by J. T. Edson
‘Howdy,’ greeted the smaller rider, halting his horse outside the camp circle. This was the etiquette of the land, a man halted and waited for permission before riding into a camp.
‘Howdy. Light down and take something.’ Brant, as wagon master, gave the required permission. ‘Rid far?’
This was also the etiquette of the land, asking for no more details than the other men called to give.
‘Came out from Mulrooney. I’m Dusty Fog, this here’s the Ysabel Kid.’
‘I’m Major Brant, this’s my scout, Tracy Wade,’ Brant answered, looking Dusty over and wondering if he really could be the Rio Hondo gun wizard.
Tracy Wade supplied the answer to that. He moved forward with his hand held out and a welcoming smile on his face. ‘Howdy, Lon, Cap’n Fog. Ain’t seed either of you in a coon’s age.’
‘Tracy, you ole Kiowa!’ the Ysabel Kid whooped. ‘I didn’t know you was riding scout for this train.’
‘Thought you’d have been jailed years back,’ Dusty went on, then to Brant, ‘Mind if we night here, Major?’
‘Feel free,’ replied Brant, thinking how two such young men would make a very useful addition to the fighting strength of the train, if they were travelling in the same direction.
Dusty and the Kid left their horses standing by the wagon, attending to the big animals before thinking of their own welfare. They lay their double girthed Texas saddles carefully on the sides under the wagon, then joined the other men at the Brant fire. The cook brought out two extra plates and filled them with the stew which formed the main dish of most of his meals. Brant watched his two guests as the meal was eaten, wondering what brought the segundo of the OD Connected ranch so far out into the wilderness.
‘You’re a far piece from home, captain,’ he said, the meal was done and he offered his cigar case to Dusty.
‘Man’d say you were right,’ agreed Dusty, politely refusing the cigar and rolling a cigarette with deft fingers. ‘Came after you on a chore for the sheriff of Mulrooney County. We’re looking for a man.’
Before he and the Kid pulled out from Mulrooney they found Freddie Woods had moved with her usual speed. There were two deputy sheriffs’ badges and a warrant for the arrest of a man unknown ready for them. The badge, warrant and a covering letter from Freddie, as mayor of Mulrooney, were inside Dusty’s shirt pocket and he did not take any of them out. There were wagon masters who would take a wanted man west with them, at a price, getting them safely through the arms of the law and the dangerous Indian country. Brant did not look like one of that kind, he’d built a reputation of honesty and square dealing. He was hiring Tracy Wade, who was the Kid’s friend, a fellow member of Mosby’s Rangers, although that proved little. The Kid possessed a large selection of friends, including a number of badly wanted men.
‘Looking for a man?’ repeated Brant. That could either mean they were after a fugitive from the law, or after him for revenge.
‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty, taking out the warrant and letter. ‘Got the notion he might be travelling with you.’
‘We haven’t taken on no strangers or new folks since back of the Kansas East line. Nobody joined us at Mulrooney. Is the man wanted badly?’
‘Depends on how you look at it,’ answered Dusty. ‘He helped kill five Texas men in the Fair Lady saloon.’
Brant was shocked by this. Five killings at one time was going some, even for a wild train-end town. ‘So you figure he’s travelling with us.’
‘Waal, way we got it the man didn’t leave on hossback, by railroad or stage. Word has it he was new in town, might have been with you all the time.’
‘That’s possible,’ agreed Brant, meeting Dusty’s eyes with a frank, honest look. ‘But as far as I know nobody went into Mulrooney. They were all stocked up with supplies and didn’t need anything. Most of the folks aren’t rich and I warned them how the prices in a town like Mulrooney went up in the trail-drive season, so they stayed on by the wagons. We had us a dance and I can’t recollect, off-hand, that anyone was missing. Nobody took a horse from the lines, we always keep a double guard when we’re near a big town, stops horse stealing. So we’d know if a horse was taken.’
