The Code of Dusty Fog

by J. T. Edson

  Confronted by the figure which suddenly seemed much larger than had previously been the case and spurts of red flame as bullets were sent his way, shock numbed Todd’s mind after he had fired the shot. Before he could regain some semblance of control, lead was hissing by him with an eerie ‘splat!’ sound he had never before experienced and which he found chillingly disconcerting. The sting of the ball just touching his arm in passing had hardly registered upon his thoughts when the next made a more potent contact. A howl of pain burst from him as he felt the searing burn and the force with which he was struck, glancing though the blow was, sent him in a sprawl against the wall of the building. Letting the Colt drop from his hands, he flopped to sit with his back against the wall of the building and clutched at his bleeding side.

  Whimpering in pain, Todd raised his head with the intention of begging for mercy. He was willing to tell all he knew about the man who had hired himself and his now, he suspected, dead companions, laying all the blame for the attempted ambush upon them. However, before he could speak, his attention went to the man whose presence and warnings had brought him to his present far from favorable situation. Something struck a chord in his memory. It had the effect of driving the plan of action he had elected to follow from his mind.

  ‘Y—You bastard!’ Todd snarled and, forgetting his suffering in the heat of the moment, his left hand grabbed up the revolver released by his right when he was hit the second time. ‘It was y—!’

  Three – I Owe You My Life!

  If his third assailant had continued to hold a weapon on going down, being well versed in every aspect of gun fighting, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog would not have let his attention be diverted from that direction. Satisfied his original pair of attackers were rendered hors de combat, at least temporarily—although he suspected permanently where one of them was concerned—he concluded there was no pressing peed for him to watch them. Nor, having drawn an accurate conclusion about the quality and abilities of his would-be killers, did he anticipate any further trouble from the other one. Therefore, being grateful for the second warning in particular and wondering whether he was correct regarding the identity of the man crossing the street towards him, he had started to turn his head around. He only intended to satisfy his curiosity quickly, but was not granted the opportunity to do so.

  Hearing the words spat out by the assailant from the alley to his rear, who he knew he had only wounded and in all probability not too seriously, the small Texan realized he was wrong with the assumption he had drawn. Instead of wasting time in self-recrimination, he reversed the direction of his gaze immediately and fast. At the sight of Ronald ‘Rocky’ Todd lifting the revolver, he drew the conclusion that either he or—considering the second part of the statement—more probably the man whose warning had helped save him from the ambush was to be the target. Without waiting to discover which of them was selected, knowing all too well the kind of cornered-rat courage which could inspire such actions and make even a wounded man dangerous, his response was that of a well trained peace officer. Taking the brief instant necessary to ensure his aim, he fired his right hand Colt 1860 Army Model revolver in the only way he felt was justified under the circumstances; to ensure an instantaneous kill. Caught between the eyes, with the bullet ranging through his brain before bursting out of the back of his skull, Todd was dead before he could complete his declaration much less open fire at his intended target. His body was jolted against the wall and the gun he had snatched up once more left his grasp. Then he crumpled sideways like a rag doll from which the stuffing had been unexpectedly wrenched.

  ‘Gracias, Mr. Sangster,’ Dusty said, his voice that of a well educated Texan, glancing over his shoulder and discovering his summation about the approaching man was correct. With thumb cocking the revolver he had just fired, even though he was confident neither it nor its mate would be needed again to deal with his attackers, he went on with genuine gratitude, ‘It’s real lucky for me that you was on hand. Fact being, I reckon I owe you my life.’

  The subject of the gratitude was in his late twenties. Nothing in his appearance made him noticeable. In fact, ‘average’ could describe his height, weight, build and features. Bareheaded, his shortish hair was a mousey brown color and his face was reddened by exposure to more sun than he was used to in his general way of life. He had on a brown three-piece suit of the latest Eastern style, a white shirt, small knotted blue necktie and Hersome gaiter boots, but he did not appear to be armed in any way. Certainly he was not carrying a gun, as might be expected of one who had become involved in such an affair.

