by J. T. Edson
This was Dusty Fog; the man Scanlan would have dismissed as a nobody, the man Scanlan was forced to face if he meant to hang Mort Lewis.
The other one, that baby-faced, mocking voiced boy on the big white stallion, he too was a living legend; the Ysabel Kid, Loncey Dalton Ysabel. Down on the Rio Grande stories were told of him from the days when he and his father ran contraband across the river. He was known as a man who could throw lead with some speed and accuracy, disproving the theory that his old four pound two ounce Colt Dragoon gun was long out of date and over-heavy. He was also known to be a fine exponent on the art of cut and slash in the traditional style of the old Texas master, Colonel James Bowie. But it was with his rifle that he was best known, with an old Kentucky rifle, then with the Winchester Model of 66, the old yellow boy. What Dusty Fog was to the handling of revolvers, the Ysabel Kid was to a rifle. There were other things about this dark, dangerous young man. It was said he could speak fluent Spanish and make himself thoroughly understood in six Indian dialects; that he could ride anything with hair and that he could follow a track where a buck Apache would not know how to begin trying.
That was the Ysabel Kid, friend, companion and sidekick of Dusty Fog. He did not need Dusty’s aid to bolster his own reputation.
Of all the men in the West, Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid were the worst possible for Scanlan’s purpose. The two Texans said Mort would not hang and they meant every word they said. Neither would back down and there was only one way to take their prisoners. If Dusty Fog said Mort was not going to hang he would back the words. He was bad enough on his own, but backed by the Ysabel Kid was more than a match for Scanlan’s two friends and the rest of the posse.
Dusty watched the crowd. Rope-fever was plain on the faces of most of the men. He could read their type as well as he could read their insane desire to see a man kicking at the end of a rope. The loafers wanted to kill, to hang this man so they could boast they’d helped in doing it. There was no desire for justice, nor just cause to wish for hanging, just rope-fever. It was a sickening sight.
Sheriff Dickson came around the corner, trying to urge a better speed from his horse. He saw everything as he came into sight of the men; Mort Lewis standing with a rope around his arms; Scanlan holding his own rope and the other men behind him. Then Dickson saw the small Texan and the youngster on the white horse, but hardly gave them a second glance. They’d not been in the posse when it left town and must have come on to Mort as he turned the corner. They were lucky Mort Lewis was not a killer, Dickson thought, or they’d have not taken him so easily.
‘What’s the idea, Scanlan?’ Dickson asked.
‘We caught Lewis.’
‘I can see that. What’s the rope for?’
Scanlan did not reply. He knew that, the sheriff was a man he did not scare. He also knew that Jerome Dickson had warned them that there would be no lynching. One of the saloon-hardcases of the posse, not knowing Dickson so well, called out:
‘We’re going to save the County the money for a trial.’
Dickson swung down from the horse. He swore he’d see the livery barn owner about giving him this wind-broke animal to ride in a posse. His own horse was tired and he’d done as usual, sending to the livery-barn for another. The horse had looked all right but showed itself unable to keep up with the rest of the posse’s mounts. He could guess why. They wanted to get to Mort Lewis before he arrived. If they’d done so Mort would be dead. Dickson was surprised that he was not dead. He felt the eyes of the small cowhand on him and gave Dusty more attention.
Dusty looked at the sheriff. Dickson was a tall, spare man of middle age, his face tanned and strong-looking. His brownish moustache was neatly clipped and his clothes were just good enough to show that he was the honest sheriff of a poor county. The gunbelt, with the plain handled Army colt showed signs of care and the holster hung just right. Dickson was poor, honest and a good man with a gun. There was a grim look on his face as he turned to the watching posse.
‘There’ll be no lynching while I’m sheriff,’ he said.
Scanlan’s sneer grew thicker. ‘Which same won’t be long, way you’re acting.’
‘Maybe, but while I am, what I say goes.’
‘What’s he wanted for, sheriff?’ Dusty asked.
