by J. T. Edson
Dusty turned his horse towards the sound. The wolves came from ahead of him and that was where the big paint had been. Putting his Kelly spurs to work Dusty urged the horse forward, making for the sound. He bent and pulled the Spencer from the saddle boot, worked the lever to throw a cartridge into the breech but did not draw back the big side-hammer of the gun. He urged the horse to the top of the slope and looked down.
The paint horse was cornered in a pocket, backed into a small, steep walled gully and defending itself against half a dozen gaunt gray shapes. The buffalo-wolf pack were showing some caution, slinking forward then leaping clear of the iron-shod hooves as the paint lashed out at them. One wolf lay back from the others, thrashing over and over in agony, sent there with a smashed back from a pile-driver kick.
Even as Dusty watched a movement on the slope over the paint’s head caught his eye. He looked with more care. A lean, gray shape moved through the grass to the rim of the pocket. It was a big dog-wolf, possibly the leader of the pack, showing the savage cunning of its kind. The wolf was sneaking in the edge of the pocket, then would, leap down on to the horse’s back, startling it and making it lunge forward. Once clear of the pocket the other wolves would close in. A sudden leap in, the slash of powerful jaws and the paint would be hamstrung, lame and helpless.
Dusty brought the carbine up, hauling back the hammer sighting and firing fast. There was little or no chance of a hit at that range, for the Spencer was not a weapon of accuracy over fifty yards. The bullet slapped into the brush and ricocheted up with a vicious whining scream and the wolf jumped back, turning to look around. It was as Dusty hoped. He sent the big black hurling forward, down the slope and let out a wild rebel war yell. The Spencer boomed out again, slammed lead near the wolf up on the top of the pocket. It whirled and faded into the bushes, streaking off and the others turned, then went like gray shadows. Dusty did not fire again, there was no chance of his making a hit, so he did not bother.
The big paint stood snorting in the pocket, but before it could decide to make a run for it, Dusty was in front of the opening. He booted the carbine and quickly unstrapped the rope. Talking gently, allowing the paint to settle down. Dusty rode nearer. The horse snorted and reared once, then began to calm down and Dusty rode straight up to it, slipped the noose around its neck.
‘Easy now, old hoss,’ he said gently. ‘Easy, you remember me. We’re going back home, old timer.’
Turning the black Dusty rode from the pocket and the paint followed him with no trouble. Dusty felt relieved. The big paint accepted him again and did not appear to have gone completely back to the wild. He decided against riding the paint until he reached the Rio Hondo country and could do so in the breaking pen the first time. With that thought in mind Dusty turned his horses back in the direction he’d come and headed for home.
Shortly before noon the following day Dusty was riding along the rim of an arroyo. He was nearing the OD Connected’s unmarked line and relaxed in his saddle as he followed the top of the arroyo, picking it as the easiest trail. To his left rose a steep slope and he was skirting the edge of the scar left where a watercourse eroded and cut into the land, this was how an arroyo was formed. The sides were steeply dropped and at the bottom, in the center of the two walls, ran a small stream which in time of flood became a fast-running and roaring torrent, carrying the water to the Ronde River.
A man who rode the dangerous trails built up an instinct for danger. Dusty was no exception to this rule. Something warned him that all was not well. There was a movement caught in the very corner of his eye. Dusty started to twist around, he heard the driving slap as a bullet smashed into the big black horse, felt the black falling under him and kicked his feet from the stirrups. To his ears came the flat slapping crack of a Henry rifle.
Dusty pitched from his saddle as the horse went down. He went over the side away from the shooter, unable to grab his Spencer from the saddle boot as he left his horse. The slap of a second bullet over his head warned him there was no time to waste. He went over the edge of the arroyo, falling and rolling down the steep side. Then he was dropping through the air, falling the last few feet to the soft sandy bottom. He lit down dazed, but shook it off fast and looked around.