  Undistinguished though he might look, and lacking what many Westerners would consider the basic principles needed for survival on their side of the Mississippi River, Dusty knew Raymond Sangster was in charge of constructing the spur-line and was in Mulrooney attending the Railroad Commission. The small Texan was also aware that, perhaps because of his comparative youth and unimpressive appearance, his appointment had not met with the approval of at least one of the American delegates. According to Freddie Fog, when queried about it by Steven King, Harland Todhunter—the financier and engineer behind the project—had stated, in a manner indicating he was not enamored of the question, that he was entirely satisfied with the arrangement and the matter had been taken no further.

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ the New Englander objected. ‘You were doing all right without my help.’

  ‘Only part of the way,’ Dusty corrected, lowering the hammer of the left hand Colt to rest on the safety notch between the two uppermost percussion caps of the cylinder. Returning the weapon to its holster on the right side of his gunbelt, but keeping its mate in his grasp, he gestured to William “Bad Bill” Hamilton and Michael “Mean Mick Meach” Meacher. ‘I’d taken out those two yahoos, but I hadn’t a notion they’d an amigo close by until you yelled.’

  ‘I’m only too pleased I was able to be of help,’ Sangster claimed.

  ‘So am I,’ Dusty drawled.

  As he spoke, the small Texan was not surprised to hear shouts from various points all around and the sound of running footsteps approaching. Even though practically every grown man in the town carried at least one firearm upon his person, particularly after night had fallen, shooting always attracted attention. The area in which the gun fight had taken place would have struck the listeners as suggesting something far more serious than merely cowhands indulged in a not infrequent habit of firing off their revolvers under the impulsion of misguided high spirits. Therefore, he suspected more than just other members of the town marshal’s office were hurrying to investigate the cause of the disturbance.

  ‘I wonder what he meant?’ Sangster said pensively, pointing at Todd.

  ‘How’d you mean?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘When he grabbed up the gun, he was looking at me and started to say what I’m sure was meant to be, “It was you!”’ the New Englander explained in a worried tone. ‘Was he blaming me for what happened to himself and his friends?’

  ‘He likely meant it was you warning me that got him shot,’ Dusty admitted. Deciding the New Englander was feeling conscience stricken over the incident, he offered the explanation which he believed to be correct and which he hoped would ease the sense of guilt. ‘But don’t hold it against yourself that he was killed, Mr. Sangster. Scared hawg-wild and hurting like he was, he wasn’t thinking straight and, unless I miss my guess, he was aiming to make wolf bait of you for doing it.’

  Before the conversation could be continued, or the first of the approaching people came into view, Dusty and Sangster had their attention attracted to the survivor of the ambush. Having recovered his breath and his wits, using some of the former to emit a long groan, Meacher started to sit up. At his first movement, the two young men swung around. Meacher noticed that the intended victim still held a revolver and was lifting the barrel until it pointed with disconcerting steadiness in his direction. With a sensation of horror, he realized the full gravity o
f the situation. Nor was his alarm reduced by the recollection of how some of the peace officers in the trail end towns of Kansas were reputed to deal with anybody who tried to kill them.

  ‘D—Don’t sh—shoot, Cap’n Fog!’ the would-be hired killer screeched. Wanting to emphasize his complete lack of hostile intentions, he tried to raise his arms. Although the pain created to his injured shoulder prevented him from fully achieving his purpose, he forced himself to thrust the left hurriedly above his head. ‘I’m hurting real bad ’n’ like’ to die iffen I don’t get took to a doctor fast.’

  ‘You should have thought something like that could happen to you when you decided to try and kill Captain Fog,’ Sangster pointed out, stepping forward without coming into the potential line of fire should Dusty be compelled to shoot at the wounded man.

