by J. T. Edson
Clearly Emma Nene did not apply the almost sedate clothing standards to herself. She wore a flame-colored dress with an extreme décolleté which left no doubt that all under it was flesh and blood, and which clung to her magnificently feminine body like a second skin. Its hem extended to her feet, but was slit up the left side to the level of her hip. One leg, made more sensual by a covering of black silk, showed through the slit in a tantalizing manner. Her eyes held a puzzled, yet admiring, expression as she addressed the small Texan.
‘How do you mean, ma’am?’ Dusty answered, although he could guess.
‘I thought they’d be drinking me dry, seeing that I offered to pay and going by the way they talked,’ Emma elaborated. ‘Instead, they’ve only had a couple of whiskies apiece and won’t take any more.’
‘Oh no!’ le Blanc groaned.
‘Something wrong, Jean?’ the blonde asked.
‘It would seem that I have lost five thousand dollars,’ the barber replied. ‘Ed bet me that his friends would still be sober when we arrived.’
‘They’re that, sure enough,’ Emma admitted. ‘Are you fellers going to stand here all night, or come over and buy a girl a drink?’
‘It’ll be my pleasure to buy one for you, ma’am,’ Dusty declared.
‘Hey, Brother Ed!’ Waco whooped, coming up with his left arm hooked around the waist of a pretty, red-haired girl. ‘This here’s Red and she reckons I’m the best-looking feller she knows.’
‘She shows right good taste, boy,’ Dusty grinned. ‘Where’s Comanch’?’
‘Whooping up a storm over there with a right sweet lil señorita, the youngster replied, waving a hand to the dance floor. ‘And me all this time thinking all he knowed was war dances ’n’ hoedowns.’
As the party made their way to the bar, Dusty looked through the gap in the Mexican crowd. Beyond them, the Kid and a vivacious girl of Latin blood were giving a spirited rendering of a paso doble. From the sounds let out by the onlookers, even Santiago’s gang were impressed by the Indian-dark Texan’s part in the performance.
‘He sure dances pretty,’ Dusty drawled. ‘How’re things going, boy?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ Waco enthused and nodded to the blonde. ‘Soon’s Miss Emma seed we wasn’t wanting to drink, she called up Red and Juanita to see after us. This’s sure one friendly lil town.’
‘Looks that way,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Go have your fun, boy. Only keep minding what I told you.’
‘Don’t I always?’ Waco grinned. ‘Come on, Red gal. Let’s go buck the tiger for a whirl.’
‘You were right, Ed,’ Lampart said, watching Waco depart with an air of calculating appraisal. ‘It’s fortunate that they survived the Smiths’ treacherous attack.’
‘Right fortunate,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Three sets of guns’re better than one comes a fuss.’
‘Do they always do as you tell them, Ed?’ Emma inquired, signaling to the white bartender,
‘They’ve found life’s a whole heap easier if they do,’ Dusty answered.
‘Mr. Caxton’s money is no good tonight, Hubert,’ Emma informed her employee. ‘Set the drinks up over at my table.’ She smiled at the men. ‘It’s not ladylike to stand guzzling at the bar. Do you insist on other people doing everything you tell them, Ed?’
‘Depends on who they are,’ Dusty declared. ‘I can take orders just as easy as giving them, provided I think the man doing the giving’s smarter than me.’
Although Dusty spoke to the blonde, his words had been directed at Lampart and he knew that the mayor was taking them in.
‘Such as who for instance, mon ami?’ le Blanc challenged.
‘Like I said, anybody who’s smarter than me,’ Dusty countered and looked around. ‘This’s some place you’ve got here, ma’am.’
‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ Emma smiled and led the way to a table on the right side of the room.
‘Yes sir,’ Dusty said, as if half to himself. ‘I’d surely admire to be the man who made this whole town possible.’
‘You’ll be making me blush next,’ Lampart warned, but he could not hide the pleasure he felt at the praise. ‘Sit down. This is Emma’s private table and reserved for the guests she says can share it with her.’
‘Take the end seat, Ed,’ the blonde offered. ‘You’re our guest of honor tonight, and deserve to be for ridding Hell of a bunch of murderous rats.’