The water at flood times had undercut the bank just here, slashing under all the way along the arroyo side. Dusty saw why he’d fallen through space for the last feet of his roll to safety. Saw it and knew its advantage. He dived under the cutback, out of sight from the rim above, even as he heard the sound of approaching horses. The first thing Dusty did was check his weapons. The two Colts had been held by their restraining straps in the holsters, but they picked up some dirt and grit on the roll down the slope. Quickly Dusty pulled the first Colt and turned the chamber after setting the hammer at half-cock. Not for the first time in his life Dusty felt grateful to old Colonel Sam for designing such good weapons. It took more than a bit of dirt and grit to put the old Army Colt out of whack. The second Colt would also fire. Dusty was sure of that. He holstered both weapons and gave thought to his situation. There was at least one Henry rifle up on the rim and a Henry would outrange an Army Colt. Dusty was safe unless the man who shot his horse and tried to kill him moved along the rim top and got into a place on a curve where he could see under the cutback.
On the rim above four men rode down the slope towards the paint and the dead black. One of them was Covacs, the tent-showman. He grinned savagely as he came towards the big paint, his Henry rifle smoking in his hands. The other three men were from his show, men he’d selected from among a hard case crew to help steal the horse. The failure of the raid and the knowledge that the paint broke out had brought Covacs and his men to the Ronde River country for they knew, as did Dusty, that the horse would make for its home range. They’d taken a roundabout route, hoping to shake off any pursuit from the OD Connected. Covacs had seen Dusty riding the edge of the arroyo and laid an ambush. He’d hoped to get the young Texan, but only killed the horse and now Dusty was down at the bottom of the arroyo, alive and still dangerous.
‘We’ll have to get him,’ Covacs remarked.
There was no argument to the words. They were stealing a horse and there was a witness who could see them all hung for it. There was only one snag to removing the witness. He was Dusty Fog. Even in the early days Dusty’s skill with his matched guns was known, talked about. No man of average talent with a gun was willing to chance matching shots with Dusty Fog.
One of the men looked down the arroyo sides, peeking cautiously over the top. He jerked his head back, face white.
‘He ain’t down there!’
‘What?’ Covacs snarled and peered over himself.
Covacs was pale under his tan as he saw the sign below and tried to guess how Dusty disappeared. One thing he did not need to guess. Any man who went to the bottom of the arroyo without suitable covering fire was going to get hurt, and fast. He most likely wouldn’t even know what hit him for he’d be sliding down into easy range of the Texan’s guns.
There was indecision on the faces of the other three men. Covacs saw it and knew why. The men were brave enough when handling a booze-blind mark who complained about being taken for his roll. Facing a man like Dusty Fog was something different. The Texan must be removed, that was for sure, he would never rest until he got the men who killed one of his horses and tried to steal the other.
‘We’ve got to take him,’ Covacs growled. ‘I’ll take the hoss back to Hagen City and wait for the show to catch up with me. You three get him. There’ll be a hundred dollars each for you if you bring me his gun belt and guns.’
The three men looked at each other. Then one growled, ‘Leave us that Henry and we’ll make us a try.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Covacs agreed handing the rifle over and digging out a box of bullets. ‘Just let me get the hoss and start out.’
The paint allowed the men to approach. Covacs tossed his rope over the sleek neck and one of the others severed Dusty’s lariat, cuttin
g the paint free from the dead black. The paint knew better than try and fight a rope and followed Covacs as he rode away from the edge of the arroyo, up the slope and out of sight.
The three men watched their boss ride away, then looked down into the arroyo bottom. They could not think where Dusty went and that worried them. Not one of them spoke for some time, then one growled, ‘We’d best try and get it started.’
‘Sure,? the one with the Henry remarked. ‘Bill, go up there to the right apiece, then slide down to the bottom. Me’n Lippy’ll head off down the other way. He’ll go down to the bottom with his Sharps carbine and I’ll stop up here ready to cover you with the Henry.’
The other two did not care for the idea of going down to the arroyo bottom, not with Dusty Fog waiting, but they could not offer any better idea. One thing was for sure, Dusty Fog would have to show himself when they went down and the Henry rifle would cut him down.
