his knuckles. Instead, he hurled his arm so that the point of its elbow rammed with considerable force into Coxin’s solar plexus. A startled, agonized croak burst from the hard case as the blow landed and he opened his hands. As he struck, Dusty had already started to swing his left shoulder away and wrench his arm from Coxin’s grasp. Liberated, he carried his left hand, folded into a fist, until it rested against his near hip.
Dusty’s response and its result had come almost as much of a surprise to Royce as it had to its recipient. Clenching his hard fists, Royce advanced at a better pace in the hope of taking Dusty while the small Texan was still occupied by Coxin. Royce’s hope met with disillusionment.
Alert for danger from the second man, Dusty threw a quick glance across his left shoulder. Quick, maybe, but telling him all he needed to know. Grasping and clutching at his body where the elbow had impacted, Coxin staggered backwards sufficiently for Dusty to have room to maneuver. Figuring to take advantage of his extra reach, Royce hurled a punch while still at arm’s length from the small Texan. Dusty bent his right knee slightly and took his full weight on that foot. Drawing his other leg up, he inclined his body away from Royce and hurled his left foot to the rear. Carried on by the impetus of his blow, Royce took the high heel of Dusty’s boot full in the pit of the stomach.
From delivering the snap kick, which halted Royce in his tracks, Dusty dropped his left foot to the floor and used it as a pivot to turn on his second attacker. Royce had not even had time to lower his right arm from its abortive punch. Stabbing out his left hand, Dusty shoved Royce’s fist aside. Using his pivot to add force to it, Dusty whipped his right arm around and delivered an open-palm slap to the side of Royce’s head. The power behind the blow spun the burly hard case towards the center of the room.
Thrusting himself away from the confines of the bar, Dusty moved towards the door and halted facing the hard-cases. He threw a look at the gambler, finding the other sat staring as if unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyes. Then Dusty gave his attention to Coxin and Royce.
‘All right,’ the small Texan growled. ‘I don’t want trouble, but it’s here if you figure on making it.’
Rubbing his stomach and left cheek, Royce edged across the floor to halt at Coxin’s side. Gold, angry, savage eyes glared at Dusty. Then the hard-cases became aware that a change was apparently taking place in the appearance of their would-be victim. No longer did he seem small or insignificant. Somehow he gave the impression of possessing the size and heft to tower over them both.
Shocked by the amazing metamorphosis, the hard-cases exchanged startled and nervous glances.
‘Take him!’ Coxin yelped and grabbed for the butt of his holstered revolver.
Hearing his companion’s words, Royce also commenced his draw. The speed and determination with which they acted left Dusty no alternative. Bullies they might be, but either possessed sufficient skill and speed to prevent him from dealing with them by other means than the use of his revolvers.
Crossing so fast that the watching Stagge could barely follow their movements, Dusty’s fingers closed about the bone handles of the matched Army Colts. The guns left leather as if possessed by wills of their own. All in an incredibly swift motion, the barrels turned outwards, the triggers were carried to the rear by Dusty’s forefingers and his thumbs drew the hammers to full cock. Then flame lashed from the muzzles and the twin detonations merged as one single sound.
Struck in the chest while his gun was just clearing its holster’s lip, Coxin pitched backwards. At almost the same instant, a .44 bullet ripped into the center of Royce’s forehead. He twirled around once, collided with the front of the bar and tumbled face-first to the floor.
Shocked motionless by what he had just seen, Stagge began to push back his chair. Hearing its legs scrape on the floor, Dusty swung the barrel of his right hand Colt in the gambler’s direction. With the muzzle pointing directly at the center of his fancy vest, Stagge halted his movements.
‘I don’t know how you fit in this,’ Dusty warned. ‘So just sit again and put your hands flat on the tab—’
Snarling out his agonized, wordless fury, Coxin supported his weight on the bar. Despite suffering from a mortal wound, he lifted his revolver in Dusty’s direction. His pain-creased eyes flickered at Stagge and his mouth opened as if to ask for assistance in dealing with the man who had shot him.
‘Look out, cowboy!’ Stagge bellowed, swiveling his head to stare at Coxin.
Dusty had already caught a hint of Coxin’s movements from the corner of his eye. Even as Stagge began the warning, the small Texan had whipped around and dropped his right knee towards the floor. If Dusty had been a fraction of a second slower in assuming the kneeling position, he would have been killed. Coxin’s gun blasted and its bullet hissed through the air above Dusty’s head.
By the time Dusty’s knee reached the floorboards, he was ready to deal with Coxin. The ambidextrous prowess developed as a child, to draw attention away from his lack of inches, served him well, as it had on other occasions. Although his right hand Colt still covered Stagge, the left moved almost as if of its own volition. Angling upwards, the revolver bellowed in reply to Coxin’s challenge. The bullet entered the hard-case’s open mouth as his head twitched towards Stagge. Plowing on, the lead burst through Coxin’s brain and sprawled him lifeless across Royce’s body.
Half out of his chair, standing as if turned to stone, Stagge stared at the bodies by the bar. Feet thudded in the hall and voices were raised excitedly outside the building as people, attracted by the sound of the shots, ran towards it. Dragoon in hand, Colin darted into the room. Peet followed the Scot, but skidded to a halt and allowed his revolv
er’s barrel to sag towards the floor. All doubts as to Dusty’s identity had left him and he stared in awe at the small Texan. Bringing up the rear at a slower pace, the de Brioudes halted at the door and looked between the two men.
‘Are you all right, Dusty?’ Colin asked.
‘What happened, Captain Fog?’ de Brioude said, leaving his wife in the hall and walking forward. He laid emphasis on the last two words as if wanting to make sure that there were no doubts about who they were dealing with.
‘Cap’n Fog?’ Stagge repeated, slumping back into his chair.
The gambler’s eyes swung to the small Texan, then jerked in Peet’s direction and received a confirmatory nod.
‘I am sorry that we did not recognize you when we met, Captain Fog,’ de Brioude remarked as Stagge appeared to be on the verge of making some comment to the hunter. ‘If we had, this would not have happened. But why should those men want to attack you?’
‘A man like Cap’n Fog’s made a heap of enemies, Arnaud,’ Stagge pointed out. ‘Could be they’re two of ’em.’
‘I don’t recall having seen either of them before,’ Dusty answered. ‘Anyways, I’m obliged for the warning, mister.’
‘It was all I’d time to do,’ the gambler replied.
Beatrice had been studying the scene in the barroom with a casual, detached interest. Hearing voices and footsteps drawing near to the front doors, a sudden change came over her. Leaning against the wall, she took on an attitude of distress that contrasted vividly with her previous behavior.
Several men and women, all dressed in what would probably be their best clothes, appeared at the doors. Taking the lead, a big, buxom woman entered. There was an air of standing no nonsense about her as she stalked towards the barroom. Close on her heels was a short, leathery old timer. He looked uncomfortable in his old suit and having the neck of his shirt fastened did not appear to be a normal state of affairs. For all that, he moved with quick, alert determination.