‘Sign showed the man came in on foot. You weren’t more than a mile and a half out, a man could walk it easy,’ Dusty said. He explained the special circumstances which brought him after the train. Brant knew Clay Allison’s reputation and could see how urgent the situation was. Dusty went on, ‘Everything Kail Beauregard could learn points to the man being with you. He knew Magluskey back in the East, which makes it more likely he’s travelling with your train.’
‘It also means he’d have to know the country, to make a mile and a half walk in the dark,’ Brant remarked. ‘As far as I know none of my folks ever were out here before.’
For all that his half-forgotten suspicions started to come again. His eyes flickered through the fast gathering dark towards the Holman wagon.
‘Town makes a tolerable amount of light after dark, and noise,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘It wouldn’t take much finding.’
‘What sort of a man are you looking for?’
‘He’s tall, thin, pale and got real light blue eyes. Totes one of those ten-shot pin-fire revolvers that came in from Europe in the War. Least, that’s the way everything points.’
Brant frowned. He thought of Holman’s paying passenger. The man was tall, thin and pale, but Brant could not remember ever seeing his eyes and never seen him with a gun of any kind. In fact Hogan Joubert, the passenger, always said he could not handle a revolver, never learned. So Brant kept his suspicions to himself, the man might be innocent and there was no point in starting Dusty’s thoughts running towards a man who might possibly have had nothing to do with the shooting in the Mulrooney saloon.
‘It takes a good man to handle one of those ten-shot guns,’ remarked Brant. ‘A friend of mine took one from a reb officer he captured and we tried it. Took more handling than an Army Colt. You’d best leave it until morning, then ask around the folks. Some of them might know something.’
Dusty’s reputation and the explanation he’d given for coming after the man caused Brant to give this permission. Dusty was not just after the man for a bounty or Brant would not have given the word. Dusty and the Kid were not bounty hunters but others would hear of the reward and its connection with the wagon train. They would be bounty hunters and some innocent man from the train might get hurt. With this in mind, knowing Dusty’s testimony on the subject would be accepted, Brant gave his permission.
‘Gracias,’ said Dusty. ‘We’ll night here if we can.’
‘Be my guest,’ replied Brant, waving a hand to his wagon.
A group of men came towards the wagon. Brant watched them, wondering what problem was to be piled on him now. The men halted and a big wide shouldered man stepped from the others, saluting Dusty.
‘Cap’n Fog, sir,’ he said, voice showing his Deep South origin. ‘I’m Sergeant Tapley Evans, Virginia Cavalry. These other gents all served the South in the War and we’d admire for you to come to my fire and talk over old times.’
‘Be my pleasure, sir,’ Dusty replied formally. ‘If you’ll excuse me, major.’
Brant agreed to this with a smile. He was an old soldier himself, as was almost every man on the train. He could appreciate the men of the Confederate Army wanting to have a long reminiscence session with one of the South’s heroes. He watched Dusty and the Kid walk away, then saw Tracy Wade following and growled:
‘Where do you reckon you’re going?’
‘Me?’ grinned Wade. ‘I’m a Southern boy myself, so I’m going to join in the fun with the others.’
~*~
Slightly less than half the grown men of the train were gathered around the Evans’ fire and his plump, smiling wife handed out cups of coffee, borrowing cups from the neighboring wagons when her own ran out. Then she withdrew and a bottle was brought out to make the rounds as stories and laughter started to roll out.
&n
bsp; It was the first time all the Southern men gathered at one time in one group. Usually the groups were mixed and smaller. The Union Army men among the Northerners watched the scene with tolerant smiles. There was no animosity in the way they watched the Southern men and any of them could have joined the circle if they wished. None joined the group, respecting the other Army’s feelings. They would have acted in the same manner as the Southern men had a Union Army hero come to the camp. So they stayed by their own fires, watching and smiling tolerantly at this display of old soldier reunion.
Brant was out visiting the horse guard and the cook stood alone by the Major’s fire, washing dishes. He looked up as the tall, thin, dark glasses form of Hogan Joubert loomed up. The Holmans’ paying passenger looked to where Dusty and the Kid stood in the center of the group at Evans’ fire,
‘Who’re they, Joel?’ he asked.
