The Texan

by J. T. Edson

  For a moment Vent was silent; he’d heard the Texas outlaw, Sam Bass, talk of singing in a quartet with U.S. Marshal Chris Madsen and two other men. This Texan must know Bass well—and any man who knew Bass was a serious danger to Barry Vent’s safety.

  The air was suddenly charged with danger, the crowd scattering back as Barry Vent nodded to his men. They moved out from him slightly, watching the Texan, and knowing that they were up against a man at least as good as themselves. The Texan watched them, his hands held slightly in front of his body, the fingers slightly bent, ready to make his move.

  “Mr. Vent! Mr. Vent!” Ogilby pushed through the crowd. “I got a telegraph message for you. It looks important.”

  Vent took the form from the old man’s hand, opened it and read: “Cargo of whisky on next delivery. Sorry short notice.” There was no return address or name of sender.

  “Leave it for now,” he said softly. “Get the boys back to the saloon, Slingo.”

  The Texan jerked his head and ordered several men to help tote the unconscious men away. He watched Vent and the two hired killers walking away and frowned, wondering what was in the message that it had brought such .a change in Vent. Johnny. Sinclair let out his breath in a long, slow blow, lowering the hammer he held back to the anvil.

  “I’ve seen it all now. I surely thought they meant to draw on you.”

  The Texan grinned. “You figure on knocking the bullet back at them?”

  “I figgered to split Slingo Witch’s skull if he killed you.”

  Jean arrived at a dead run, thrusting through the crowd and flinging her arms round Johnny’s neck, gasping: “Johnny you’re all right?”

  “Sure,” Sinclair answered blushing furiously. “Texas here helped a lot. I’ve never seen a man fight like he can. He licked that bunch himself.”

  The girl stared at the small man, fear in her eyes. “Now you’ve done it. Barry Vent will send his men after you, and they’ll get you. Aren’t you worried?”

  “I will be when he sends them after me, like I told you. I wonder what that telegraph message was about.”

  “Telegraph message?” Jean frowned. “I haven’t seen one all day. I did see Mr. Ogilby writing on a blank form—”

  The Texan nodded; now he could see it. Ogilby knew something about Barry Vent; that message proved it. There would be questions to be asked, and Ogilby was one of the men who knew the answers. Barry Vent was suspicious; he would be more so now he knew this small man knew Sam Bass. Things were going to happen faster than the Texan wanted in Tensonville.

  “Is he Dusty Fog?”

  Barry Vent looked at his boss trigger-man, on the evening after the fight. They were in the saloon; no customers were here as yet, and they were talking in soft tones—which would not carry to the ears, of the other members of the Vent bunch, who were drinking at the far end of the bar.

  The killer shook his head. “I don’t know, Barry, and that’s the truth. I could go and find out.”

  Barry Vent was considering making the same suggestion, but prudence was prevalent and he decided against it. Slingo Witch was very fast; but, if this man should be Dusty Fog, the killer wouldn’t be fast enough. Vent thought of the money in his safe and the plans he had for it. Slingo Witch was indispensable for those plans.

  “No. One of the others might be better,” he answered.

  “Benjy?” Witch asked mockingly.

  Barry Vent shook his head as if he took the suggestion seriously. “Not this time. We may need him when the time comes to share out.”

  “Which won’t be long now.”

  “No, the coach will be coming through tomorrow. We’ll take it five miles out of town, come back and clean up here, then get clear.”

  Shorty Smith came along the bar, watching the other two and wondering what they were discussing. He jerked a thumb to where the other men were standing and drinking. “You’d best talk to Brandon. He aims to kill that Texan.”

  Vent nodded. “I thought he might. I’ll try and stop him.” Brandon was standing at the bar, teetering on his heels, and looking in the glassy-eyed way a bad, mean drunk showed. He looked at the others for a moment, then snarled: “I’m going to kill that damned runt.”

  Barry Vent came along the bar, laying his hand on the other’s arm. Brandon swung round but the ugly snarl changed to a slobbering grin as he recognised his boss.

  “You tell ‘em, boss. I c’n kill that runt, can’t I?”

