by J. T. Edson
The yell of “No!” was loud and from outside could be heard a deep roar of other men being worked up to fury pitch.
“All right then,” the gambler yelled. “Let’s go and get that Calhoun, then hang him from a tree.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lynch Mob
THERE WAS A HAPPY GROUP in the Marshal’s office as Roxie Delue and her now inseparable companion, Happy Day announced they were ready to leave for Newton and bring back the mining equipment for Dutchy. They and the deputies of the police force were all happy although Roxie was annoyed at missing Dutchy’s wedding. Dusty Fog sat watching them all, a smile on his face. Yet he was worried for Doc and Rusty were planning to head out down to Newton themselves to find their boss and the rest of their outfit. That was going to leave the Quiet Town police force short of men but it was far from being as serious as it would have when they first arrived. He could not blame Doc and Rusty. They were cowhands first and lawmen second. He knew the loyalty every cowhand felt to his brand and knew they wanted to get back to the Wedge.
The door of the office was thrown open and Irish Pat came in. “Cap’n Fog!” he said. “There’s trouble. Word’s got out you’ve got a Calhoun down here and a mob’s stirring up.”
Dusty glanced at Happy Day and Roxie gave a startled cry. She clutched the buckskin shirt, looking at Happy with scared eyes. The small Texan went to one of the side windows and looked out. Men were coming from saloons in ugly groups, shouting to each other. All to well he knew how a lynch mob could start. Men’s feelings ran high and with the aid of raw frontier whisky passions were soon inflamed to danger peak. The word would be rolling like a prairie grass fire, leaping from saloon to saloon, bringing more enraged men out. The miners had little or no love for the name of Calhoun, remembering friends killed and gold shipments stolen. There were others who were not interested in revenge, but would go along with the mob merely to be in any trouble that was going.
Dusty swung from the window, his deputies standing alert and ready for action, just waiting for his orders to them. His eyes ran around them. Dutchy, Eeney, Cy and Maggie Bollinger all watched him in some surprise.
“You ain’t got no Calhoun in jail, Cap’n,” Maggie remarked. It was Happy Day who spoke. “They want me.”
“You?” Maggie’s eyes narrowed.
“My name’s Calhoun.”
“But he’s not one of the Calhoun gang!” Roxie was grim and defiant, standing by Happy’s side.
Maggie studied the girl for a moment, then looked at Dusty Fog. She knew the young Texan was aware of Happy Day’s identity and that was good enough for her. She and her husband knew Dusty too well to think he would side with anyone who was not all right. If he was satisfied with Happy Day so were they.
“What do you want me to do, Cap’n?” she asked and went to hug Roxie. “Don’t you worry none, gal. The Cap’n’ll see you through.
Dusty was watching the mob growing, down on the square, men steering clear of the jail, going round the back of the opposite buildings to join the fast-growing mob in front of Bearcat Annie’s place. Then they started forward, coming towards the jail, the ugly rumble of the mob-cry sounding louder all the time. The small Texan knew he didn’t have much time to do anything at all, his mind was working fast.
“Cy, take scatterguns, you and Dutchy, cover the back of jail. Don’t let anybody get in. Mark, Lon, Doc, Rusty. We’re going on to the porch and try to talk some sense into bunch there. You ladies stay here.”
“How about me?”
Dusty turned to look at Happy Day. The young man was grim-faced and determined looking. There was something in Happy’s eyes which made Dusty reply, “You’re coming out there with us. We’ve got to stop them and you might help.”
The mob was nearing now, filling the street. Dusty jerked his head to the door. Mark Counter was first out, the Ysabel Kid following him, then Doc and Rusty moving to the other side of the door. Dusty came next, closing the door behind him and looking down at the approaching men.
“That’s near enough!”
The words were not spoken loud and Dusty did not draw his guns. Yet the mob surged to a halt. It was a hard crowd, fighting men and all of them armed yet they came to a halt at the words of the small, soft-talking Texan. Every man in this crowd knew the way Dusty Fog and his men could draw and shoot. They knew that there stood a group who were the peer of any in town.