‘Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid,’ the cook answered. He did not particularly care for Holman or the thin man, but he was a talker and liked to gossip with somebody. ‘They come out from Mulrooney looking for a man.’
‘What sort of a man?’
‘Didn’t tell me. I heard them say this feller killed five Texans in Mulrooney. They allow he’s with the train and are going to start asking round in the morning, see if they can find him.’ Joubert turned on his heel and walked away before the cook could say another word. He kept to the darker shadows and avoided the Evans’ fire as he went back to the Holman wagon and climbed in. Holman was not inside, being away taking his turn on horse guard, but his wife and son were both in the wagon. The woman sat on a box at the back of the wagon, sewing an old dress and not looking at either of them.
Young Frank Holman sat on the edge of the bed. His gun lay beside him and a cleaning rod showed that he’d been busy working on the weapon. Joubert did not say a word until the youngster strapped on the gun belt and holstered the Colt, setting it right on his side with meticulous care. Then as Holman holstered his gun and looked up, Joubert spoke.
‘You allus wanted to see a good man with a gun, young Frank. Come on here and take a look.’
Frank Holman fastened the pigging thong around his leg and stepped to Joubert’s side, by the door of the wagon. His mother looked up, her mouth opening to say something, then closing again. There was more than fear in her eyes but she did not dare speak the words which welled up inside her. This was the moment she’d feared ever since her son was old enough to strap on a gun belt.
Standing by Joubert, Frank Holman looked out to where the men stood around the Evans fire. Most of them he knew, and they were not fast men with their guns. He knew Tracy Wade was fast, but not exceptionally so and not enough to warrant this sudden interest. Then his eyes went to the Ysabel Kid, took in the Old Dragoon gun and dismissed it as out of date, not the thing a real fast man would be wearing. He saw Dusty and would have passed the young Texan by but at that moment Dusty turned to address a man at the other side of the fire and Holman felt a thrill run through him as he saw the two guns Dusty wore. He knew that a man only wore two guns to make people think he was real good—or because he was real good.
‘Is that him, the small cowhand?’ he asked.
‘That’s right, boy. He’s Dusty Fog.’
‘Dusty Fog,’ Frank Holman breathed out the words. ‘You aren’t funning me, now are you, Hogan? A short runt like that being Dusty Fog?’
‘Short growed or not, he’s Dusty Fog all right. I saw him in Dodge one time.’
Frank Holman bit down his excitement. He was fast with a gun, or his long hours of practice were wasted. His every waking moment that could be spared to it was devoted to the endless practice of fast draws and shooting at the man shaped target he would draw on a tree or a rock, or anywhere handy. His one ambition was to be known as a fast gun, to meet and kill a man with a reputation. Now fate threw the fastest and best of them all this way. Dusty Fog, the fastest gun in Texas, the man whose roaring guns and chain lightning draw tamed Quiet Town and Mulrooney. That was the sort of man Frank Holman dreamed of meeting and killing. That would be something people would point him out and say, ‘That’s Frank Holman. He killed Dusty Fog, Wes Hardin, Ben Thompson, Bill Hickok—’ Holman felt his pulse quicken, after Dusty Fog he would strike out and find the other fast men. Soon he would be holding such a reputation that every big town would clamor for his services as marshal. There would be no trouble if he killed Dusty Fog. Brant and the others would never dare go against such a man, one so fast with his gun.
‘You’d best steer clear of him, boy,’ Joubert warned. ‘He’s real fast.’
‘So am I!’ Frank scoffed back, irritated by Joubert’s tone. ‘I never yet saw a man who could beat me.’
Joubert knew that the youngster had never faced a man in a gunfight. His tone was aimed at deliberately making Frank go out and face the Rio Hondo gun-wizard.
‘Shucks, I know you’re fast, Frank boy. But I don’t think you’ve got a chance against a man like Dusty Fog.’
‘You don’t, huh?’ Frank growled. Nothing could have been said which would make him more determined to go and face down Dusty Fog. ‘I’ll soon show you. I’ll bring you his gun belt.’