  “Sure, Sam, sure. Nobody allows you’re scared of him at all.”

  Brandon stared owlishly at Vent, from the tone his boss used, someone had said he was scared. He teetered on his heels again and glared round at the others, yelling: “Who said I was scared of him?”

  “None of us, Sam.” Again Vent managed to sound as if the word had been said.

  “Well, I ain’t scared of him. Ain’t scared of nobody, I ain’t. I’ll show you. Where is he?”

  Smith looked from the window, the Texan was walking along the street with Pop Howard and Sinclair. “He’s out there on Main Street right now.”

  “Now then, Sam,” Vent put in. “We’re your friends, so you don’t have to prove anything to us. We know you can lick him.”

  “That’s right, Barry. I c’n lick him. And I’m going to,” Brandon replied. He pushed from the bar and glared belligerently. “Don’t none of you try and stop me. I’m going to kill me a man.”

  Not one of the others tried to stop Brandon for two reasons: one was that they knew he was dead mean when in likker; the other was that, if he died, their own share in the loot would be greater. They watched him cross the room, and few of them doubted that he would walk back.

  “I tried to stop him,” Barry Vent remarked. “The damned. fool.”

  “Hope he comes back again,” Smith answered—in a tone which showed he hoped no such thing and held even less than hope if he did mean it.

  The Texan walked along the street with Howard and Sinclair, talking of range matters. He paid little attention to the man who came from the Vent Bar, apart from noticing that he appeared drunk. He carried on with his description of how to ‘goodnight’ a bull, until Brandon yelled: “Texas!” he screeched, “I’m coming for you.”

  “Stand clear, and keep out of it,” the Texan snapped to the other two. “I can handle it.”

  Howard and Sinclair pulled aside, to the edge of the street. The Texan stayed where he was, hands hanging by his sides, eyes never, leaving the other man. Brandon advanced, swaying slightly yet steadying as the cold air brought him more to his senses. Suddenly, the man realised that he was involved in something far worse than usual. He’d expected, in his drunken way, that the mere sight of himself primed for war and pawing dirt would be enough to scare this small man away. Yet the Texan showed no sign of fear or flinching; he just stood there without moving, those grey eyes never leaving Brandon’s face.

  “Going to kill you!” his words were not so wild, not certain now; but he would not back down.

  “Go to bed and sleep it off.” The Texan did not raise his voice.

  “Draw!” Brandon screamed back.

  “Not until you do. But, if you go for your gun, I’ll kill you. Drunk or sober, I’ll kill you.”

  Brandon licked his lips; he was afraid of this small man. But it wasn’t a small man standing there now. It was a big man, a man who stood larger than any other Brandon had ever seen. Then pride stopped Brandon from turning and running. This was not Dusty Fog. It was only a fool kid acting like him.

  His hand went down, gripping the butt of the gun.

  The Texan’s right hand twisted, palm out, and the white-handled gun came from leather in a fast-done twist-hand draw. It slid clear and the side of his forearm pressed tighter than was usual against his body. The left hand came across, the heel of it catching the hammer spur to force it back, lifted and made a circle to repeat the cocking as the balance of the Colt settled it in line once more. The two shots sounded so close together that they were barely two sep
arate noises. Brandon rocked back on his heels, his gun clear of leathers The striking power of two bullets coming so close together threw him backwards from his feet, his own shot going wide. The Texan advanced and looked down at Brandon, then holstered his gun again.

  In the saloon, Vent’s bunch stared out of the window. For a time none of them spoke. Then Barry Vent laughed—a savage cough of laughter.

  “He’s not Dusty Fog. Way I heard it, Dusty Fog pulls cross-draw. Besides, he fanned the hammer—and no good man does that.”

  Slingo Witch was silent; he only partly agreed with Vent. True, Dusty Fog used the cross-draw, not the cavalry twist; but Vent was wrong on the other thing. Fanning was used by only two kind of people: greeners trying to show off, and the very best men with a gun. Only one of the best men would gamble his life on so risky a trick; and, the way the Texan handled his gun, he was no greener.

  “It ain’t Dusty Fog—but he’s still good with a gun,” he replied.