Dickson was satisfied he was correct: here was a man to be reckoned with. There was the way he stood, the way he looked right at a man, the way his matched guns lay in the holsters of that belt. A man who was among the magic-handed group known as the top guns. Things would go badly if he was to side with the others in wanting to hang Mqrt Lewis.
‘They say he killed a man,’ Dickson replied, wondering how he had ever thought the other man was small.
‘Did he?’
‘I don’t know. When I went to question him he dived through the window of the Long Glass saloon, back in Holbrock, went afork his horse and lit out of town.’
The Ysabel Kid’s eyes went to the posse, his contempt plain as he studied the faces of the men.
‘Maybe he thought he wouldn’t get a chance to tell his story,’ the Kid said. ‘That hombre there,’ his left thumb indicated Scanlan, ‘sounded tolerable eager to have him hung.’
‘He killed old Dexter Chass, that’s why,’ Scanlan spat out. ‘Shot poor ole Dexter down without a chance.’
‘We don’t know Mort here did it,’ Dickson snapped. ‘I only wanted to ask him where he’d been—’
‘Why the hell did he run if he didn’t kill old Dexter?’ Scanlan growled.
‘Lon could have called it right,’ Dusty replied, never taking his eyes from Scanlan’s face. ‘The feller might have known that he’d never get a chance to say anything, way you’re acting.’
‘That’s been said too often,’ growled Scanlan.
‘Mister, happen you don’t like it I’ll say it again,’ the Ysabel Kid growled, sounding mean as a starving cougar. ‘Any time you reckon you can stop me just say the word and let her go.’
Scanlan gave this some thought for a few seconds. He’d built up a reputation around Holbrock as being bad medicine and a fast man with a gun, but he made no move to take up the challenge. He tried to tell himself that he refused because the Kid’s rifle was out, resting on his right shoulder, but he knew it was a lie. A fast man with a gun stood a good chance of being able to drop his hand and lift up his colt before the Kid could swing the rifle down and into line. Scanlan knew that, knew it and did not mean to gamble his luck on it, not even when backed by two other good men. There was a reason. The Ysabel Kid was also backed, if only by one man. That man was Dusty Fog and he could copper any bets made by Salar and Milton, then call ‘keno’ at the finish.
Sheriff Dickson could hardly believe his ears. The two young men were willing to side with him against the lynch-minded crowd. There were two more men in the posse who would not take part in any lynching and would side him. That made five against nine. Good odds. Odds that the men who made up the nine, would not face down.
‘We’ll take you back, and hold a hearing,’ Dickson said, taking the chance he was right about the two cowhands. ‘Will you two gents be riding into town with us?’
‘We’re headed for Holbrock,’ agreed Dusty. ‘We’ll ride with you. This is Ysabel Kid, I’m Dusty Fog.’
For a moment Dickson suspected a joke but there was no hint of amusement on the faces of the two young men. They were who they claimed to be. That was why Mort Lewis was still alive. Dickson smiled. He’d always suspected Scanlan of being a big-mouthed show-off who would dog it if faced by a good man. Now there was proof and confirmation of the suspicion.
‘Be pleased to have you along, Cap’n Fog,’ he said and he meant it.
Dusty went to look at the dun horse. It was unhurt by the fall and would be able to carry the man back to the town, not more than four or five miles away. Turning he walked back to Mort and removed the rope.
‘You’re coming back, friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you my word that you’ll get a fair hear
ing. If you try and run, the Kid’ll cut down your horse. If you didn’t kill the man you’ll have nothing to fear.’
‘Won’t I?’ Mort answered. ‘I’m a half-breed, Cap’n—.’
‘So?’ Dusty drawled. ‘I thought the question was whether you killed a man, not who your mammy and pappy were.’
‘I’ll go with you, Cap’n,’ said Mort, knowing that Dusty did not care whether he was a half-breed or not, and would see fair play. ‘I won’t try to run for it again.’