Joubert watched the youngster loosen the Colt in the holster. There was an evil grin on his face and he removed his glasses. Pale, cold blue eyes blinked at the young man as he started to climb out of the wagon. Then Joubert turned and went to open his box. He pulled the clothes aside and lifted out the revolver which lay hidden. It was a strange looking weapon to eyes which were used to the hand fitting, curved butt of the Army and Navy Colts. The butt of the weapon looked as if it was carved from a broom handle, straight, round and set at an angle to the working parts of the gun. The hammer was long and bent over the top of the chamber to strike the pin which was fitted to, and fired each cartridge. The chamber was big and bulky and held ten .54 caliber bullets.
Joubert hefted the gun with some satisfaction. He’d come by it early in the War and grown to like its awkward grip and the fact that it held ten heavy caliber bullets. To his mind this offset the serious disadvantage of the gun, its poor instinctive pointing qualities due to the shape of the butt. That was what saved the life of that town marshal in Mulrooney. Joubert tried to fire from waist high and, even after all the years of practice, still could not do so with any skill. There would be no such mistake tonight, Joubert swore to himself. While all eyes were on Frank he would be able to take careful aim and fire. If there was any blame it would fall on Brace Holman’s head for the people of the train did not know Joubert owned and could handle a gun.
Checking the pin-fire loads Joubert went to the door of the wagon and climbed, watching young Frank Holman walking purposefully towards the Evans’ fire and his destiny.
Dusty Fog was relaxed and completely at ease among the men. He laughed at a story one of them just told and was about to top it with one of his own. He forgot, or put aside, the reason for his being here. The man, if he was on the train, might be popular and people would object to his being taken back to Mulrooney to stand trial. It was something he’d have to face when he came to it and nothing would be gained by worrying over it.
‘So you’re Dusty Fog, are you?’
The voice came from behind and Dusty turned slowly. It was a tone of voice he knew well and guessed any quick movement on his part might start something he did not want right now. He could have guessed what was waiting for him when he turned and his guess was right. Behind him stood trouble. The young man in the north country range clothes, the dress of a dandy who looked more like a cowhand than worked like one. That low-tied gun told a man things, happen he’d been around and Dusty Fog had been around. To him it spelled just one thing. A youngster who thought he was fast with a gun and looked for a chance to prove his theory.
Across at the Holman wagon Joubert watched. He could not take a hand until Frank went for his gun and the shooting was decided but he cocked the heavy old gun ready.
Joubert had been cursing himse
lf for a fool ever since his visit to the town of Mulrooney. He went in to buy a couple of bottles of whisky and relieve himself of the boredom of the train, the sameness of the journey. A meeting with Magluskey was the last thing he expected or wanted. There was no refusing Magluskey’s request for help, for the man knew too much about him and Joubert wanted no trouble. All in all Joubert was not sorry when Magluskey went under at the Fair Lady saloon, it meant there was one less man alive who knew how Holman and Joubert made their living.
Having gone in on foot and returned by a roundabout route, keeping to hard ground as much as possible, Joubert was sure there was no way he could be traced. Yet these two Texans were here and they knew what he looked like. In the morning they would have started to look for him. Frank Holman knew Joubert had been into Mulrooney, so did Brace Holman and his wife. Of the three Frank was least to be relied on, he might say the wrong thing. It would be as well if Dusty Fog killed Frank first, then both he and the Ysabel Kid were shot down. If Major Brant made an investigation Joubert would be in the clear.
Dusty turned to face Frank Holman, then nodded, never taking his eyes from the youngster’s. ‘That’s right, friend,’ he agreed, voice even and friendly.
‘They say you’re fast with a gun.’
‘Who do?’ asked Dusty, his tones mild.
Frank Holman’s mouth hung open and for a moment he was at a loss for an answer. This was not going the way he imagined it would. He’d thought of this situation many times and in it the other man either showed fear at being faced by the terrible Frank Holman, or went for his gun immediately and died with it still in leather. Instead of either things happening he was asked a question and did not know what reply he should make.
