Quiet Town

by J. T. Edson

  “Ain’t there another way?” Big Liz asked.

  “Why sure. Everybody knows where they can find your places. You don’t need the girls on the streets. Keep them off. The next time I see one I’ll close both your places and every other. If there’s ever another fight between your gals you’ll go into the corral.” Dusty pushed his chair and stood up. “The next time I send for you, if I have to, don’t bother bringing either your lawyer or bribe money. Neither will do you any good. Good evening, ladies.”

  Maggie opened the door and the Ysabel Kid lowered his foot to allow a thin, black dressed man to enter. “Captain Fog,” the man gasped out as he came through the door. “I must raise a protest about the way your deputy—.”

  “Forget it, Louie,” Big Liz cut in. “Let’s get out of here.” Maggie Bollinger’s face showed her admiration for Dusty as she prepared to go and check on her prisoners. “You done what you told them old biddies of the Civic Improvement Guild you would.”

  Dusty agreed with this. The virtuous ladies of the Guild had stormed in on him that morning with demands that the painted women were cleared out of town. They were routed and put into retreat by a young man who they had previously regarded as mild mannered and easy meat. They attempted to enlist the aid of Matt Gillem’s wife but found her views on the subject matched Dusty’s own. The girls of the streets supplied a vital need in this land of few women and many men. Neither the old woman or Dusty Fog approved of prostitution but they preferred it to the alternative. However Dusty was never happy about the girls being on the streets and pleased to have this opportunity to get them off without having to suppress them completely.

  Walking to the backhouse now used as the women’s cell Maggie wondered on the complex nature of Dusty Fog and saw why her husband hero-worshipped him. He might not be tall, he might not talk loud but he was doing what three men died trying to do. He was taming Quiet Town.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dutchy’s Dilemma

  DUTCHY SCHULZE was a worried man as he rode into Quiet Town. He was so pre-occupied with his thoughts that he went by Dusty Fog and Mark Counter as they walked towards the Bonton Café for their breakfast.

  “Hey, Dutchy!” Dusty called. “You getting so rich you don’t talk to your old friends any more?”

  Bringing his horse to a halt the German miner looked at the two young Texans. They had been in Quiet Town for three weeks now and although still no puritan Eastern city it was far tamer than when they arrived. They had seen something of Dutchy and Roxie Delue. The girl was still running her freight outfit with Happy’s aid and making a go of it. There was no sign of Bronco Calhoun’s gang and the miners were getting their gold out without loss.

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I did not see you,” Dutchy answered, holding out his hand. “I have worries.”

  “A man’d say you have,” Mark agreed. “Man allus worries better on a full stomach and with a friend to help him. Come on in the Bonton and feed.”

  Dutchy was only too willing to go along with the two Texans. The problem facing him was enough to make him worry and he wanted to talk it over with someone. He fastened his horse to the hitching rail and the three men entered the café. They found an empty table clear of the others and sat down. After ordering a meal Dutchy looked at the other two.

  “The gold vein the miners are working on is nearly played out.”

  “You sure of that?” Dusty asked.

  “Sure enough. I am a trained geologist and know such things. Also at my mine the present vein is petering out even now.”

  “You say present vein. What’s that mean?”

  “It is hard to explain and I am not even sure that I am right. You see the earth formations are made like the layers of a cake. Between the hard layers we find gold. I believe that under the hard rock layer below this gold seam is an even richer vein.”

  They waited for the food to be brought and placed before them before going on with their conversation. Mark spoke first. “Why you so worried then?”

  “It is very uncertain. There is only one way to find out and that is go under the bedrock and see. That takes special equipment and is not a job for one man. I can work my mine single-handed but could not with the new equipment.”

  “Hire more men,” Dusty voiced the obvious solution.

  “A simple answer to the problem. Unfortunately to hire men takes money. I have enough to make the deposit on the equipment and pay for Miss Delue to bring it here for me. I will have nothing left to hire men.”

  “Try talking to the mine owners, the big ones,” Mark suggested.

