by J. T. Edson
‘What’s wrong, boy?’ Dusty asked.
‘I never knowed being a lawman was so hard on the feet,’ Waco answered wryly. ‘I tell you, Dusty, walking’s only good when you’re doing it on the back of a horse.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘And this’s easy, boy. We only had two honest saloons and a handful of decent folk to deal with tonight You wait a spell, maybe for two days, until that Brownton pack learn the way things are going. Then we’ll be seeing a real prime selection of sharks flocking in here looking for easy pickings.’
‘Which same’ll likely mean more walking for me?’
‘That’s just about what it means, boy.’
Until a very few weeks back any man who had dared call Waco ‘boy’ would have wound up with a fight on his hands. Even now the youngster would accept the name only from Dusty, Mark, the Kid and Red Blaze. Way Waco saw it, those four were his amigos and as close as any brothers; anyway, the way they said it, they figured he would one day grow up into a real good man.
Not that Waco thought of Dusty’s use of the word ‘boy’, his feelings being more on the aching condition of his feet. Cowhand boots had never been designed for excessive amounts of walking and he sure did not want a whole slew of footwork in the future if he could avoid it.
‘Isn’t there any way we can stop the sharks getting in?’ Waco asked.
‘I’m thinking about just that, boy,’ Dusty replied.
Chapter Seven
Dusty’s Welcome Mat
No incident of note marked Dusty’s second day in office as marshal of Mulrooney. He sent a telegraph to the county sheriff’s office and received a reply appointing him and his men special sheriff’s deputies; a shrewd move which gave him and his men the legal right to act outside the city limits and within the county’s boundaries—which included Brownton, although Dusty had not thought about the matter. The shotguns, Sharps rifle and ammunition arrived and one of Freddie’s swampers proved to Dusty’s satisfaction that he would make a suitable jailer. Although at first Big Sarah was inclined to treat her appointment as deputy in the nature of a joke, she soon changed her mind. Along with Dusty, the Kid and Mark—the latter newly from his bed and with his left arm in a sling—Sarah took the oath of office and pinned a badge on her dress. Then Dusty told her the extent of her duties. At the end of his instructions, Sarah no longer regarded the business as a joke.
Three Brownton citizens visited Mulrooney during the day and looked around them with considerable interest. They came independently and returned to Brownton to report their findings to their respective employers. The news brought by the trio spread gloom and despondency amongst those who hoped that Brownton would become a new trail drive Mecca, end of the long pilgrimage from Texas. One of the employers had expected nothing more since witnessing the departure of first Dusty Fog and then the cattle buyers; and so decided to put into operation a plan begun the day of Brownton’s idiocy. Other citizens of Brownton gave consideration to the situation and the results of one school of thought showed when the eastbound train pulled out at noon the following day.
The eastbound train came slowly to a halt at Mulrooney’s depot and began to disgorge its passengers, although there appeared to be some delay as the conductor checked on tickets.
A tall, elegantly dressed man and a beautiful stylishly attired young woman were the first to leave the train. Standing on the depot platform, they looked around and the man nodded. Placing her dainty little parasol on her shoulder, the girl took the man’s arm and they started to walk forward. They did not get far.
‘The train pulls out in fifteen minutes,’ Dusty Fog said, stepping from the agent’s office and blocking the couple’s path. ‘Don’t go too far from here.’
‘Why?’ asked the man, scowling down at the new marshal’s badge on Dusty’s calf-skin vest.
‘You’re leaving with it.’
For a moment the man did not speak, then he grinned knowingly, winked at Dusty and reached into his inside breast pocket.
‘All right,’ he began, ‘How mu—?’
Which was as far as he got. Dusty came forward with a gliding step and whipped around his right hand, driving his bunched fist full into the pit of the man’s stomach. Giving a croak of agony which testified to the force behind the blow, the man clutched at his middle and folded over, dropping to his knees.
‘Don’t try it!’ Dusty warned as the girl brought her parasol from her shoulder.
‘You just lay a hand on me!’ she screeched in reply.
‘Lady, I wouldn’t touch you with a long fishing pole,’ Dusty answered and raised his voice. ‘Miss Sarah!’