  The killing of Brandon set the whole town talking; there was no other subject of conversation. Arguments waved hotly as men argued that the small Texan was, or was not, Dusty Fog. The main argument was about the manner in which the Texan drew when he killed Brandon, for Dusty Fog was known to draw across his body. It was generally conceded that, although the youngster might be better than fair with a gun, he was not Dusty Fog; and that was how matters stood the following morning.

  “Why don’t you get out of town, boy?” Jean Mollison looked gravely at her guest the following morning as he finished his breakfast. “The others will be coming after you.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I bought me some more time last night.”

  Pop looked at the Texan too, then remarked: “Way I heard it, Dusty Fog uses the cross-draw.”

  “Do tell.” The Texan’s face held a smile which was both mocking and friendly. “Happen you were in the cavalry? Well, they tote their guns like this, so they can get at the gun with either hand. I wear mine for the same reason, so I can get at either gun with either hand.”

  “Show me your draw, please,” Jean put in.

  “What would it prove?” he replied. “Knew a man one time who was always making what looked like real fast draws. Had a lot of folks scared of him—until he went and got killed in a gun-fight with a boy he didn’t scare. Thing was, the boy wasn’t fast who beat him.”

  “Then you won’t run?” she asked.

  “Nope. I’m still waiting for my friends.”

  Pop snorted angrily and slapped a hand on the table. “We’ll put that on your tombstone.”

  “Why, thank you most to death,” the Texan answered as he hand-rolled a smoke.

  The Texan spent the day around town; he watched Barry Vent, Slingo Witch, Haines and Wheeler leave, and trailed them for a couple of miles. Then he returned to Tensonville again. He stayed in the jail office, reading through the report on the Shotgun Gang, for a time. Then he took the wig from the safe again. Night was falling, and he sat there staring down at the red hair. Then he pushed back his chair, took out his guns, checked the loads and left the room.

  Benjy Vent was drunker than usual. He stood at the bar and looked round the room, then at Smith behind the bar. “Look at ‘em, Smith,” he said, waving a hand to the men who were at the tables. “All these bunch here. Don’t they make you want to retch?”

  Smith scowled at the young man; Benjy was talking too much and would need shutting up soon. The bar-dog moved along and growled. “You’d best get to bed, boy. You know what Barry’s told you about shooting off your mouth?”

  “Why worry, Smith? After tomorrow, we won’t need this town no more—and we’ll be long gone. Us, and that you-know-what in the safe.”

  “Shut up!” Smith bellowed.

  “Why should I?” Benjy twisted round. “ ‘Cause you tell me to? Won’t need you bunch after today. I’m going to talk if I want.”

  Smith scowled, looking at Benjy Vent through slitted eyes. His suspicions were being confirmed; the Vent brothers and Slingo Witch were planning to double-cross the others. This drunken young fool was talking too much though. No one in town knew what Vent and his men were doing here, and it would be better if they never found, out.

  Benjy Vent leered round; he was staggering along the bar and forgetting that Smith was watching him with suspicious gaze. He stopped and stared at Pop Howard and Ogilby, who were playing crib at a table.

  “Know what we want in this place, Shorty?” he asked, swaying towards the small battender confidentially. “We wants a gal here to liven things up. So I’m going to fetch Jean, Mollison here.”

  Pop’s chair scraped back as he came to his feet. “You drunken no-good!” he hissed. “Leave my gal’s name out of it?”

  “Yeah?” Benjy sneered. “Why? Just ‘cause you say so? You just fill your hand if you reckon you can stop me.”

  Pop gulped; he was not wearing a gun, as just coming to the saloon did not seem to call for it. All too well, he knew that Benjy Vent would kill him the more willingly as he was helpless. He held his hands from his sides and said: “I don’t have a gun.”

  “You drunken, no-good little rat!”

  Benjy Vent rocked back on his heels as if he’d been hit. He stared with unbelieving eyes at old Ogilby—who was standing up now, his thin old face hard and filled with loathing. The old man’s hands shook as he faced this bullying youth who’d made his life miserable for so long.

  “What did you say?” Benjy gasped.

