by J. T. Edson
“Heard you were meeting,” he said, glancing at Dusty. “Why wasn’t I called?”
“Why should you be?” Gillem growled, looking back. “You were never voted on to the council.”
The gambler’s hand fell to his side, caressing the butt of his gun. “I’ve got six votes here for me. Likewise I’m saying we aren’t having any Texas gunwolf running the law here.”
Dusty’s cigarette flipped from his fingers, the end hitting the gambler’s shirt and leaving a black mark. “Mister, I’ve got twelve votes to your six which swings the election my way. Mr. Gillem, you’ve got yourself a Town Marshal. Are you making anything of it, gambling man?”
Their eyes met and locked, the small Texan’s meeting the gambler’s with no sign of flinching. Silence fell on the room yet suddenly Gillem and the rest were not aware that Dusty was small. Suddenly he had become the biggest man in that room and seemed to tower over them all.
Then the gambler looked away, unable to meet Dusty’s eyes any longer. He knew who this small man was and did not intend to try and make something of it. “All right. Just remember, lawmen die fast in Quiet Town.”
“Gambler’s die fast any place,” Dusty’s voice was soft and even. “Get your hand off the gun.”
The gambler knew he would never be in a better position to take Dusty than right then. His hand was on his gun-butt, he was that much ahead of Dusty. Yet still he was not sure. All too well he knew his own speed but the soft talking, small man was too much for him. His hand came clear of his gun butt and he turned to walk from the room again.
Matt Gillem wiped the sweat from his face. “I never thought to see Clint Fang back down that way.”
“Who is he?” Dusty asked.
“Bearcat Annie’s boss dealer and triggerman. He’s bad medicine.”
Kennet was looking at Dusty with admiration. “I see I made a mistake, Captain Fog. You’ll make a very good marshal for Quiet Town.”
“My friends call me Dusty. Now, I’m going to need me four deputies.”
“Four deputies?” yelped McTavish, a true Scot, thinking of how much it would cost the town. “That’s a lot of law.”
“This’s a lot of town. Five of us at the usual rates won’t bankrupt you and I don’t take on without good men at my back.”
“Four deputies, huh?” Gillem glanced at the group at the bar. “I know, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid, expected you to want them. The other two look just like ordinary cowhands to me.”
“So are Mark, Lon and me. You’re taking us for all of that.”
“It’s still a lot of law, laddie,” McTavish said.
Gillem interrupted. “Okay, we’ll pay you one hundred, the deputies eighty a month and you get twenty per cent of all fines—.”
“No. We’ll take one hundred and twenty-five for me, hundred each for the deputies and we want nothing from the fines.”
“You’ll be losing money on it,” Gillem warned.
“Likely. But I’ve seen lawmen working for a share of the fines. They’d take in any man they saw on any charge, just to get money.”
“All right, we take your terms. All in favour?”
The meeting was all in favour, even more so since Dusty’s words on the subject of fines. Dusty took the Marshal’s badge which Kennet had picked up from the floor. Then the young Texan looked around the table. “All right, gents. You’ve hired me until Dan Troop can get up here at the end of the month, or until you hire another suitable man. I handle the law here in town and I don’t account to anyone for any action I think is necessary. I’ll tread on any toes I have to.”
“I’ve got no corns on me feet, Captain darlin’,” Irish Pat boomed. “So you tread where you will.”
“You’ll back me on everything?” There was a twinkle in Dusty’s eyes.
“Everything and more!” Irish Pat’s hand smashed down on to the tabletop.
“Moonshining’s illegal. How about that still you’ve got out back there?”
Irish Pat’s face turned red and he gulped out. “Captain darlin’, you wouldn’t be after taking something that’s dearer to me than me mother.”
Dusty laughed. He turned and walked back to join his friends at the bar. He could see they were all eager to hear why the Town Council wished to speak with him and did not keep them waiting. “All right, Lon, Mark, you’re now deputies of the Quiet Town police force.” Turning he looked at the other two cowhands. “My pappy always allows that to catch a crook you need a crook. So I reckon I’ll take you two on for a spell if you like.”