Once more the office door opened and Big Sarah stepped out. It was not the jovial, rouged and made-up Big Sarah who served behind the Fair Lady’s bar, but a well-scrubbed, grim-faced woman wearing a dark suit and with a deputy’s badge on her jacket’s left lapel. Taking in the scene with a quick glance, Big Sarah advanced to Dusty’s side and faced the girl.
‘Try using that spoke on me, girlie,’ she warned, ‘and I’ll make you eat it.’
One quick-taken glance told the girl that Big Sarah could most likely do it too. So she lowered the sharp-pointed parasol, which had taken a miner's eye out in Quiet Town, and bent over her groaning escort. The man looked up at Dusty with agony twisting his face.
‘Th—there was no call for that,’ he croaked, hoping to gain sympathy from the watching crowd.
‘I figured you might be pulling a gun,’ Dusty answered.
‘G—gun! I was reaching for my wallet.’
‘That’d be called attempted bribery in a lot of places. The judge here's real strong on attempted bribery they do say,’ Dusty countered. ‘Want me to push it to him?’
‘No—no. I'll get out of here.'
‘Thought you'd come round to seeing it my way,’ drawled Dusty.
Catching sight of another familiar face from his days in Quiet Town, Dusty turned and walked away with Big Sarah at his side. The man dragged himself slowly and painfully to his feet, then gave a low snarl and his right hand went towards the cuff on his left sleeve. Shooting out her hand, the girl caught her escort's sleeve and nodded to his left. Turning, the man looked in the indicated direction and what he saw sent a chilly sensation running through him. Waco stood with his shoulder against a stack of freight boxes, the deputy’s badge prominent on his calf-skin vest and his right hand thumb-hooked into his belt not more than a couple of inches from the walnut grips of his off-side Colt.
Giving a shrug, the man—he was a crooked gambler who used the girl as a steerer and lure to attract gullible victims—forgot his intentions. Usually a trail-end town such as Mulrooney offered good pickings, especially in its early days before things became too organized. If his reception went to prove anything, Mulrooney appeared to have organized fast and there would be no chance of his settling down in the town. Taking the girl's arm, the man went back to the train and climbed aboard. Not until the danger to Dusty had passed did Waco relax or move. The youngster was learning fast and already knew how to cover his partner as a good lawman should.
As she walked along at Dusty’s side, Big Sarah looked at the people in front of the train and wondered which of them attracted Dusty’s attention. Then a frown creased her face as she saw they were making for a tall, slim man wearing the low crowned black Stetson, black cutaway jacket, white broadcloth shirt and string bow-tie, fancy vest and striped pants of a professional gambler. Although the man dressed well and wore an ivory butted Army Colt in a fast draw holster, Sarah did not consider him to be the kind they had come to the depot to prevent entering town. She need not have worried. On seeing Dusty approaching, the man’s face broke into a warm smile and he held out his hand.
‘Howdy, Dusty,’ he said.
‘Howdy, Frank,’ Dusty replied, knowing Frank Derringer to be an honest gambler and being particularly pleased to see the man. ‘I’d like to see you at the office when you’ve settled in.’
‘That sounds o
minous,’ Derringer answered, still smiling.
‘You don’t know the half of it. Anybody interesting on the train?’
‘Ludlow and Bessie, but you already saw them. A few others you’d likely remember if they get off—which I don’t think they will, and—hey now, there comes the cream of the bunch. That fat guy in the check suit and derby and the lean, hatcheted faced cuss who’re getting down at the far end of the smoker car. They work with a raunchy little cuss who looks like he’d jump a mile high if a door banged behind him. I saw that little cuss kill two men on Newton.’
Turning, Dusty glanced to where the men in question had left the train. Then Dusty caught Mark Counter’s eye and nodded to the two men. Mark nodded and moved forward to block the two men’s path.
‘Don’t go too far, gents,’ he warned. ‘The train pulls out real soon.’
The fat man studied Mark’s big frame, taking in the left arm in its sling, the matched, low hanging guns and finally Mark’s deputy badge. Then he raised his eyes to study Mark’s face and his expression was one of polite, innocent interest as he beamed and said:
‘I fail to catch the drift of your remark, my good minion of the law, my friend and I are but travelling salesmen—’
‘Then you’ve run into bad luck,’ Mark interrupted. ‘This town’s got more than enough of what you’re selling.’