“We want that Calhoun, Cap’n,” a miner shouted and there was a yell of agreement to it.
“Which Calhoun is that?” Dusty answered.
“Don’t try and fool us. We know Happy Day is and we want him.”
“You won’t get him,” Dusty answered and the crowd surged forward slightly.
“Ease back there, all of you. Happy, come on out.”
Happy Day stepped from the office with Roxie Delue behind him, the girl pale yet facing the angry snarls of the crowd without shrinking. The mob roared out in anger as they saw Happy but the forward surge halted before those unflinching Texas men.
In the crowd, on the other side of the street Fang watched and tried to stir up the mob to take action. “Get him. Stretch his neck.”
Again came the mob roar and the crowd surged forward but the ones in front, those who would first face the guns of the Texans still held back. Dusty watched every move, not drawing his guns or making any hostile move. There was something in those grey eyes to give pause to the boldest. He was the law, they knew it, every man here. The crowd were acting with typical mob psychology. To their minds they were acting for the law and the defenders of the rights of the citizen. If they hung the Calhoun man they would be acting in the interests of justice. Yet by some strange quirk the lynch mob would not open fire either on Happy or the lawmen who guarded him. To do so would not be according to the law and they felt they would then no longer be defenders of the right.
“We want Calhoun!” a man yelled.
“Get them all, they’re in cahoots!” Fang roared. “Get them all.”
Dusty could see who was shouting and knew there was a slight chance to handle the affair without killing. He knew that the quickest way to handle a mob was to get the leaders, the men who were doing all the talking.
“You talk real big for a man in a crowd, hombre!” he called. “Hiding behind folks and shouting. Makes you a real big man.”
“Come on out, Fang.” The Ysabel Kid also knew who was talking. “Don’t try to use a mob to do what you never could.”
“They’re hunting time, boys!” Fang yelled back. “Rush ‘em, they won’t shoot.”
Dusty knew they were all sitting on a keg of gunpowder with the fuse lit and running out. The mob was holding back right now but it could leap forward if prodded the wrong way and working up enough hatred into its collective system. The men here were for the most part honest enough and at other times would have been willing to back Dusty. Right now they were stirred with hatred for the Calhouns and nothing more mattered to them. He also knew that if he showed any weakness all was lost.
“Look, boys. There’ll be no lynching here. For one thing Happy isn’t one of the gang. For another, nobody’s going to lynch any man in my town. If you try there will be shooting. And for what? You’re being used by a yeller rat who wants to get back at me and hasn’t the guts to do it himself.”
“Don’t listen to him!” Fang yelled, still in the back of the crowd.
“Listen to the brave man!” Dusty’s voice lashed at the crowd. “Just listen to him. Hiding among you, doesn’t dare show his-self. That’s the man you’re backing. That’s the man you’re following.”
It was a good try and for a moment Dusty thought it would succeed. The crowd were wavering, the more sober starting to ask each other just what they were doing there. Fang saw the wavering and took a chance. He was a professional gambler, which meant he was a student of men. He had studied. Dusty Fog and knew things about the small Texan.
Moving back to the far side of the street Fang gripped t
he hitching rail and hauled himself up to stand on it. “Here I am!” he yelled, making sure his hands were well clear of his guns. “Standing here where you can see me. I’m saying we should take that damned Calhoun son and string him up along with those Texans who’re working in cahoots with him.”
Dusty could have cursed when he saw the way Fang called his bluff. He knew, as Fang knew, that he would not, could not shoot the gambler down. The moment Dusty or any of his men started to shoot the crowd would fight back. True the young Texans were masters of the gun-fighting trade and could do great destruction before they were cut down. But they would be cut down. No six men could stand up to and live through the concentrated hell of lead which that mob could pour out at them. Besides, as a lawman, Dusty could not deliberately open fire on men whose only crime was folly and misguided sense of justice.
“I’ll fetch him off there like a coon from a log,” said the Ysabel Kid from the corner of his mouth, holding his voice down.
