by J. T. Edson
The first two men out of the saloon were a greater contrast than Dusty and Mark. One was a tall, slim, handsome man wearing the dress of a frontier gambler. His gray cutaway coat was well tailored and his frilly bosomed shirt white. His tight-legged, white trousers were tucked neatly into shining boots; around his waist was a black gunbelt, a brace of matched, pearl-handled Colt Peacemakers thrust into the holsters.
The other man was small, fat and cherubic-looking. His face was smooth, pink and looked as if it never felt the touch of a razor. A frank, open face, which would make people like it. His chubby figure was encased in a sober black suit, his white shirt plain and the bow tie knotted carefully. Dusty Fog looked at the small man with more attention than he might warrant. With eyes long used to searching, Dusty looked for some signs of hidden weapons: a wrist holstered Derringer, shoulder-clipped revolver or even a short-barreled revolver in a coat pocket.
“What happened here?” asked the small man, his voice mild and high pitched.
A man who had been watching everything from along the street answered. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Mr. Rangoon. That hombre there,” he indicated Smith’s body, “started it. Went for his gun before either of these two made a move. The tall gent got him before he even cleared leather.”
“That doesn’t even answer my question. I asked what caused the shooting,” replied Rangoon, looking at Dusty and Mark.
“They stole our pard’s horse,” Mark explained, eager to be on his way and discover what had happened to the Kid.
An angry rumble of sound came from the crowd at the words. Every man, be he cowhand, nester or townsman, agreed on how to treat a horse thief. In a country where a horse was the sole means of transport and to be left afoot meant almost certain death there was only one thing to do with a thief: kill him and do it fast.
“How do you know it is your friend’s horse?”
Mark growled deep in his throat, sudden anger rising. The Ysabel Kid might be laying out on the range, badly wounded and needing their help; this was no time to delay in looking for him. There was an edge to Mark’s usually even drawl which would have warned a man who knew him.
“Did you ever see a cowhand who didn’t know his pard’s horse when he saw it?”
“We can all make mistakes, young man,” replied Rangoon, trying to look severe; though his face did not lend itself to severity. “I have four white horses in my ranch remuda, but I could not say if this is one of them or not.”
“Hold hard now, Mr. Rangoon," a grizzled old cowhand put in. “I don’t hold with that. I ain’t seed your remuda but a couple of times, but I’d stake my thirty years’ gatherings I’d tell this white from your’n or any other. I’d bet there ain’t three whites as good as this’n through the West.”
Dusty was still watching Rangoon, wondering what the man’s motives were. He might try to look, talk and act like the greenest Arbuckle ever to come West, but some instinct warned Dusty the small man was far from the dude he appeared. It might be civic pride and duty which made him act in this manner, or there could be some more serious motive to it.
“I’ll give you that I don’t know much about horses, Turk,” said Rangoon, turning to the cowhand with a benevolent smile. “But this is a peaceful town. We’ve never had a killing here. If we let one go unchecked well have the town blowing wide open. I would like these two young gentlemen to stay for an investigation.”
Dusty’s elbow rammed hard into Mark’s side, stopping the heated words before they began. Mark was getting set to throw Rangoon through the window of the saloon and that would not help their position. Keeping his voice even and trying to hide the anxiety he felt, Dusty answered:
“Mister, our pard might be laying out there bad hurt, we’re going to find him—and we’re going right now.”
“But ...!” began Rangoon.
“There’s no buts about it,” growled Mark, before Dusty could say another word. “We’re not staying here whittle-whanging while Lon dies.”
“Watch your mouth, cow nurse!” the gambler growled. “If Mr. Rangoon says you stop—stop you do.”
Dusty looked at the gun which came into the gambler’s hand, then at Mark. His voice was still even as he said, “Mister, we’re going to look for our pard. When we find him well come back.”
“Hold it!” The gambler’s voice rose a shade. “I’ve got the drop on you.”
“And right behind you,” answered Dusty, “is a man with the drop—on you.”
“Yeah?” scoffed the gambler, amused at the thought of any man trying such an ancient trick on him.
“Yeah!”
The voice came from behind the gambler; a cold, drawling sardonic voice he knew well. The speaker was a tall, slender man with a savage, wolf-cautious look about him. His dark, tanned face was at odds with the gambler’s dress he wore, speaking more of long hours riding under the sun, than sitting at a poker table. The gunbelt around his waist showed the same excellent workmanship as Dusty’s and Mark’s. A pearl-handled Colt Civilian Peacemaker was butt forward in the holster at his right side, mate to the gun he held in his right hand.
“What’s the game, Wes?” asked the gambler, not lowering his gun.
“You owe me a hundred dollars, Banjo. I wouldn’t want to be collecting it off your body. This here’s Dusty Fog and Mark Counter.”
Once more talk welled in the crowd, for all the men knew those two names as well as they knew the identity of the man who spoke them. Most of the crowd were looking at Dusty, trying to reconcile his reputation with his appearance: that was how Dusty struck people when he first met them. Rangoon was looking him over with undisguised interest, although the gambler, Banjo Edwards, was inclined to scoff at the idea. Then Edwards realized that Wes Hardin was in deadly earnest and put his gun back into leather: that was policy when dealing with a man like John Wesley Hardin.