  Dutchy laughed. “I have tried but they say they cannot see an end to the vein. They have their shareholders to consider and don’t want to waste money backing me on what might not even be needed. So I telegraphed to the mining supply company for the special equipment. The reply came yesterday. I am going to draw all my money from the bank and see Miss Delue.”

  Dusty looked thoughtfully at the big miner. Dutchy was sincere and appeared to know what he was talking about. However there was something troubling Dusty. “Have you told anyone about this idea of yours?”

  “A few people. As I say, no one takes it seriously.”

  “Somebody might.”

  Ever since his arrival in town Dusty felt that behind every crooked enterprise, every try at keeping Quiet Town wild and woolly, every robbery or wrecking of a freight company, was one controlling influence. He could find no proof of it but on two occasions a lawyer was provided to try and help out some crooked operator taken to trial. Dusty also found out that several of the seamier and crooked places were not owned by the men who ran them. These men were mere employees for some person who even they did not know. The man behind the crookedness of the town would be interested in any news. If the original vein ran out the mines would go empty; then if Dutchy was correct there could be rich pickings for a smart man. If there was one man behind the lawlessness in town that man would have a very well organised spy system and probably knew of the message Dutchy sent and of the answer he received.

  They finished their meal and Dutchy pushed back his chair. “Do you think I am doing the right thing?” he asked.

  “I don’t know the first thing about mining,” Dusty replied. “One thing I do know is that if you know what you’re doing you want to back it to the hilt. You get that special gear here and you’ll likely find a man or two who’ll help you and chance getting paid.”

  “Then I go to the bank and collect my money. After that I hope to get Miss Delue to leave today. The sooner I know for sure the sooner I can get the other miners to follow my advice.”

  Dutchy walked out of the room. Dusty watched him go then said, “Take after him, Mark. Follow him when he gets that money.”

  “Can’t. I’ve got to take that pickpocket to court this morning.”

  Dusty came to his feet fast. “Pay the check,” he said and left before Mark could either agree or object.

  For once Dusty was in a hurry. He ignored the greetings of several friends as he made for the jail. He only just arrived in time. The Ysabel Kid was just leaving for a round of the town and the other two were already away. “Lon!” Dusty called and his friend halted. “Go to the bank. Dutchy’s taking out his money, follow him and take care there isn’t an attempt to snatch it.”

  The Ysabel Kid grinned. He had seen Dutchy in a fight and knew any man who tried to rob the miner was going to earn anything he got. However, one did not argue with, or question, Dusty’s orders. It just was not healthy to do so. He turned and headed for the bank without a word. The Kid did not take kindly to walking which was one reason he was not fond of this chore they were doing. With typical cowhand thinking he hated any work that could not be carried out from the back of a horse. The duty of Town Marshal gave little chance to ride for most of the work was done on foot.

  Reaching the street where the bank was situated the Ysabel Kid saw Dutchy enter and followed. The bank was a long, low stone building. Inside was the teller
’s counter, a bench and a few seats for customers on this side and Kennet with the two tellers behind the counter and its protective grille. The bank vault and the office where Gillem and Kennet conducted any private business were beyond the stone wall behind the counter, both strong enough to stand up to a charge of dynamite. Around the wall of the bank was a verandah and on it stood three shotgun-armed guards. They were on duty all the time which explained why Matt Gillem’s bank never was held up. There was no way in except through the front door and the room was covered by the well armed men.

  Leaning against the wall the Ysabel Kid removed his badge and shoved it into his pocket. He watched Dutchy talking with Kennet, then studied the other people in the bank. There were not many at this early hour, a few women, half-a-dozen men all strangers to the Kid. He glanced from the window. Across the street a lean, cowhand-dressed man was leaning against the wall of a store, smoking. He was paying just too much attention to the front of the bank.

  One of the men at the counter glanced at Dutchy who was packing money into a note case, then strolled to the door. He stepped out, removed his hat, mopped his face then walked away. The cowhand tossed his smoke to one side and stood erect, his full attention on the door of the bank.