Sitting down, Dusty watched the other men take their places. Emma seated herself around the corner from him and Lampart sat opposite to her with his back to the wall.
‘Pup-Tent Dorset’s bucking the tiger, Miss Emma,’ the bartender said sotto voce as he set down a tray of drinks. ‘He’s losing heavy and getting riled.’
‘Is Glover here?’ the blonde asked, turning to glance around the room.
‘Come in with Basmanov,’ Hubert answered. ‘They got a bunch up in one of the rooms for a game of poker.’
‘Did Dorset talk to Glover before they went up?’ Lampart put in.
‘Him and Styles Homburg went over to ask for some money, what I could see of it,’ Hubert replied. ‘They talked for a spell over by the stairs. Funny thing though, Glover made ’em hand over their guns afore he gave them a stake.’
‘Dorset and Homburg are always poor losers,’ Emma commented, after the bartender had returned to his duties. ‘Oh ho! They’re coming over here now.’
Turning his head, Dusty studied the two men who were approaching from the faro layout to which Waco had taken the saloon-girl. Pup-Tent Dorset was slightly over medium height, mustached, with a stocky, powerful build. Dressed in plain range clothes, his gunbelt’s holster was empty. Bigger, bulkier, Styles Homburg looked like a sedate traveling salesman in a brown town suit. He too appeared to be unarmed.
After studying Dorset and Homburg, Dusty darted a quick glance around the room. The dance had ended and the Kid was taking Juanita through the laughing, applauding Mexicans to join Waco at the faro table. From his friends, the small Texans turned his attention to locating possible enemies. At the bar, standing clear of the other customers, he located the remainder of the Glover gang. Tommy Eel, tall, slim and tough looking, leaned by the shorter, heavier, surly-featured Saw Cowper. Each of them had a revolver holstered at his right side.
‘Hi, boys,’ Emma greeted, in her professionally cordial manner, as the two outlaws came to a halt at her table. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Not you,’ Dorset replied and pointed at Lampart. ‘Him. We want some money from you, hombre.’
‘In that case, I would suggest you go and ask Mr. Glover,’ the mayor advised. ‘He holds the only keys to your gang’s box.’
‘And you know just how little’s in it,’ Homburg growled. ‘Not enough for us to have another week here. So we reckon you should ought to do something about it.’
‘You can hardly blame me for your extravagances,’ Lampart pointed out. ‘I warned you on the day you arrived that this was an expensive town.’
‘And took a tenth of our loot,’ Dorset spat out. ‘So we figure we’re entitled to some of it back.’
‘I don’t, in fact can’t, see it that way,’ Lampart protested, aware that he was the focal point of much attention.
Silence had fallen on the room. The band had stopped playing, conversations ceased and various games of chance were temporarily forgotten as the customers and employees turned their gaze to Emma’s table.
‘What’s that mean?’ demanded Dorset.
‘I told you when you first arrived that it was a donation to the Civic Improvement Fund,’ Lampart explained. ‘If I hand some of your donation back, I’ll be expected to do the same with everybody who asks.’
‘We said we wanted to borrow—’ Dorset began.
‘And meant you wanted a gift,’ the mayor interrupted. ‘Where could you get money to repay me?’
‘We’d maybe win it, was the games in here straight,’ Dorset answered, seeing that the crowd sympathized with Lampart’s point and hoping to tur
n them in his and Homburg’s favor.
‘Are you sore-losers trying to say my games aren’t honest?’ Emma challenged indignantly.
‘Your games?’ Dorset sneered. ‘Word has it you don’t but run this place all cozy and loving for Lampart. And him with a nice, sweet lil wife, for shame.’
Wood squeaked against wood as Dusty sent his chair skidding back. Coming to his feet, he faced the two men.
‘Was you wanting to stay healthy,’ the small Texan drawled. ‘You’d best say “Sorry we lied about you, ma’am,” and then get the hell out of here.’
‘Wha—?’ Dorset began.
‘You got business with Mr. Lampart, that’s fine,’ Dusty continued. ‘Only some’d say you’ve picked a poor time to come doing it. It stops being fine when you start mean mouthing and lie spouting about a for-real lady. So I’m telling you to wear out some boot-leather walking away.’