Doc and Rusty grinned delightedly at each other. They had come to Quiet Town ahead of the rest of the Wedge crew and were not expecting their friends for a week or so.
Already they were getting bored with inactivity and this dangerous task they were being offered looked like shaping up to be good fun. They wanted to see what the other members of the Wedge said when they arrived and found them wearing law badges.
“You just hired two men,” Doc said delightedly.
Dusty turned and his friends followed him back across the room to halt at the table. “All right, gents, we’re on.”
“There’s one thing, Captain,” Soehen spoke up. “The miners, especially the little men, have been having some trouble. A gang’s been hitting at the gold shipments. We’ve tried to get a line on them but we can’t. Thought it might have been some of the old Henry Plummer bunch at first. Then that it was one of the Missouri gangs. Then we heard it was Bronco Calhoun. But it can’t be. The gang’s got both northern and southern men in it.”
“Unless it’s two separate gangs,” McTavish put in.
“No, it’s a mixed gang, has been when they’ve hit.”
“Should say that’d be more for the county sheriff to handle,” Dusty remarked.
“Would be if you could tell us what county you’re in. The country’s never been surveyed properly,” Gillem explained. “Neither county wants to take on a town like this even if it would boost their taxes.”
“All right, I’ll handle it if I can,” Dusty promised. “How do you move your gold out of the hills?”
“Wagons, there used to be four or five companies, operating hereabouts. Now there ain’t but the one. Ole Joe Delue and his daughter Roxie. The others gave up after they had started to lose teams and men. Old Joe don’t neither scare nor give up that easy.”
“Where at’s the jail?” Dusty inquired as Gillem stopped speaking.
“Out of here and along Lee Street. You’ll find the badges for your deputies in the same, it don’t lock none. Civic pound’s at the back, or you can take your hosses to the livery barn. Town pays for food, their’n and your’n. Town pays for all the powder and shot you use while you work for us too.”
“One thing,” McTavish spoke up. “Powder and lead comes awful expensive, so buffalo ‘em with your gun barrels if you can.”
“I’ll trade my old Dragoon gun in for club was you to ask me nice,” the Kid remarked.
“With a Dragoon why bother to waste good money on buying a club, laddie?” McTavish replied. “All you sassenachs are the same, no idea of the value of money.”
oooOooo
1. Told in THE YSABEL KID
2. How the Kid delivered it is told In TRAIL BOSS
CHAPTER THREE
Trouble At Bearcat Annie’s
Dusty led his friends out of Irish Pat’s Whisky Parlour, across the square and by the front of Bearcat Annie’s large saloon. This was a large establishment, two stories high and with a veranda running all the way round it. At the downstairs windows were several people watching the young Texans with interest. Clint Fang was one of the watchers, his employer standing by his side as he pointed out the reason, or tried to, why he had not taken the small Texan on.
“Mark, you and Rusty go along and bring the hosses from the livery barn,” Dusty ordered. “Then I’ll read you the scriptures and swear you in.”
The two parties went their separate ways. Dusty looked at the town j
ail and Marshal’s office with satisfaction. It was a single storey stone building and looked strong enough. The front of the building was given over to the office and had a double door which opened on to the street. There were two large, barred windows to let light into the office. The office itself was sparsely furnished, a desk in the centre, a table against one wall, a safe with the door open in a corner, a stove at the other side and a few chairs. Fastened to the rear wall, near the door which led into the cells at the rear was a rack with three Henry rifles and four shotguns in it. The desk was dusty and the Marshal’s log book closed. Dusty opened it to find there were no entries since the recently-retired marshal took over. He looked around in distaste then opened the desk drawer. Three held empty whisky bottles, the fourth the keys to the cells. Taking these he went through the rear door and in a passage beyond was faced with four strongly built cells and a door. Opening the door he found a room with half a dozen beds in it. There were just the beds and mattresses but that did not worry him, for they all carried their bedrolls on their saddles.