Dusty was waiting under the cutback, cold rage gripping him, yet not making him forget to think. The big black was his favorite horse, the mount which he rode through the War and those men, whoever they were, had killed a good horse without a second thought. They’d also stolen the paint and they’d be coming down after him, that was for sure.
With that in mind Dusty started to move along the bottom of the arroyo, keeping out of sight under the cutback. A scattering of dirt came over the edge of the cutback and Dusty froze. He looked back and gauged how far he’d come. The man on top of the slope would not risk coming down yet, that was certain. Slowly Dusty moved on, trying to keep up with the man above. Then he saw more stones and dirt rattling down and knew the man was sliding down. Dusty did not draw his guns, he wanted the man alive if possible.
A pair of feet came into sight, the man evidently did not know about the cutback. Dusty grabbed the ankles and pulled hard. He heard a startled yell, the bark of a shot and the man came crashing down. Dusty wasted no time, he lunged forward even as the man landed on hands and knees at the foot of the slope. Dusty rolled the man over and smashed up a punch which lifted him almost to his feet, then dumped him down flat on his back. The man lay still but Dusty knew he was far from being out of the tall timber. Another man was sliding down the slope, back along the draw, a man who held a Sharps carbine. The man was fifty yards away, well beyond normal handgun range and Dusty knew his only chance was to make a hit real fast, before the man could get his balance. The Sharps toter was looking towards Dusty even now and the young Texan knew he would be living on borrowed time the minute the other man got set to shoot.
With a rolling dive Dusty went behind the unconscious victim of his attack. He brought out the right-handed Colt, gripped the butt firmly with both hands pulled back the hammer. Resting his wrists on the man’s body Dusty laid his sights with care. He knew the Colt, knew its vagaries and allowed for them as he sighted. The Colt kicked back against his hands, he saw the man staggered by his bullet, dropping the Sharps. Even so he was only hit high in the shoulder and was still a potential danger. Dusty lunged up, running forward to get into better range before the man could recover and bring up the Sharps carbine again.
It was then Dusty saw the third man still on the rim. If Dusty had stayed at the side the man could not have seen him. Right now Dusty was out in the open and the man lined his Henry rifle down. At that range, if the man was anything of a shot, he could not miss. It was a range where a man could do nothing in off-hand shooting with a revolver.
The man’s Henry slanted down, then he looked away from the arroyo bottom and swung the rifle around to fire at someone or something which was coming towards him and out of Dusty’s sight. At the flat bark of the Henry there was a more distant bellow from a Spencer carbine. The man spun around, his Henry falling from his hands as he pitched over the edge of the arroyo and crashed to the bottom.
The wounded man was on his knees, lining the Sharps carbine on Dusty, but the killing of his friend put his aim off. Dusty ran forward, then halted and started to throw fast shots. The Army Colt sounded like a thunderclap in the narrow confines of the arroyo. On the third shot the man reared up, his carbine fell and he jerked as another bullet smashed into him. Then he went down.
Dusty did not wait, he flung himself back into the shelter of the cutback. He did not know who’d killed the man with the Henry, but there were a number of possibilities, none of them pleasant to a man with only five bullets left. A voice came floating down and Dusty could not remember when Red Blaze sounded so welcome.
‘You all right, Cousin Dusty!’
Dusty holstered his guns and stepped out. Red, Billy Jack and Kiowa sat their horses at the edge of the arroyo, looking down with broad grins on their faces.
‘Sure. I’m all right. Throw me a rope down and haul me up.’
Billy Jack’s rope dropped and Dusty climbed up. At the top he looked at the dead black and the severed rope and gave a low curse. His eyes went to the nickeled Henry and he swore he’d never rest until he put Covacs under.
‘What happened?’ asked Red.