  ‘I—It wasn’t my notion!’ Meacher claimed, staring up at the New Englander for a moment. Then, apparently having concluded he had nothing to fear from that direction, he returned his gaze to the small Texan and, as was often the case when under the stress of some emotion, forgetting the more robust sounding nicknames his companions had adopted, he went on hurriedly, ‘Ron and Will—Th— They made me do it!’ By the time the declaration was completed, the first of the people attracted by the shooting came on the scene. Looking them over, the small Texan discovered the majority of them were a cross-section of the permanent and transient population and concluded their presence was impelled by nothing more than morbid curiosity. Although there was no sign of the local doctor, he noticed the undertaker was coming. At the forefront of the crowd, striding out swiftly and giving indications of being ready to cope with whatever situation they might find, were two of his deputies.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had a lil mite of trouble, Dusty,’ suggested the slightly shorter of the peace officers, his accent that of a Texan with a lower standard of schoolroom education, as he gestured at the would-be killers with the Winchester Model of 1866 rifle he was carrying.

  ‘I wondered why you picked this part of town to walk,’ the taller went on in an accusatory fashion, his manner of speech also that of a son of the Lone Star State from a similar stratum of society. Before coming to investigate the disturbance, acting upon the instructions he had received since being sworn in, he had supplemented his basically defensive armament with a double barreled shotgun collected from the rack on the wall of the marshal’s office and was also carrying a bull’s eye lantern. ‘You allus grab off the fun chores, Dusty, for shame.’

  ‘They always say rank has its privileges,’ the small Texan pointed out and, having been satisfied he would not be needing it to keep the wounded man passive even before his deputies arrived, he holstered his right hand Colt. Eyeing the youngster in a seemingly warning fashion, he continued, ‘Which anybody who says, “And some are ranker than others”, will wind up riding the blister end of a shovel.’

  Tearing his frightened gaze from Dusty, who no longer struck him as small and insignificant, but in some way now conveyed the impression of being the largest person present, Meacher stared from one to the other of the newly arrived peace officers. Concluding from their appearances that they must be the Ysabel Kid and Waco, thinking of everything he had heard about them, he found their presence added to the alarm he was experiencing about his position. While both looked somewhat younger than the big marshal, each had acquired a reputation for extreme loyalty to Dusty Fog and, regardless of the light-hearted remarks passed between them, they would not be inclined to deal gently with anybody involved in an attempt to bushwhack him.

  Lean and wiry, particularly in comparison with the other deputy, the Ysabel Kid was close to six foot in height. Tending to give him a sinister demeanor, every item of his clothing was black and, except for his sharp toed boots having low heels more suitable for walking than riding, of the style practically de rigueur for a cowhand from Texas. In addition to the rifle, which somehow looked as if it was an extension to his left hand, at the right side of his gunbelt was a Colt Dragoon Model of 1848 revolver hanging with its plain walnut butt forward in a low cavalry-twist draw holster. Nor did this complete his armament. On the left side was sheathed a massive ivory hiked James Black bowie knife. Being so glossy it seemed almost blue in some lights, his hair was black as the wing of a Deep South crow. Indian dark, unless one looked at his curiously colored red-hazel eyes—which gave a hint of a vastly different character—his features were handsome and seemed almost babyishly innocent.

  Even though unable to see the eyes, Meacher was not misled by external appearances and felt he was being studied by the Comanche brave which rumor said the Ysabel Kid had been raised to be!

  Perhaps a couple of inches taller than the black clad Texan, first impressions of the Indian dark face notwithstanding, Waco was younger. Blond haired and with an already well developed physique filling out to powerful manhood, his good looking face had lines suggestive of a maturity beyond his years. Apart from the addition of a brown and white calfskin vest, having different colors elsewhere and boots with the traditional high heels of a cowhand, his clothing was much the same as that of his fellow peace officers. Despite only being in his late ’teens, he wore his gunbelt and the twin staghorn handled Army Colts in its low-tied fast draw holsters with the easy assurance of one exceptionally skilled in their use. Offering a suggestion of his presence of mind was the lantern as well as the shotgun.