He tested each bed and located the softest mattress then went back into the office to find he had a visitor. The man sat at the desk with his feet up on its scratched top. He wore the dress of a professional gambler and his face was mocking as he drew on his cigar. The Ysabel Kid and Doc Leroy lounged by the wall watching the man with eyes which showed amusement and curiosity.
Dusty walked forward, his hand coming round to knock the man’s feet from the desk top. The gambler looked up, an angry glint in his eyes. “Huh, so you’re the new marshal—”
“On your feet!” Dusty’s voice brooked no arguments.
“I ain’t—” the man began, but he did not get a chance to finish.
Dusty lunged forward, his hands bunching the man’s lapels up as he hauled him bodily from the chair. The gambler gave a startled grunt at the unexpected strength and started to strain back. That was what Dusty wanted. He shoved suddenly instead of pulling and the man crashed to the floor. Snarling a curse he tried to get his gun out from under his arm.
“Go ahead!” Dusty’s invitation was backed by the clicking as he eased back the hammer of his gun as it came into his right hand.
The man lay still, looking up into the yawning bore of the gun where no gun had been half a second before. He waited for the bullet to crash into him for he knew there were many lawmen who would not hesitate. “Don’t shoot,” he croaked. “I give it up.”
“Stand up!” Dusty ordered and the man rose fast. “Lon, take his gun. Then put him to work cleaning this place up.”
The gambler gulped but did not argue as the dangerous looking young Texan disarmed him. He had come with the express intention of showing Clint Fang how to handle the Texans but his intentions were changed rapidly. Leaving his prisoner working under the able care of the Ysabel Kid, Dusty returned to the living quarters and opened the door. Mark and Rusty were bringing up the horses and off saddling them at the corral of the civic pound. They hung the saddles on the corral rails for their owners to collect and put on the burros, the inverted V-shaped stands in the leanto at the rear of the jail. Out beyond the corral was Jenny’s brothel, a large red lamp swinging before the door. Beyond that the rest of the red light area extended until it joined Chinese Street where the homes of the Oriental mine-workers were crowded together. That was the area they would expect most trouble from, for it was the roughest part of town.
The jail itself was situated handily, only the gunsmith’s shop separating it from Bearcat Annie’s saloon and the town centre. Dusty waited for Rusty and Mark to join him and went back to find the gambler working hard, dusting the desk before he swept up the jail floor.
“Take him into the cells,” Dusty ordered.
Rusty and Mark escorted the gambler to the cells, the young Wedge rider grinning in delight. ‘I’ve never done this afore,” he said delightedly as he locked the gambler in.
Returning to the office they found Dusty handing out the deputy badges and pinned their own on. With hands raised they took the oath of office then were informed they were members of the Quiet Town police force and such places as Jenny’s were now out of bounds to them. Dusty took his seat behind the desk and looked at the others.
“Rusty, you and Doc haven’t held down a law badge I reckon. There’s a few small things you’d best learn and learn real fast. For the first week or so you’ll work with either me or Mark all the time. Now, these are the scriptures. First, never try to arrest a man unless you’re all set to draw and shoot, he might be wanted and on the run. If you go for a drunk watch him, he’ll come at you until his eyes focus best, then he’ll stop. You move in closer and you’ll throw him right off balance. If you arrest a man make him face a wall and lean against it with both hands on it. Then if he tries to move while you’re searching him kick his feet from under him. Don’t ever take your eyes off a man until you’ve searched him and don’t, no matter how friendly or harmless he looks, ever let him go out of your sight at all. Don’t let him reach his hand out of sight for a smoke or anything. If you’re going to a suspect in a buggy do it from behind, that way he can’t run you down. While you work for me you never abuse or mishandle a prisoner. If you go into court as a witness stick only to what you know for certain, tell the truth and don’t try either to help or fix the man. If there’s something you don’t know tell the Judge so. If you have to use your gun shoot to kill and keep on shooting as long as the other man’s on his feet or still holds his gun. As long as he’s still got the gun in his hand he’s dangerous, shoot him again.”