‘Now see here, young man,’ boomed the fat tinhorn indignantly. ‘The mayor of your town happens to be a personal friend of mine. He and I went to college together I’ll have you know.’
‘He’s a she, and real choosy about her friends. Be on the train when it pulls out, mister, you’ll find it’s safer.’ While the fat man had been holding Mark’s attention, his pard moved around to approach the big Texan from Mark’s left side. Way the hatchet-faced man saw it, the big deputy couldn’t do much with his left arm and ought to be easy meat. With that thought in mind, the man started to raise his right fist.
‘Hey!’ a voice behind him said.
Hatchet-face turned; which proved to be one hell of a mistake. The Ysabel Kid had come up unnoticed behind him and brought around the old ‘yellow boy’, driving its brass-shod butt plate against the man’s jaw in a blow that would have gladdened the heart of a bayonet-fighting instructor had one seen it. Landing with some power, the blow sprawled Hatchet-Face to one side and ended his ideas of attacking Mark from the rear.
‘See here n—!’ began the fat man.
The cause of his stopping the indignant tirade which rose in his throat was that same throat being gripped by something which felt like the steel jaws of a bear trap, but was in reality only Mark’s good right hand. After shaking the man, Mark gave him a heave that staggered him towards the train where he landed almost at the feet of a small, mild-looking jasper in a cheap city suit and who looked two shades more timid than a well-hunted whitetail deer. Looking down, the small man’s lips tightened and his right fingers moved towards his jacket. Then he stopped and glanced around the area, seeing not two but, if he counted Big Sarah, five peace officers present. Being a wise man, he decided to overlook the mishandling of his two junior partners and also to find a town which offered more scope for his particular brand of game of chance. In this he showed more wisdom than he knew; while his appearance had lulled more than one man’s suspicions until too late, this time he was known. If he had attempted to draw the little Smith and Wesson revolver from under his jacket, Dusty would have killed him; for some word of this trio’s activities had reached the small Texan. Dusty had prevented the man entering his town, thanks to Frank Derringer’s warning.
Several people who left Brownton with the intention of settling down in the greener pastures of Mulrooney had watched the spreading of Dusty’s welcome mat and the way the local law jerked it from under the feet of the unwelcome; and changed their minds, staying on the train with the intention of seeking a more friendly kind of town.
One woman did not take the hint or give so much as a glance at the discomforted deportees. Climbing out of the smoker, she stood with firm-planted feet and looked around her. She was as big as Big Sarah and maybe a few pounds heavier, which made her a tolerable piece of woman-flesh in one lump. Yet, like Sarah, there appeared to be little flabby fat on her body. She wore a stylish mauve travelling outfit, a large brimmed, fancy hat and sported some good jewelry. Under its make-up her face seemed to be jovial and not bad looking. Twirling her vanity bag, she glanced at the Negro porter who lifted a couple of bags from the train and told him to set them down, handing him a dollar piece.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ Dusty greeted, walking up to the woman. ‘I’d like to see you in the depot agent’s office.’
A frown creased the woman’s brow as she studied Dusty’s badge. Then she gave a philosophical shrug and followed Dusty into the office, Big Sarah watched them go before joining Mark, the Kid and Waco.
‘Cap’n Fog’s welcome mat sure works,’ she grinned. ‘I saw two tinhorns on the train, real mean cusses. They’re still aboard.’
‘It’s all done by kindness and setting an example, Sarah,’ Mark grinned. ‘Who was the lady Dusty took into the office?’
‘That was no lady, that was Lily Gouch, she ran a cathouse in Newton.’
‘Reckon she allows to run one here,’ the Kid remarked. ‘There isn’t one and no town should be without a house.’
‘You’re polite with it,’ Lily Grouch remarked for Dusty had held open the office door to let her enter. ‘Fast but polite.’
‘With what, ma’am?’Dusty replied.
‘Don’t play games,’ the woman growled, opening her vanity bag. ‘How much now and how much a week?’