Dickson nodded in approval: Mort Lewis was a man of his word. If he said he would ride in then he would do just that and there would be no more attempt at flight. The sheriff bent, picked up Most’s revolver and turned it over in his hands. The loading lever under the barrel was badly buckled and the walnut grips broken but the gun was still in working condition. There’d been some close called shooting on the weapon, Dickson saw, and thanked his stars that it was Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid who had met up with Mort. There were many men who would have shot to kill in the circumstances, not waiting to see what was wrong. Almost any of the posse would have done so, cutting Mort down just to boast they’d done it. His eyes went to the sullen faced posse as he thrust the revolver into his waistband. The men looked uncomfortable at the scorn in the sheriff’s eyes.
‘Mount up, all of you,’ Dickson said.
The Kid, his rifle still resting on his shoulder, eyed the posse with cold distaste. His voice was cutting and menacing as he addressed them:
‘You bunch ride a piece in front of us,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you — but I don’t.’
Scanlan’s scowl deepened, but he found himself lacking the courage to go against the Kid. His idea had been to get alongside Mort’s horse; a quick kick in the dun’s side would cause it to leap forward, then Mort could be shot down. A volley would bring him down, there would be no proof that any one man fired the fatal shot and less about how Mort came to try and escape. The Kid’s order would cancel any chance of doing the kicking or shooting.
Once more Scanlan thought of trying to call the Kid’s hand, If he could make the first move, others of the bunch at his back would join in. Nine to five — Scanlan knew two of the men would not back him — was good odds. The sheriff and the others could be cut down by sheer force of numbers. There was only one thing wrong: Scanlan knew he would not be alive to see it. He would be the first target for the Ysabel Kid and for Dusty Fog.
His eyes met the Kid’s, reading the mocking challenge and the supreme confidence in them. More than ever he knew the Kid would welcome any attempt to start something and was ready, willing, and more able to finish whatever was started.
The rest of the posse watched Scanlan, knowing everything hinged on him. The men who did not work for Stewart were thinking things over; Salar and Milton just waited for their friend to call the play. Scanlan knew it, knew the others expected him to do something. It hurt to know he dare not make a move. With an angry growl he turned and mounted his horse, wrenching cruelly at its jaw as he rode through the other men.
It was a silent and sullen posse which headed towards the town. There was no talking by anyone; the men in the posse watching Scanlan, the leader who had failed to come through, and wondering what made them think he was tough. The sheriff was watching Mort Lewis and the two Texans. There was relief on Dickson’s face as he glanced at the small Texan; with Dusty Fog at his back he could conduct a proper inquiry into the killing of old Dexter Chass. There was not much to go on so far. The only hard fact against Mort was his running away, and even that could be explained as Dusty had already explained it. There was much circumstantial evidence against Mort, but it could be blasted easily enough.
The town of Holbrock was small, sleepy-looking and peaceful. It was the sort of town which existed in hundreds through the cattle country of Texas; a small place which never received the publicity of Fort Worth, Dallas or other cowland hot-spots. It was doubtful if Holbrock was known beyond the county line; nothing much ever happened there and the town went along its peaceful way.
The scattering of houses backed off the main street, an untidy straggling double line of stores, a couple of saloons, a dance and gambling hall and the county offices, a large building, the most expensive building in the town, containing the county office, sheriff’s office, jail and town marshal’s office. The latter was never used as the town found they could not afford to hire a full time marshal after paying for the splendid building. The leading citizen, Brenton Humboldt, boasted that his project, a vaguely defined idea, would bring money pouring into Holbrock, making the town boom; this building would then be of great use to the county seat.
The return of the posse attracted interest and there was a rapid gathering of men at the Long Glass saloon, a small, undistinguished, clapboard building with one of the big side windows smashed and glassless. Most of the posse carried on riding towards the saloon, but Scanlan and his two friends halted their horses in front of the county offices and dismounted. They swung up on to the side-walk and watched Dickson’s group dismount at the hitching rail.
‘Mind if we come in with you, Jerome?’ Scanlan asked. ‘Just to make sure the breed don’t cut rough.’