Dusty explained and there were angry curses from two of the others. Kiowa was never the man to waste his words. He rode his horse along the rim and used his rope to slide down to where Dusty’s first victim was groaning to consciousness again. The lean man fastened his rope under the man’s arms, then climbed up and hauled the man out without any ceremony. While Kiowa was performing this act of kindness Red told Dusty how they’d been on the trail of the gang, following the roundabout route taken by the horse-thieves, and they came up in time to see the man lining his Henry on the bottom of the arroyo. This, taken with the shots and the dead black told Red all he wanted to know and he cut in fast. His Spencer answered the Henry challenge and Dusty knew the rest.
‘We’ve got to get Covacs,’ Dusty remarked, his voice grim ‘He’s not got much of a start on us.’
‘Got enough,’ growled Red. ‘It’ll be dark before we can catch up with him and, like you told us, we can’t run a line in the darkness.’
‘Lookee here, Dusty,’ Billy Jack went on. ‘We got us a man here who knows where that Covacs went. I know you all don’t go for no torturing prisoners and such, but just this once you can look the other way. This gent knows where he’s got to meet his boss, he might just tell us.’
‘How about it?’ Red asked the prisoner who was on his feet and looking sullen.
‘Go to hell!’
‘And meet your two pards?’ Red said and pulled back his fist.
‘That’s a slow way,’ grunted Kiowa. He was rarely a man who said much and when he did was mostly well worth listening to.
Taking his rope Kiowa tossed the loop about the man’s neck and with a twist of his wrist drew the honda tight under the man’s left ear. Then he moved in and before the man could object or struggle, pigging-thonged his hands behind his back. Stepping back Kiowa surveyed his handiwork. ‘They allus hangs hoss-thieves, don’t they?’ he asked.
‘Ain’t no tree within a couple of miles,’ Billy Jack pointed out.
Kiowa grunted, as if disappointed that his friend thought he’d miss such an elementary thing. He fastened the free end of the rope to his saddle horn and pushed the man towards the edge of the arroyo. The man tried to struggle but he was like a child in Kiowa’s hands. His face paled and he felt his feet scrabbling the very edge of the arroyo.
‘You’d best talk, friend,’ Billy Jack remarked dolefully. ‘Ole Kiowa’ll push you over and think nothing of it.’
‘Stop him!’ the man screamed. ‘Stop him! I’ll talk. I’ll tell you. Covac’s gone to Hagen Town. He took the paint and we’d got to meet him there.’
Kiowa allowed the man to come back from the edge and looked at Dusty, who was moving forward. ‘He telling the truth, you reckon?’ Kiowa asked.
‘Sure, I reckon he is.’
‘Don’t need him any more then, do we?’ said Kiowa mildly, and pushed the man.
Dusty leapt forward, he was only just in time, the man was teetering on the very e
dge of the arroyo. Another second and the man would have gone over, the rope snapping tight under his ear and breaking his neck.
‘You crazy Indian!’ Dusty barked at the unabashed Kiowa.
‘Spoilsport,’ replied Kiowa. ‘We never said we wouldn’t hang him after he telled us.’
‘We’ll take him with us,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Happen he’s lied to us we’ll still have him to make sorry for it.’
Chapter Four
Covacs walked to the livery barn corral in the early morning. The corral was empty and there was no one in sight. He held a stiff, brutal whip in his right hand, a length of thin cord in his left and there was a sadistic gleam in his eyes as he looked at the big paint in the corral.
‘You big devil,’ he snarled. ‘Time I’ve done with you and you’ve had the whip and ghost cord you’ll not let any man ride you.’
Covacs was about to climb into the corral when he heard the sound of hooves. A soft drawled voice came to his ears and froze him to the spot.
‘I’ve been looking for you, Covacs.’
The showman turned, his face turning pale and his tongue trying to wet lips which were suddenly dry.
The small Texan, who should have been laying dead in the lonely arroyo stood just behind him. Three hard-faced Texas cowhands sat behind the youngster and beyond them, bound to his horse was one of Covacs’ men. There were two tarp-wrapped shapes across the back of another horse, which explained where the other two men were.
Covacs watched Dusty’s hands, knew how little chance he would stand in a gunfight.
‘Count to five, Cousin Red,’ Dusty said gently. ‘Start when you like, Covacs. I start at five.’
