This book made available by the Internet Archive.
For
MIKE LEG AT, who agreed to try my Rocahye County stories
Author's note: While complete in itseK, the events in this book run concurrently with those in THE TROUBLE BUSTERS.
A SPECIAL KIND OF MAN
*To all this I swear, so help me Ckxi,** said the boy whose only name was Waco, completing the oath which made him a deputy town marshal of Mulrooney, Kansas.
While pinning the badge to his black and white calf-skin vest, the youngster could hardly hold down a faint, imbe-lieving grin. Six, or even three, months ago the suggestion that he might become a peace officer would have been met with derision. Yet there he stood, faced by Mulrooney's mayor and town marshal, a member of the civic law enforcement body.
Just over six foot in height, with a frame developing to its full power, Waco dressed and looked what he was, a Texas cowhand. His black J.B. Stetson hat, distinctively shaped, gave as clear an indication of his place of birth as did the star motif carved on his high-heeled boots. The hat hung on a peg by the door, exposing hiis curly blond hair to view. Tanned by the elements, his handsome face had strength, although the blue eyes no longer bore a wolf-cautious glint and his mouth smiled more easily than previously. Tight-rolled and knotted about his throat, the scarlet bandana trailed long ends over a blue shirt almost to the waistband of the levis pants. The gunbelt around his middle had been tooled to his fit and carried a pair of staghom-handled 1860
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Army Colts in holsters designed for speed on the draw. Something in the way he wore the rig warned it was no mere affectation.
Looking at Waco, Mayor Woods felt a momentary doubt at his suitability for the post. The town was one of those which had grown up along me trans-continental railroad, hoping to gain its Uvelihood from the almost numberless longhom cattle brought north in search of a market Being Mulrooney's leading citizen and partially responsible for its conception, the mayor wanted it to prosper. In which case the correct kind of law enforcement would be essential.
Could a boy not yet eighteen give the type of service required?
Only the previous day Mayor Woods had seen Waco draw his right hand Colt with blinding speed and kill a man trying to shoot a friend. Yet, inexperienced in such matters, the mayor realised that being an efiBdent peace oflBcer called for more than a fast draw and accm-ate shooting. True some trail-end towns asked no more of their marshals than gun-sldll, but Mayor Woods thought that to be a short-sighted policy and not what Mulrooney required.
The worry over the age side of the matter might also apply to another of the three deputies—and even to the man Mayor Woods had selected to be the town's iBrst marshal.
Almost as tall as Waco, and lean as a steer reared in the greasewood country, the Ysabel Kid seemed even younger. At first glance the sight of his handsome, almost babyishly innocent face, the all black clothing, walnut-handled Dragoon Colt butt-forward in the low cavalry draw holster at the right side of his belt and ivory-hilted James Black bowie knife sheathed on its left, might tend to raise a mocking smile. Then one noticed the Indian-dark features, red hazel eyes and rapidly reached the conclusion that here stood no mere dressed-up boy trying to pose as a tough, mean man. Young he might be, but the years had been spent learning hard lessons that had prepared him well for the future. However, he too failed to comply with the popular conception of a trail-end town lawman.
While the third deputy certainly seemed fitted for the part, it was a specialised one. Big Sarah Shelley wore a plain gingham dress instead of the garish costxmie she used when serving behind the bar of Mayor Woods' Fair Lady saloon. Red-headed, good-looking, taU and buxom, although hard-
fleshed and far from flabby, she looked ideally suited for her work as matron in charge of handling female prisoners.
If the two male deputies appeared an unusual selection, the man chosen by Mayor Woods to be marshal—chief law enforcement oflScer of die town—seemed, on the face of it, even more so.
At most he stood no more than five foot six, with dusty blond hair and a pleasantly good-looking face. Although dressed in expensive, well-made range clothes, he gave them the appearance of being somebody's cheap cast-offs. Nor did the excellently handled Army Colts in their two cross draw holsters, greatly add to his stature or noticeability. All in all, at first glance, he looked like an insignificant nobody. Closer inspection revealed that his face had strength of will and intelligence, while his lack of inches failed to prevent him from possessing the muscular development of a Hercules.