“No go, Lon,” Dusty snapped back. He knew the dark young man was no moralist and quite ready to shoot Fang from the rail without worrying about such a small technicality as the gambler being unarmed. Dusty also knew that to do so would make Fang a martyr and bring about the shooting he wished to avoid.
The men on the porch stood grim-faced, attention on the crowd, yet all waiting for whatever play Dusty called. By Happy Day’s side, grim-faced as the men, yet wishing she was wearing her usual clothes and gunbelt instead of a gingham dress, Roxie Delue looked down. She knew most of the crowd, yet she also knew they would never listen to reason, even from her. It was enough to make a girl want to sob. In the days they had been together Happy had told her of his life with Bronco Calhoun and she pitied him while admiring the guts which kept him honest.
Fang, still standing on the rail, knew his hand took the pot. He had called the bluff and come out the winner. The Texans would not risk shooting him, they would not open the shooting. The mob would follow him now. “Get that Calhoun son, boys!” he roared. “If them Texans try to stop you, kill ‘em!”
Matt Gillem sat in the back office of the bank engaged in no more bankerly occupation than playing solitaire. He could hear the noise down town and was on the verge of investigating when there was a knock on the door and Kennet entered. The young bank manager looked worried and said, “Grimwood’s just come to tell you a lynch-mob is at the jail. They’ve got an idea Captain Fog is holding one of the Calhoun gang and they’re trying to get him.”
Gillem came to his feet, a low curse breaking from his lips. He had seen lynch mobs before and so far it was a curse Quiet Town was free from. All too well he knew Dusty Fog would never allow any prisoner to be lynched or taken from him. He also knew no five men could stand up to a mob. There was only one thing a man could do in a case like that. Opening his desk drawer he took out a Dragoon Colt, checked the nipples to ensure all were capped, then thrusting the heavy old gun into his waistband snapped, “Get the guards for me.”
For an instant Kennett stood and appeared to be going to object. The three shotgun-armed guards were a precaution he approved of. To take them away would mean that for the first time since the town boomed open the bank would be unguarded. It only took him that instant to realise that the three men might help to turn the tide in favour of law and order. Captain Fog and his men had worked hard to bring Quiet Town to some semblance of peace and order. They needed help now and the bank was one place which would be able to give it. Turning on his heel Kennet walked from the room and Matt Giliem followed, calling the men down from the verandah.
Bearcat Annie looked around her partially deserted saloon. Only the men Fang sent along were there and the man who had recognised Happy Day. He was still talking to the dancehall girls, only eight or so of whom remained. Looking up he saw how the saloon was emptied of customers and became aware of the sounds in the street. “Say, what’s going on?” he asked.
“Why, they’re going to lynch that awful ole Calhoun boy you recognised,” one of the girls replied.
“What?” The man came to his feet, his face scored and angry. “Why those stupid fools. I’ve got to—.”
“Set easy, friend,” a man ordered, moving from the bar, gun in hand.
“Set nothing!” the buckskin dressed man growled. “I’ve got to get out there and stop them—.”
“Stop nothing. The boys want their fun.”
Three tall Texas men who had come into the saloon shortly after the lynch mob looked at each other. One of their number nodded his head, his scarred face showing no expression. The three turned and walked from the saloon to join two others of their kind who were sitting on cow-horses by the side of a chuckwagon driven by a short, whiskery and leathery-looking old timer. The scarred young man went to a big bay horse and swung into the saddle with an easy grace. He jerked his head and the other men started their horses forward.
The crowd around the jail rumbled out their indecision. They were all beginning to see that there would be far more to taking the prisoner from Dusty Fog than they first expected. The crowd half expected the town law to hand, over Happy Day without any argument. Now they were seeing that the only way to take him would be by fighting. Not one man in that crowd was so drunk or so full of hate as to be blind to who they were facing. Every man in the porch in front of the jail was good with his guns. If the crowd forced things through there would be a terrible toll in lives before their aim could be achieved.
“Dusty!” the voice came to him from the office. “It’s me, Gillem. I’ve brought my boys to help you out.”
“Come ahead, Matt,” Dusty replied.