‘Lampart’s hired your gun, huh?’ Homburg almost shouted, recollecting the orders Glover had given regarding the pair’s behavior.
‘If Glover told you that, he’s as big a liar as you pair,’ Dusty countered. ‘And I’m getting quick-sick of seeing your faces.’
‘You’re the feller who dropped Ben Columbo, ain’t you?’ said Dorset. ‘That makes you a real big man.’
‘Talking pretty won’t make me like you,’ Dusty warned.
‘Could be you wouldn’t be so big,’ Dorset declared, ‘if you wasn’t wearing them guns.’
‘Now there’s an interesting thought,’ Dusty answered, starting to unfasten the pigging thongs which held the tips of his holsters to his legs. ‘You figure happen I was to take them off, you could make me eat crow?’
For a moment, Dorset stood dumbfounded by the unexpected turn of events. He was uncertain of what he should do next. Then he realized what a chance was being presented to him and he nodded eagerly.
‘That’s just what I think!’
‘And now you got all these good folks wondering if it be true,’ Dusty continued as he unbuckled and laid his gunbelt on the table. ‘So we’re just natural’ going to have to find out.’
‘You fixing to take on me or Styles?’ Dorset grinned.
‘You, him—or both,’ Dusty confirmed. ‘Call it any way you’ve a mind.’
‘I reckon I’ll be enough,’ Dorset declared, the grin fading away. ‘Come ahead, short-stuff. This I’m going to enjoy.’
Clenching his fists, Dusty adopted the kind of stance favored by the professional pugilists of the day. At least, he positioned his hands and arms in the conventional manner. His feet formed a ‘T’ position, the right pointing to the front and, a shoulders’ width away, the left directed outwards. By bending his knees slightly, he distributed his weight evenly on the balls of his feet.
Throwing a grin at Homburg, Dorset moved towards Dusty. An experienced fist fighter, the outlaw watched Dusty’s hands for a hint of how he planned to attack. At the same time, Dorset stabbed his right at the blond’s face. Weaving his torso aside and letting the blow hiss by his head, Dusty swung his left foot around and up.
Concentrating on Dusty’s hands, the kick took Dorset by surprise. Caught in the groin, he might have counted himself fortunate in that Dusty had not been able to build up full power while making the attack. As it was, pain caused him to double over and retreat. Gliding closer, Dusty hooked his knotted left fist into the outlaw’s descending face. Lifted upright, Dorset was wide open for the continuation of his small assailant’s assault. Hearing footsteps approaching from his rear, Dusty hurled across his right hand. Hard knuckles landed on the side of Dorset’s jaw, sending him spinning and reeling back to the faro table he had recently quit. Landing on it, he scattered markers, coppers, money and cards in all directions. 22
Even as Dusty knocked Dorset away, he felt himself gripped by the shoulders from behind. Giving a lifting heave, Homburg hurled the small Texan towards the bar. At first Dusty could do nothing to halt himself as the savage propulsion caused him to turn in Homburg’s direction and run backwards. So far, the big outlaw had not followed him; which proved to be a foolish omission. Waiting until he had regained control of his equilibrium, Dusty seemed to tumble backwards. A concerted gasp rose as he went down, mingling with Homburg’s yell of triumph. Then the man started to rush forward, with the intention of stomping Dusty into the floorboards.
Spitting out a mouthful of blood, Dorset sank until his left knee touched the floor. His right hand went to and started to draw a knife from its sheath in the top of his right boot. The blade came clear, but its owner was given no chance to use it. Powerful fingers clamped on to his right wrist and the scruff of his neck. Then his trapped arm was twisted behind his back and he felt himself being dragged until he leaned facedown on the table once more.