  Dutchy walked from the bank, turning to head along Bank Street towards the outskirts and the poorer section of town. The cowhand followed on the other side of the street and the Ysabel Kid drifted along in their wake like a shadow. They left the prosperous business section behind and walked along through the poorer housing section. Roxie Delue’s freight company was based on the outskirts of town along this way.

  The streets were deserted even at this hour. Most of the men who lived here were workers and not at home, the women were doing their household chores and the children at school. The cowhand closed in, crossing the street to walk behind Dutchy. He looked back a couple of times but on neither occasion saw the Ysabel Kid who stepped into cover each time. The Kid was sure something was going to happen; it was a hunch and his hunches very rarely let him down.

  Dutchy came towards a vacant lot, the cowhand moving in behind him, gun in his hand. “Hold it there!”

  Stopping, Dutchy felt the muzzle of the gun touch his back. His hands lifted shoulder high for he was a prudent man and saw three more men coming towards him from the vacant lot, guns drawn. “You’re wasting your time, boys. I haven’t any money,” he said.

  “Yeah!” the cowhand replied as the other men, all dressed in range clothes moved in. “We’ll see about it.”

  One of the men was about to step forward when he saw the lean, Indian dark boy across the street. “The law!” he yelled.

  The Ysabel Kid never accounted himself fast with a gun. Not in a land where speeds of under half a second were regarded as fast. It took him almost twice that time to get his old four pound thumb-buster out and speaking. He flung himself forwards, hand twisting palm out to lift the old Dragoon gun clear. A bullet cut the air over his head as he landed and fired all in one move. The cowhand behind Dutchy reeled back, his gun falling. Dutchy was no coward; his bunched fist smashed into the side of one of the men’s heads even as he was trying to cut down on the Ysabel Kid. The man, caught by the full force of the blow, was flung against the wall of the house at the edge of the vacant lot. His head smashed into the wall and he went down. The head hung over at an unnatural angle.

  One of the other two men, a lean, unshaven north countryman threw a shot at Dutchy, catching him in the shoulder. Before he could fire again the man reeled under the impact of the bullet the Kid sent at him. He was still on his feet, even though hit by the soft lead round .44 ball. To the Ysabel Kid it meant the man was still dangerous so he lined and fired again, and the man went down as if he was boned.

  The fourth man did not stay on to fight. He whirled on his heel and ran for it. The Ysabel Kid leapt after him, gun ready but the man went around a corner and by the time the Ysabel Kid reached it the street beyond was empty. The man was gone and there was little chance of finding him again.

  Walking back the Kid found Dutchy bending over the man he had hit. The German’s face was pale as he stood up. “He’s dead.”

  “Good,” said the Ysabel Kid, no moralist with a false impression of the sanctity of human life. “Let’s have a look at your shoulder.”

  A small crowd was gathering, mostly women of the poorer kind, but Roxie and Happy came running from their office. “What happened?” the girl asked.

  “Hold-up attempt,” the Kid answered. “These three tried to relieve Dutchy of his wealth. Reckon you can fix his shoulder?”

  “I was fixing bullet holes afore you was old enough to run contraband over the border,” Roxie answered, recalling the days before the Kid met Dusty, when the Ysabel family were more than prominent in the smuggling between Texas and Mexico.*

  Happy Day was looking at the Kid’s second victim, his face hard. He went up and rolled the body over. Ignoring the crowd the Ysabel Kid joined the young man, leaving Roxie to take the wounded miner to her office. “You know him?”

  “Yeah, it’s Joe Calhoun.”

  “How about the other two?”

  “Never saw them afore. But one of them looks like he came from your part of the range. Bronco never run with rebs, allus with northerners.”

  The Ysabel Kid knew who Happy was, he also knew that these men were an unusual mixture. A northern gang tended to keep to their own kind, so did the southern men. Yet here were obviously a mixed gang, men from north and south working together.