‘I hope that doesn’t mean what I’m sure it means.’ The voice came from the door of the inner office. Giving a muttered exclamation, Lily turned and looked in the direction of the speaker. So did Dusty, for he had no idea that Freddie Woods had decided to come and view his welcome mat in operation. Clearly she had, for the lady mayor of Mulrooney came into the room and closed the door behind her.
‘Who’re you?’ Lily asked, studying Freddie’s expensive clothes and elegant appearance.
‘My name is Woods, Freddie Woods.’
‘You’re the dame who runs that fancy Fair Lady Saloon?’
‘I’m the dame, I’m also mayor of Mulrooney and part of our marshal, Captain Fog’s welcome committee. Now you know who we are, how about making it equal by telling us who you are.’
‘Lily Gouch. Say, you’re quick and open. Most towns let me settle in before they send one of their hired help to put the bite on.’
‘Miss Gouch,’ Freddie said quietly. ‘I’m trying hard to like you, give me a little help. There are certain things I want settled—’
‘So all right. Tell me how much you want.’
‘For what?’
‘For letting me run a brothel in your nice, clean little town!’ Lily answered, her voice rising higher. ‘That’s for what!’
All Lily’s grown life had been spent in and around brothels, first as one of the girls and then becoming a madam. In town after town she had paid out her bribe money to stay open and in business; although the name given to her contributions differed from town to town. Some folks called it ‘campaign funds’, others used the term ‘civic charities’; but whatever name it went under Lily knew the money found its way into the pockets of the top-level civic dignitaries.
So all right, a madam grew to expect that kind of incidental expense and adjusted her profit margin to take it into consideration. But it shook even a hardened old hand at the madam business to enter a new town and be met with the demands at the railroad depot before she even bought her house and set up the business. Anger at the injustice of it all made Lily act rashly. Even if her words meant losing a chance of settling in Mulrooney, she aimed to tell those two hypocrites just what she thought of them and their town.
‘That’s what I said!’ she spat out. ‘I run a brothel. I’m not giving it any fancy names. Does that make you blush, d
earie?’
An icy calm dripped from Freddie’s voice as she said, ‘Wait outside, Dusty. There are a few things I want to say to Miss Gouch and I’d rather not embarrass you by saying them in your presence.’
While Dusty had considerable faith in Freddie’s ability to handle most situations, he thought she might be biting off a sizeable hunk more than she could chew this time. The madam was taller, heavier and, unless he missed his guess, knew a fair slew about rough-house brawling. Not that it figured to come to a brawl for he doubted if Freddie would do such a thing—Dusty had not heard of Freddie’s dash with Big Sarah. However, he did not argue but turned on his heel and left the office. Outside, a jerk of his head brought Big Sarah to him.
‘Need something, cap’n?’ she asked.
‘Maybe. Stand here for a spell. Freddie’s in there with Lily Gouch.’
‘Oh boy!’ Sarah grinned. ‘I hope Lily keeps a civil tongue in her head.’
‘Get set to go in if the furniture starts breaking,’ Dusty replied.
‘To help Lily? ’Cause the boss doesn’t need help. She’s a mite slow on the hair-yanking, but she packs a punch in both hands—I know.’
Dusty was still not convinced and at any moment expected to hear the sound of a brawl starting. Instead all the sound which emerged through the door appeared to be a rapid, low rumble in Freddie’s voice and which formed one of the finest flows of vituperation Dusty could remember hearing in years. A chuckle from his side told Dusty that Big Sarah could also hear Freddie’s words.
‘I didn’t reckon the boss knew half of them,’ Sarah remarked admiringly. ‘And I bet Lily Gouch didn’t expect ’em either.’
After Dusty left the office, Freddie faced the madam and looked her straight in the eye.
‘I suppose your mention of the brothel was supposed to make me blush, shriek and run from the room with my hands over my ears,’ Freddie said. ‘All right, pin back your ears and listen.’
With that Freddie proceeded to show off a knowledge of a certain section of the English language not usually associated with ladies of refinement and good breeding. She used the knowledge gained from stable-hands and grooms as a child in England and around British Army camps while visiting various relatives, improved on it with the inspired utterings of sailors and freighters, embellishing the whole with cowhand, buffalo hunter and railroad men’s curses and topped the whole boiling with a liberal helping devised by her own active imagination.