The lynch mob stood watching as Matt Gillem and his three men came into view. It gave pause to the mob for each of the men held a ten-gauge shotgun and knew how to handle it.
“Rush ‘em!” Fang screamed out. “Rush ‘em. They won’t shoot you. Go—.”
A half-eaten apple flew across the street, thrown by the scar-faced Texas man as he and his men came into sight. Full into Fang’s face the apple crashed and the gambler fell backwards from the hitching rail.
“That’s a wicked waste of food, Stone,” the handsome, red-hair young man at his right remarked, then put the petmakers to his horse.
The mob scattered as hooves thundered and they saw the Texans coming at them headed by the racing chuckwagon. Men tumbled over themselves to get back and to avoid being ridden down. The chuckwagon came to a halt, its driver substituting a worn eight-gauge muzzle-loading shotgun for the ribbons. Like trained cavalry the men riding alongside fanned out, bringing their horses round to face the crowd. The young man with the scarred face looked back at Dusty Fog. “You’ve got yourself a few deputies, Captain Fog.”
“Yowee!” Rusty Willis whooped. “You come just in time, Stone.”
The crowd held back, watchful and the rumblings of rage dying down. They knew, most of them, who the new arrivals were. The scarred faced young man was Stone Hart, leader of the Wedge, Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy’s boss. Fanning out in a line between Stone Hart and his cook, Chow Willicka, in the wagon, were the other, permanent members of the crew. Tall, lean, middle-aged Waggles Harrison, the foreman. Tall, red haired, handsome dandy Johnny Raybold, the scout of the outfit. Next was a short, stocky rider called Silent Churchman, known to belie both names. Seated a grulla, next to the wagon and looking miserable, was a medium-sized man with a long, drooping moustache. He was Peaceful Gunn, last but by no means least of the Wedge crew, as tough a bunch of riders as could be found anywhere in the West.
It was a bunch which would hold back any crowd, particularly when backed by three shotgun armed men. Still more when they were siding Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid.
Dusty saw the wavering again and knew that he must strike while the iron was hot. The crowd were seeing that they could only take Happy Day by force and now the odds were even greater against doing it. Dusty was about to speak when Stone Hart asked, “What’s it all about?”
“They’re protecti
ng one of them murdering Calhouns,” Fang yelled back. He could see there was still a chance if he could persuade Stone Hart and his men to change sides. “We want him.”
“Who says he’s a Calhoun?” Stone inquired.
Some of the crowd were wondering the same thing now it was pointed out to them. “Yeah, Fang,” a miner turned to look back at the gambler. “Who says that young feller’s a Calhoun. I’ve met him and he’s a real nice young feller. Besides he works for Miss Roxie.”
This time the rumble of agreement was not the savage mob snarl, but more in a query. “Where’s the feller who recognised him at, Fang?” another man shouted.
“Down to Bearcat Annie’s,” Fang replied, seeing a way out. The man would identify Happy and the mob would feel justified in taking, the law into their own hands. The presence of the Wedge and the shotgun guards would add to the fury of the men, stir them into action. “I’ll get him.”
“Stay where you are,” Dusty snapped. “Don’t chance it Fang, or I’ll cut you down. One of you men go fetch him.”
The crowd quietened down, night was coming on now and the sun dropping down towards the horizon. There was still more than enough light for them to see what they were doing even yet. The crowd stood back waiting. Stone Hart swung down from his horse and went on to the porch, nodding to his two hands, then speaking to Dusty. “There’s a one-eyed man in the game, Cap’n Fog,” he said. “That hombre in the saloon doesn’t seem to think they should be lynching this Calhoun.”
“Neither do I,” Dusty answered; he knew Stone Hart by reputation. Stone, like Dusty, was an ex-Confederate officer although they had never met. That scar was caused by a Union Army sabre, and the man who caused it never made another.
The eyes of the crowd were all on Bearcat Annie’s saloon.
They saw a man come from the side door with the miner who had gone to fetch him. The two men started to walk towards the crowd and from behind them a shadowy shape came to the side door of the saloon.