Dickson did not argue. He could hardly stop the three men entering his office after they’d ridden on the posse. He led the way through the double doors into the office of the County Sheriff. The office was a large room with a desk in the centre and a few chairs as furnishings. There was a stove in one corner and a big iron safe in another. The back of the office opened to the cells, but was separated from them by a set of folding doors which were open as the party entered. On one wall was a big cupboard and on the other side, facing it, a rack of rifles and shotguns. It was no different from any other sheriff’s office, Dusty thought, looking around: the same worn desk, the same wanted posters. It might easily have been his father’s office back in Polveroso City.
‘I’ll take the gunbelt, Mort,’ Dickson said. ‘Best hold you in the cell, too. Call it resisting arrest and damage to property.’
‘Sure, Jerome,’ Mort agreed, knowing the sheriff was only doing his duty.
Taking the gunbelt Dickson put it and the broken revolver into the cupboard and took Mort into the cells, locking him inside the nearest. The other men waited in the office, none of them talking. The Ysabel Kid watched Scanlan, a mocking smile on his face, his yellow boy in his hands.
A big dog came through the door at the rear of the jail. A lean, gaunt and shaggy animal which looked to have more than its fair share of buffalo-wolf blood. With its long tail wagging it started forward towards the cells and Mort Lewis came to the door, grinning. The dog brushed against Scanlan’s legs, barely touching them, but the man snarled and drew bask his foot. Instantly, the dog leapt around snarling low in its throat. Scanlan’s hand dropped. He brought the gun out and fired, the heavy bullet smashing into the dog’s head.
The dog yelped once and went down. Dickson gave an angry shout and started forward as Mort Lewis flung himself at the bars of the cell. Dickson went at Scanlan but fast as he moved, Dusty was faster.
Dusty hurled forward like a living projectile, his right fist smashing into Scanlan’s bristle covered jaw. For a small man Dusty was packed solid with steel hard muscles. He hit with every ounce of weight and strength he’d got. Scanlan, taken by surprise both by the speed of the attack and Dusty’s unexpected strength, was knocked staggering. He crashed in a sitting position under the cupboard. Dusty came after him not letting the other man get to his feet before attacking again.
Up drove Dusty’s right hand in a brutal backhand slam, the second knuckle catching Scanlan’s top lip, crushing and splitting it and sending waves of agony welling through him, Dusty’s hand swung up with the force of the blow, then smashed down, driving into the side of the man’s face, snapping his head over. Scanlan was unable to defend himself against the fury of the attack. He was no mean hand in a roughhouse brawl but this time was taken completely by surprise.<
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With an angry snarl Milton jumped forward, in an attempt to help his friend. The lean man came fast, with a wild rush which was calculated to take Dusty unawares. Dusty’s left hand shot up, jerked open the cupboard and sent it smashing into the gunman’s face. Milton met it head on, the wooden edge of the door smashing his nose. Before Milton could get up, and even as his hand fell gunwards and tears of pain half blinded him, Dusty’s right foot lashed up, kicking with the grace of a French savate fighter. Caught in the middle of his stomach by the high heel of a riding boot Milton doubled over, his head narrowly missing the open cupboard door on the way down. Dusty’s fist whipped up, driving with all his strength. The knuckles caught Milton’s face as he bent over, jerking him erect. His head smashed into the bottom edge of the door, splintering the wood and tearing it from the hinges. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, a passive look on his face and a trickle of blood from his Stetson brim.
Salar let his hand fall to his side. No gentleman of noble Spanish blood would sink to such a barbarous practice as fist fighting. His hand was curling around the ornate butt of his gun when he felt something resting lightly on his wrist. All ideas of drawing the gun ended. Resting on the wrist, just where the fancy white cuffs of the shirt showed from the jacket sleeve, was the eleven-and-a-half inch long, two-and-a half wide blade of the Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife, razor edge ready to rip home. Slowly Salar looked up at the mocking red-hazel eyes of the Ysabel Kid.