During the Civil War, as a seventeen-year old Confederate States cavalry captain, that small, insignificant cowhand built a reputation equalled only by the great Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby; although he gained it on the less-publicised Arkansas battle-front. After the War ended he had been called from his work as segundo of the biggest ranch in Texas and sent into Mexico on a dangerous, exceedingly delicate mission which he had carried out success-fidly. Since then his name had gone out as a cowhand of the first water, trail boss second to none, the lawman who tamed a wild Montana gold town after three less able officers had died trying. Texans boasted of his uncaimy bare-hand fighting skill which rendered bigger men helpless; or told about his wizardry in the matter of rapid drawing and straigjht shooting with his two long barrelled Army Colts.
Small he might be, but nobody ever thought of Dusty Fog in a matter of mere feet and inches. In reputation or actual deeds he stood as tall as any man.
In addition to acting as the OD Connected's segundo. Dusty also rode with its floating outfit. On the large spreads of the great open-range grazing days, a group of six or so cowhands were employed to work the extremities of a ranch. Accompanied by a chuck wagon, or taking food along on mule-back, they acted as a mobile ranch crew. During his trip into Mexico, Dusty had met and hired the Ysabel Kid and Mark Coimter to form the nucleus of the OD Connected's floating outfit. However, the general state of unrest in Texas
caused them to spend more time trouble-shooting in various places than riding their ranch's ranges.
Bringing the OD Connected herd north. Dusty heard ru-moiu-s of the two new towns and saw one or the other would shorten his drive. So he and the Kid headed for Brownton while Waco and the fourth member of the floating outfit came into Mulrooney. From what Dusty saw, Brownton was no place to take his herd. Despite the fact that Mark Counter had received a woimd in the Fair Lady Saloon, Dusty concluded that Mulrooney oflEered his trail crew a fairer deal than its rival metropolis. His decision struck Mayor Woods almost as a god-sent gift. Being fresh from the East, none of the citizens knew enough to handle the law. In the mayor's opinion. Dusty Fog ideally filled her needs. Especially widi the backing of his friends.
Take the Ysabel Kid as a start. There stood a man whom any honest peace oflBcer would coimt fortunate to have at his side.
Not that such had always been the case. Until meeting Dusty that day on the Brownsville trail, the Kid had been regarded as something of a one-boy crime wave; a border-smuggler with one foot on the slippery slope that led to real law-busting. The meeting changed all that and now the Kid's early upbringing made him a most useful member of range-country society.
Bom the only son of a wild Irish-Kentucldan and his French Creole-Comanche wife, the Kid spent his boyhood living as a member of the Pehnane band of his mother's tribe. There he learned all those things a brave-heart warrior needed to know, skill with weapons, ability to read sign or discover hidden enemies, horse-sawy of a high degree. Fortunately for the peace of Texas he never found the need to use his training while among the Pehnane, although it came in handy at various times in later years. Maybe the Kid did not rate high as a gun-fighter, b
eing only fair with his Dragoon Colt, but he claimed few peers in the matter of handling a knife or a rifle.
Like the Kid, Waco was a product of the times. Left an orphan in a Waco Indian attack on a wagon train, he grew up among the large family of an impoverished rancher. Although treated as one of the family, some urge set him drifting at the age of thirteen. Even then he carried a gun, a battered but operational old Navy Colt. Four years later he
wore a brace of Army Colts and bore a log-sized chip on his shoulder. Working for Clay Allison's wild onion crew had given him truculence and might have sent him on the trail of Wes Hardin, Bad Bill Longley or other fast-handed Tejano boys nmning from the law after a killing too many.
Then fate stepped in. Waco met Dusty Fog, the fastest of them all. From the time that Dusty saved the youngster's life, hauling him clear when a stampeding herd threatened to run him down, Waco became a changed person. With Clay Allison's blessing, Waco quit the CA and rode north as a member of the OD Connected. During the last weeks of the drive a change in him had become apparent. No longer did he regard all men as potential enemies. He smiled easier, took part in night camp horse-play. Sure he still wore his guns, but under Dusty's tuition he restrained his eagerness to use them.