  ‘Keep back there, folks,’ the Kid said, his pleasant tenor voice polite and yet holding a note of command giving warning he intended to be obeyed. ‘’Cepting Mr. Jones and any one of you who’s a doctor, to ’tend to who-all of these jaspers needs it.’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ declared a stocky young man Sangster recognized as Brian Farnsworth, the recently qualified medical attendant who Harlan Todhunter had brought from the East to attend to the physical well being of the railroad construction crew on the journey to Canada. Advancing with the undertaker, while the other people came to a halt, he went on, ‘Can I have some light, please?’

  ‘There now, Lon, I told you this ole lamp’d come in handy for something,’ Waco declared, with the air of one who considered a very wise decision on his part had been completely justified.

  ‘Well what do you reckon about that, Dusty?’ the Kid inquired, his tone redolent of amazement. ‘The boy’s got something right at last.’

  ‘Happen you’d said “as usual”, it’d been righter,’ the blond youngster asserted, wondering—not for the first time— when, if ever, he would stop being the “boy” to the companions for whom he would gladly have sacrificed his life and whom he knew would do the same for him. Putting aside the levity with which he always responded to the apparently derisive suggestions his amigos frequently made about him, even though he would not have accepted such remarks from anybody else, he removed the cover from the front of the lantern and turned his attention to the medical practitioner. Adopting an attitude which implied he considered himself above such inconsequential things as the Kid’s comment, he continued, ‘Show me where you want her pointing, doc, and she’ll be pointed there’s steady’s you could ask for.’

  ‘Why were they trying to kill you, Captain Fog?’ Sangster asked, as the doctor went with Waco and the undertaker to where Todd was lying.

  ‘Now that is something I’m figuring on finding out,’ the small Texan declared somberly. ‘I can’t recall ever having seen any of them before they jumped me.’

  ‘You mean they’re perfect strangers?’ Sangster asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t say they were perfect, nor even close to it,’ Dusty answered, glancing with disdain at the whimpering survivor. ‘But, as far as I can see, they’re strangers to me. Like I said, I can’t call to mind that our trails have ever crossed.’

  ‘I’ve heard that sometimes men look for famous gun fighters like yourself with the intention of trying to kill them and gain their reputation.’

  ‘Such does happen. Except the feller mostly comes alone and wants the fight to be passed off as fair a
nd seen by as many folks as possible. None of them would’ve expected to get a name by gunning me down from what would be all too plainly an ambush and counted as murder, not self defense, so could have wound up stretching hemp.’

  ‘These two are dead,’ the doctor announced, having gone to bend over Hamilton while the conversation between the small Texan and the New Englander was taking place.

  ‘Captain Fog had no other choice but to shoot to kill, Doctor Farnsworth,’ Sangster claimed, before the small Texan could speak. ‘They were trying to murder him.’

  ‘I wasn’t!’ Meacher denied, trying to get up. ‘Oh Lord, I’m hurt bad and likely dying.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Farnsworth suggested, sounding far from sympathetic. ‘Put the light on him, please, deputy.’

  ‘What came off here, Dusty?’ the Kid inquired, after Waco had complied and the examination was being carried out.

  ‘These two tried to jump me,’ the small Texan replied, gesturing to Meacher and the lifeless body of Hamilton. ‘Would’ve done it too, ’cept Mr. Sangster yelled what they were up to. After I’d taken them down, the other one came from the alley behind me. I didn’t know he was there and, happen Mr. Sangster hadn’t seen him and yelled again, he’d’ve got me.’

  ‘It’s right lucky you was around, Mr. Sangster,’ the Kid claimed and there was genuine gratitude in his voice.

  ‘As I told Captain Fog,’ the New Englander answered. ‘I’m pleased I was.’

  ‘Not that I’m anything except pleased you was,’ Dusty said, having wondered how his rescuer came to be in the vicinity so fortuitously. ‘But weren’t you invited to the reception at the Railroad House?’