Doc and Rusty looked at each other. Dusty Fog was far different new than he had been at the saloon. There he had been an amiable, friendly young cowhand. Here at the jail he was a hard lawman, speaking with authority. They stored his words up, each one knowing they would need all the help they could get if they were to be of any use to Dusty. Both were good with their guns yet they knew there was more to being a lawman than just being good with a gun.
“All right,” Dusty let his words sink in then went on. “Mark, you, Rusty and Doc clean those guns after we’ve held a choosing match for the beds and got our gear stowed. Lon, you’re jailer for now, see the prisoner does the rest of the cleaning.”
“What charge you holding him on?” Mark inquired.
“Disturbing the peace should hold him,” Dusty answered. “I’ll fill in the jail log. Doc, Rusty, when you go to feed or collect a prisoner you go in twos. The man who goes into the cell gives the other his gun. Make any other prisoners back up away from you right back to the far end of the cell.”
The gambler started to rattle on the cell bars with a tin cup and yell out. The Ysabel Kid opened the door and looked across the passage at the man. “Please, we’ns are playing poker and I can’t concentrate.”
“You lemmee out of here!” the gambler yelled back. “You can’t do this to me!”
“I got news for you,” the Kid replied, going to open the cell door. “We just now went and done it.”
The man came out of his cell and into the office. Mark jerked his thumb to the desk and the broom. “Get to it.”
The gambler opened his mouth to object then shut it again. He knew that he had made a mad mistake in thinking these young looking Texans were easy meat. So he cleaned the office out and then was pushed back into his cell with a cheerful warning he would be appearing before the Judge on the following morning.
Doc Leroy sat at the table on the side of the room cleaning a shotgun. He watched the assured way Dusty, Mark and the Kid handled themselves. They knew this business as well as they knew cattlework.
The door of the jail burst open and a man came in. “Marshal!” the man gasped to Dusty. “There’s trouble down at Bearcat Annie’s. Cy Bollinger, the blacksmith’s, causing a riot.”
Dusty took up his hat and put it on. “Doc, Mark, let’s go.”
The three young men went out of the door with the bringer of the news coming after them. He was a thin, narrow-faced man in t
own clothes and seemed talkative as he walked with them. “That Bollinger,” he said. “He’s a mean one. You don’t want to take any chances with him, Marshal.”
Dusty did not reply. He could hear the noise from the saloon and saw a fair sized crowd gathering. He knew that this first task would either make his name or break it. How he handled the matter would be related through the town and he could get support from the citizens or lose it.
Pushing open the batwings Dusty went into Bearcat Annie’s saloon, followed by Mark and Doc. The bar room was large, the bar long, polished and shiny mahogany. Behind the bar was a long mirror and shelves covered with bottles. Along one wall was a verandah and a line of stairs ran down in the centre of the room. Dusty saw all this in one quick glance, the tables and chairs of the room, the bandstand with its piano and seats for the rest of the orchestra did not interest him. Nor did the crowd who were on their feet and watching what was going on in the centre of the room. A huge man with great bulging arm muscles writhing, held another big man over his head. The big man was a black haired, wild eyed figure, on the rampage. Two other men were down, showing signs of meeting up with the fists of Cy Bollinger.
“Stop him, marshal,” a man yelled.
Dusty ignored the man. He could see Doc watching him and knew that the slim young cowhand was wondering how he meant to handle this. Bollinger was not armed but he looked strong as a buffalo bull. Wild Bill Hickok’s way of handling the matter would have been simple. A .44 bullet in the blacksmith’s head. Doc was wondering if Dusty would use the same system.
“Bollinger!” Dusty roared. “Drop him.”
The big blacksmith turned, still holding the man over his head. His rage-filled face changed, amazement taking its place. He released the man, allowing him to crash down unheeded. The shambling blacksmith snapped into an almost military brace with his hand lifting in a salute. “Howdy Cap’n Fog, sir.”