All in all Dusty felt satisfied that he could nm the law. He knew Texans, could handle them and figured he could deal with the railroad workers, buffalo-hunters or others who would also use the town. Mayor Woods and the Town Council gave him a free hand, promised no interference with his metibods. Backed by the Kid, Waco, Big Sarah and Mark, when the latter recovered from his wound, he reckoned that he could make Mulrooney a decent town and one in which everybody received a fair deal. In that desire he had the blessing of the mayor.
While there might possibly be other female mayors in the United States, it was unlikely that any of them equalled Freddie Woods in the matter of beauty. Five foot eight in height, with raven black hair topping a regally beautiful face, she would turn heads in any crowd. The sober, if expensive, black suit and white blouse she wore for performing a civic function set off a truly magnificent figure with rich mature cmves. The fact that she ran a saloon did nothing to detract from her acceptance by the most influential people in town. Everybody knew the British aristocracy had eccentric ways and Freddie Woods had been bom Ae Right Honourable Winifred Ameha Besgrave-Woodstole. Why the rich, talented, beautiful daughter of an English lord had come to the United States and wound up running a saloon in a trail-end town has been told elsewhere. She came, gained election as mayor and now worked to give the voters satisfaction.
With the oath-taking ceremony over, Freddie looked at the young faces before her.
"I m not going to make a speech,** she said. "J^^ do what you're hired for and we'll be satisfied."
'We'll do just that," Dusty promised. 'Xon, you'd best—.**
Hooves thimdered along the street outside the office, ptmctuated by ringing cowhand whoops, screeches and shots.
**Could be this's where we start to earn our pay," the Kid commented, crossing to the window and looking out.
Much of what he expected to see greeted the Kid's gaze. Galloping along came a trio of trail-dirty, unshaven young cowhands. None of them belonged to the OD Connected, which had paid oflF the previous night and had given the citizens of Mulrooney an idea of what celebrating trail-drivers meant. While raising a considerable ruckus, 3ie trio did not endanger other lives, but kept to the centre of the street and sent their bullets straight up into the air. Heading for the Fair Lady Saloon, they saw the marshal's office building and brought their horses to a halt.
**Yeeah!" whooped the tallest of the three, a well-made, good looking youngster. "Let's smoke the John Law's hole some."
With that he threw a shot at the building. Glass shattered as the bullet struck a window. It was a most satisfactory soimd, one which delighted the trio and stirred up the desire to hear more. Restraining their fiddle-footing horses, they tossed more lead at the building. Not all of it hit the windows, but enough struck home to increase their delight.
Catching Freddie aroimd the waist. Dusty swept her down behind the desk. At the same moment Big Sarah dived through the open door leading to the cells in the rear of the building. Out flashed Waco's Colts and he started for the door, ready to do battle.
'Tlold it, boy!" Dusty barked.
Reluctantly, showing his surprise, Waco skidded to a halt by the door. The building's walls had been constructed strongly enough to stop revolver bullets and he flattened himself to the right of tfie door as lead drove into the thick timber. Despite the anger he felt, he stood still and waited for fin-ther orders.
"You fixing to let 'em get away with this, Dusty?" Waco demanded.
'Well no, I don*t reckon I am/' Dusty replied with a smile. "Only I don t want to shoot them either/'
**Would you mind getting oflF my chest, Captain Fog?'* Freddie put in a mite breathlessly, still on the floor with 3ie small Texan holding her down.
"I thought you'd never ask," he replied and started to rise.
Derisive howls and yells rose from the three cowhands. Then, having failed to produce the local law, they tired of the pastime and headed for the Fair Lady at a wild gallop. Bringing their horses to a halt, they tossed reins across the hitching rail and tramped into the building.
'What the he—," Waco began, then rephrased his words for Freddie's benefit. **What're you figuring on doing about them yahoos. Dusty?"
"Go along and remonstrate with 'em," Dusty replied.