  The Kid waited until Dusty and the other deputies arrived. Doc and Rusty were left in charge while Dusty went along to interview Dutchy Schulze. “Pity you had to kill ‘em, Lon,” Dusty remarked as they walked to the freight wagon with Happy Day. “I’d like to know where they’re hid out at.”

  “Out of town someplace?” the Kid suggested.

  “Not likely, they’d have brought hosses with them so they could get away real fast. They’re stashed away in town someplace.”

  At the office of the Delue Freight Company they found Roxie was making a fair attempt at handling the wound. The bullet went clean through without making any permanent damage and she was getting out-bandages when the men came in.

  “Happy, ain’t it enough to make you want to spit. We’ve just yesterday took on to run them supplies out to Sand Creek and Dutchy wants us to go down to Newton and bring some gear back from the railhead.”

  “We’ll be back in four days or five at most,” Happy replied. “Won’t that do, Dutchy?”

  “Of course,” the German agreed. “I can wire off the confirmation to Newton.”

  “Dutchy.” Dusty’s voice was deadly serious. “From now on, until that money leaves, you’ll have one of my boys with you all the time.”

  “That is not necessary, Captain,” Dutchy objected. “There will not be another attempt to rob me.”

  * * *

  Bearcat Annie moved among the early morning customers of her saloon. There were not as many in the saloon as before Dusty Fog took over as town marshal but she could not complain. She saw the door of her private office open and Clint Fang looked out, making a sign to her. She crossed the room and entered the office, shutting the door behind her. Fang jerked his head to a man who sat at the desk in the centre of the room. The man was breathing hard and looked worried. “How did it go?” The woman asked, glancing to make sure the big safe was locked up. There were things in that safe which not even Clint Fang knew about and which she did not want him to see.

  “Bust!” the man who had escaped from the attempted hold-up answered.

  “You mean you didn’t get the money?”

  “That’s right.”

  There was worry in Bearcat Annie’s eyes as she went to the desk and took the whisky bottle from the man. “All right. Tell me about it.”

  “Went the way you said it would. Dutchy collected his money from the bank, went towards the Delue place. We boxed him in and took him easy. Then that damned breed deputy
jumped us. He dropped Tenspot and Joe. Dutchy got the other feller. I lit out, cut through an alley and come back here.”

  “Where’s Dutchy now?” Fang asked, but the man ignored him.

  “Were you followed here?” There was anger in Bearcat Annie’s voice.

  “Nope. I come real careful. Figgered I’d best tell you afore I went back to the hideout.”

  “You told me, now get back and keep out of sight. Tell Calhoun what happened to his boy but tell him to stay hidden.”

  After the man left by the rear door Bearcat Annie paced the room. The careful plan had come to nothing. The man who was the power behind her would not like it. She licked her lips and went to the desk, took a glass from the drawer, then poured out a drink. That mysterious man who ruled her and half of the town did not like failure. He would like even less seeing his careful scheme wrecked by those soft talking Texas boys who were becoming such a menace to him. Bearcat Annie was afraid her boss might demand Dusty Fog and his men were removed. She could not find the men in town who might be able to handle the task.

  Slamming down the drink she cursed like a bullwhacker who had stubbed his corn-toe. Her boss, hearing of the message Dutchy sent and the answer guessed correctly how the German would react. His plans depended on Dutchy not being able to get the necessary equipment.

  “Who’re we working for, Annie?”

  Bearcat Annie looked at Clint Fang as he spoke. “Meaning?”

  “That fellow who comes to see you sometimes. The one we never get to see. I don’t reckon he’s just an admirer.” Fang grinned at the woman. “I also guess you ain’t the big augur of the outfit. Who is he?”

  “Are you just asking, or do you really want to know?” Fang closed his mouth hard at the concentrated venom of the words. He could read the signs and knew that here was something he had better stay clear of. He was on dangerous ground for since his failure to face either Dusty Fog or the Ysabel Kid he was no longer the most popular man in Bearcat Annie’s crew.