Unlike the majority of the crowd, the Kid felt no concern over the sight of Dusty toppling backwards. He was aware that the small Texan possessed considerable acrobatic agility. In part, it had been developed as a precaution against injury if he should be thrown when taking the bedsprings out of bad horses’ bellies. It had also served him well while receiving instruction in the fighting skills which did so much to offset his lack of inches when dealing with larger, heavier men. Down in the Rio Hondo, working as Ole Devil Hardin’s, personal servant, lived a small man thought by many to be Chinese. While undeniably Oriental, Tommy Okasi insisted that he came from some place called Nippon. To Dusty, he had handed on the secrets—all but unknown at that period outside Japan—of ju-jitsu and karate. Learning how to fall had been an important and vital lesson. So the Kid expected Dusty to avert the danger of the stomping, probably in a spectacular manner. He was not disappointed.
Breaking his fall on his shoulders as Tommy Okasi had taught him, Dusty rolled into a ball. Then, with a surging thrust, he uncoiled and catapulted back to his feet. The action took Homburg by surprise, just as the kick had Dorset, and he was granted as little opportunity to recover. Ducking under Homburg’s belatedly grabbing hands, Dusty wrapped his arms around the outlaw’s thighs, just above the knees. Drawing the legs together, Dusty exerted all his not inconsiderable strength and straightened up. He lifted Homburg from the floor, heaving the man backwards. Coming down flat-footed and with his legs still not parted, the impact against the floorboards knocked him breathless and witless.
Bounding after the man, Dusty sprang into the air. Tilting back until his body was horizontal, he hurled the soles of his boots full into the centre of Homburg’s chest. Hurtling across the room, the outlaw crashed through the bat-wing doors. He barely touched the sidewalk while crossing it and sprawled face down on to the hard-packed surface of the street.
Maintaining his twin grips, Waco kept up the pressure on Dorset’s trapped arm until the hand opened and released the knife. With that accomplished, the youngster transferred his other hand to the outlaw’s collar, jerked him erect and thrust him away.
‘Go pick on Broth—’ the youngster began.
Catching his balance, Dorset spun around and hurled a punch to the side of Waco’s head. Twirling on his heels, the youngster landed back down on the table. Instead of turning to Dusty, the outlaw leapt closer to the young blond. Grabbing hold of Waco’s throat, Dorset hauled him up and started to choke him.
At the bar, Eel and Cowper had been watching the developments with a growing sense of alarm. When they saw Dusty leap up and kick Homburg backwards, while Waco was disarming Dorset, the pair knew that they must help carry out their boss’s orders. They also decided that barehanded tactics were not for them. Moving away from the bar, they started to reach for their guns.
Instantly a menacing figure seemed to just appear in front of them. It wore a grey shirt, string tie, town trousers and Indian moccasins; the white man’s attire being topped by the savage features of a Comanche warrior on the lookout for a coup-counting.
Having been certain that Dusty could deal with Homburg, the Kid had kept the other two members of the Glover gang under observation. When they made their
move, he stepped in fully ready to counter it.
‘I ain’t like Ed ’n’ Matt, so I don’t waste time with fool fist-fighting,’ the Kid warned and the Dragoon in his right hand seemed to vibrate with homicidal eagerness. ‘You want to side your amigos, shed your guns and go to it. But, happen your pleasure’s shooting, I’ll be right willing to oblige.’
Although partially dazed by the blow, Waco threw off its effects fast. Placing his palms together, he thrust them up between Dorset’s arms. Snapping the hands apart, he knocked the fingers from his throat. Then he bunched his left fist, dropped his shoulder behind it and ripped a straight-arm punch to the centre of Dorset’s face. Nostrils spurting blood, the outlaw blundered backwards across the room.
Landing from his leaping high kick, Dusty turned and saw Waco’s predicament. Before the small Texan could go to his amigo’s assistance, Waco escaped and put Dorset into retreat. As Dorset came towards him, still going backwards, Dusty interlaced his fingers. Looking like a baseball batter swinging for a home run, Dusty pivoted and smashed his hands into the man’s kidney region. Agony contorted Dorset’s features as the blow arrived. He arched his back and stumbled helplessly in the direction from which he had come. Leaping to meet him, Waco hurled a power-packed right cross. With a solid ‘whap!’, the youngster’s knuckles struck Dorset’s temple. The outlaw pitched sideways and slid several feet before coming to a stop.
‘How do you want it?’ the Kid demanded as Dorset’s limp body came to a halt. ‘Now’s the time to say.’