''I'd toss 'em in the pokeyl" yelped Big Sarah indignantly, emerging from the rear. "To hell with that there remon— whatever you said."
"We'll let Dusty try it his way first," smiled Freddie. "Mind if I come along to watch?"
"Come ahead," Dusty repHed and walked towards the front door.
At that hour of the morning, the Fair Lady had not yet opened for business. Only the fact that the swamper did his work inside caused the doors to be unlocked. Behind the bar. Donna—another of the girls who tended to the customers' needs—checked on stock ready for the day's trade. Neither she nor the swamper, a grizzled oldtimer, showed any great pleasure at the trio's arrival.
"We're not open yet, boys," Donna warned.
"Let's have some glasses then, ma'am," the tallest cowhand replied. "Monte, you go fetch that bottle that's done kept us warm and comfy all the way in."
"I surely will. Tack," answered the shortest, who sported an early attempt at moustache-growing. "Boy oh boy, we sure showed that marshal that we'd come to town."
"That we did," enthused the third member of the trio. "He never even showed his lil Kansas head outside at-all."
Leaving to collect the bottle of cheap whiskey from Tack's saddle pouch, Monte retmned with it and news.
"The marshal's done coming," he told his delighted companions.
"We'll have him buy us a drink. Brother Tack,** grinned the third youngster.
"Sure will, Brother Del,** agreed Tack "Why *twouldn't be fitting for him not to set them up for some of Colonel Charlie's boys."
"We'ns ride for Colonel Charlie Goodnight, ma'am,** Del told Donna with an air of pride and superiority.
"I bet he lies awake at night praying that his good hick lasts," the buxom blonde answered and waited expectantly for the arrival of the town's newly-elected marshal.
If the trio felt any concern at the approach of the marshal, they failed to show it Having just completed their first drive, they wished to give the impression of being well-travelled veterans. Fed on highly-spiced accounts of how a trail crew acted when in town, they had come into Mul-rooney as they believed would be expected of them. Already, in their opinions, they had made a good start by asserting their Texas superiority over the Kansas lawmen. All that remained for them to do was buckle down and show those Kansan grasshoppers how Colonel Charlie's crew whooped up a storm on hitting town.
Leaning with their backs to the bar, the trio watched the batwing doors swing open. On the way to town they
had drunk enough to dull their perceptions. So they failed to take ia the significant signs which ought to have spelled danger to range-wise minds.
"It's the law. Brother Tack,** annoimced Del, standing at the right of the group.
"Naw," corrected Monte from the left. "It*s the marshal's hi son playing at sheriffs 'n' owlhoots. Don't he look the fiercest thing that ever growed?"
"Trouble being that he stopped growing a whole heap too soon," Tack answered, setting down the whiskey bottle on the bar. "Hey, bar-lady, is diis here half-portion the best yom- town can afford in the shape of a lawman?"
Standing with the other deputies and Freddie outside the batwing doors, the Kid raised his eyes to heaven as if searching for strength.
"Lordy lord!" he breathed. **! alius figured cowhands didn't have a lick of good sense. But these three're plumb foolish."
"They'll Ukely learn," Waco growled, deeply annoyed and bristling at the insults to his hero.
"And soon," guessed Big Sarah.
Freddie remained silent, watching Dusty and wondering how he intended to handle the matter. Running the law in a trail-end town took a special kind of man. Unless Freddie missed her guess, the next few minutes would prove whether Dusty had the necessary qualifications.
While advancing to the bar, Dusty studied the cowhands and assessed the situation. Leading men since his sixteenth birthday had given him the abiUty to read them and gauge their potential. Everything he saw told him that gim-play would not be needed. None of the trio looked that kind of proddy. Sure they all wore gims, a Texan who did not being something of a rarity, but none showed signs of coming close to his own standard. However they needed firm handling, as a warning to themselves and others that the law could not be flouted in Mulrooney.
If the cowhands had consulted with him previously they could hardly have stood more suitably for Dusty's needs. Almost shoulder to shoulder they lined the bar and eyed him with tolerant contempt. Then they learned the error of their ways.
The making of a lawman Page 1