  “You damned drunken hawg,” Ogilby answered. “You think you’re so smart. I’ve known all along what you and your brother’ve been doing here in town. And I know they won’t find any stagecoach. I sent that message he got to stop them killing Johnny Sinclair and the Texan.”

  Smith started to snarl and curse, but Benjy was white with rage and screamed: “You old—”

  The gun came out without Benjy even knowing it, hammer tearing back and throwing lead into Ogilby’s thin frame. The old man rocked backwards off his feet and crashed to the ground. Pop Howard dropped to his knees beside his friend; he looked down at Ogilby’s face, amazed at the relaxed, satisfied look on it. Then he looked up at Benjy Vent, who had holstered the gun again and was grinning mirthlessly and drunkenly down.

  “You won’t get away with this. I’ll see you hang for it.”

  “Will you now?” Benjy jeered. “Well—”

  “I’ll take your guns!”

  The words, soft and drawling though they were, cut through the air like a whip and sounded clear across the room.

  Benjy Vent turned and stared at the bat-wing doors, and the small Texan who stood just inside them. Yet it was not the same man who stood there. He looked older, cold, deadly and dangerous.

  “Get out of here!” Benjy snarled.

  The Texan advanced across the room. There was something deadly, latently savage about him, but Benjy’s drink dulled mind did not see it Behind the bar, Smith saw it. He saw it and recognised it for what it was. Seeing it, he moved along, hand falling to the butt of his sawed-off shotgun under the bar. He was a gun-fighting man, but knew that here was his master in a straight grab and shoot. The scatter-gun was his best bet now, if Benjy held the Texan’s attention.

  “Shed that belt,” the Texan told Benjy.

  “Boy, you’re letting that badge go to your head. I know you ain’t Dusty Fog.”

  “Get it off!” It was not a polite request now but an order.

  Benjy Vent sent his right hand down towards his gun-butt, and, behind the bar, Smith started to bring his shotgun out. The Texan’s hands crossed in a flickering, sight-defying blur of movement. The bar-light caught and threw back a dull flicker from the blued barrels of the matched guns as they came out, flame tearing from the muzzle, Benjy Vent rocked back on to his heels as lead smashed into his shoulder. He hit the bar and went down, screaming in pain, his gun falling from his hand. At the same instant, Smith was hurled back into the wall, bringing some bottles down from the shelf. For an instant he stoo
d erect, but the hole between his eyes showed that it was only the muscular reaction of a dead man.

  Even as Smith’s body fell to the ground, the Texan moved forward. He flipped the right-hand gun back to leather and bent over to remove Vent’s second gun. Then he looked up at Pop Howard. “Get him down to the jail. Is Mr. Ogilby dead?”

  Pop podded. He looked at the guns, then at the small man. “He’s dead. That lousy rat there—”

  “Take him to jail,” the Texan repeated softly.

  “Sure, where’s Barry Vent and Slingo Witch?”

  “Left town this morning. I followed them for a couple of miles.”

  “Then you’d better get out too, Dusty.” For the first time, Pop had no doubts as to the small man’s identity.

  “Not yet. There’s something more than meets the eye here, and I aim to stay and see what it is. One thing, I know for sure: Barry Vent never killed your son-in-law.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t explain now. But I want Benjy Vent down at the jail.”

  Pop dragged the young man to his feet, ignoring any pain he might be causing. He pushed Benjy Vent towards the door, bent and picked up one of the youngster’s guns, and followed him out. The Texan looked round at the crowd, then called two of the town businessmen over, telling them to check the cash-desk and put all the money in a sack. Two more men were given the task of carrying Smith’s body to the undertaker’s shop. The rest were told that the saloon was closed for the night, and there was no argument. Not one man here was sure if this was really Dusty Fog or not, but they were not going to argue with him.

  The saloon was closed when Pop Howard came back from the jail. The Texan stood on the porch, a small, insignificant figure among the tall men who were on the street. Yet, for all of that, Pop went to him—for, inside there, he’d been taller than them all.

  “You’re Dusty Fog, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Your gal doesn’t reckon so,” the Texan replied. “Come up to the jail with me again. I want something doing.”