“What happened, Cousin Dusty?” asked Hardin, giving his gun a casual, spinning flip which ended with the Colt in leather.
“These two brought Lon’s horse in. Allowed they took it from him.”
Hardin growled a curse. The Kid was an old and trusted friend. “Get on and look for him, Cousin Dusty.”
Dusty was about to go when he saw the expression on the faces of some of the crowd. He was grateful for his cousin’s help but it did present a problem. Hardin was known as a real fast gun, a killer; the thought of him helping Dusty and Mark was making people suspicious, Dusty knew he could not leave Hardin holding down the crowd at gunpoint. Wes Hardin could do it, there was no doubt about that, but he might have to kill someone. Dusty did not want that, his cousin was not wanted for anything in New Mexico and Dusty did not wish it to change. There was one sure way of proving he knew the big white stallion.
“Tell you what we’ll do, mister,” said Dusty, looking at Rangoon. “One of you go lay a hand on the horse.”
Rangoon shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a hand with horses. I’d best let Banjo do it.”
Banjo Edwards stepped from the porch and walked towards the horse, hand reaching out. Thunder snorted, then reared up on his hind legs, hooves slashing down at the man. Edwards jerked backwards out of range and the horse lunged for him, only halted by the rope around its neck. One of the onlookers laughed.
“That’s one hoss you can’t handle, Banjo.”
Dusty waited until Edwards was back out of the way, then stepped from the sidewalk, walking towards the big horse. “Easy now, Thunder hoss. Easy, old hoss.”
The big white snorted again, watching Dusty with the angry eye-rolling which it showed every living person but the Kid. He went forward, never hesitating, speaking all the time. He knew the slightest indecision would bring the big stallion lunging. At best, Thunder tolerated Dusty and the other members of the floating outfit; only the Ysabel Kid could handle the white with impunity. For an instant Dusty expected trouble, then the ears pricked and he knew he was safe; Thunder recognized him. Dusty slipped the rope from the white�
�s neck, then reached for the rifle in the saddle boot.
“There’s a plate on the butt of this Winchester. It reads, ‘Presented to Loncey Dalton Ysabel. First Prize. Rifle Shoot, Cochise County Fair’.”
With that Dusty drew the rifle from the boot, offering it butt first to Rangoon. The Winchester was one of the magnificent “One of a Thousand” model 73’s, the barrel chased and engraved, the woodwork finest black walnut. There was a tarnished silver plate set in the butt and Rangoon read the inscription. The small saloon-keeper nodded in agreement. There was no need for this proof, the horse had supplied enough.
“I’m sorry about this, Captain Fog,” he said, raising his voice so all the crowd could hear him. “Of course, a gentleman like yourself realizes how careful one must be. You know how easy a town can get a reputation for being wide open.”
“I know,” answered Dusty as he slid the rifle back into the saddle boot. “We’d best get moving.”
“Certainly. You’ve showed commendable self-control. You must be anxious to go and look for your friend. Banjo, I’d like to see you inside.”
With that Rangoon turned and walked back into the saloon. Banjo Edwards stood for a moment but Wes Hardin spoke: “Sure, Banjo—so would I.”
It was an order, not a request. Hardin was making sure that the gambler neither followed nor attempted to stop Dusty and Mark. Edwards had got away with it once, he would not do so a second time. If he tried, either Dusty or Mark would kill him. Banjo Edwards might think he was fast with a gun but Wes Hardin knew either Dusty or Mark could take him. Wes Hardin was fast, many claimed him to be the most deadly and efficient killer of all; but he knew there was one man who could draw against him—and walk away. That one man was Dusty Fog. Hardin was one of the men who knew how fast Mark was; faster than Banjo Edwards would ever be. Hardin also knew that while the town approved of, and would stand for, the killing of a couple of horse-thieves it would not accept the killing of a local man; particularly if the man worked for the popular owner of the Banking House saloon.
Dusty Fog and Mark Counter did not wait to see what was happening, they turned to head for the livery-barn and their horses. Blinky Howard saw them returning and cursed himself for a slow-witted fool. He should have guessed who they were from the start. He had been a witness to most all that happened along the street and had made a fair guess at the cause of the shooting. Turning on his heel he went back into the barn and waited. Dusty and Mark came in, the big cowhand leading the white horse.
“How much do we owe you, friend?” Dusty asked.
“Settle with me when you come back, Cap’n,” replied Blinky.
“All right, we’ll leave our bedrolls here until we get back.” Dusty and Mark worked fast, saddling their horses. Blinky stood by and let them get on. Finally he spoke. “Don’t take no offence at Mr. Rangoon, Cap’n. He’s a real nice lil feller—just not used to our ways. He don’t mean no harm.” Blinky paused as if trying to make a decision. “I’m a man who minds his own business Cap’n Fog. Allus have been. So I ain’t saying a thing about them being a couple of hired guns who’ve been hanging about in town here for a few weeks now. And I ain’t saying nothing about seeing them and six more riding out. Headed along the Gunn River towards the nesters.”
Dusty inclined his head. “Thanks for telling us.”
“I never told you nothing, Cap’n,” corrected Blinky. “I minds my own business, like I told you. Hope the Kid’s all right.”
“So do we,” Dusty replied as he swung afork his paint. “Turn Thunder loose, Mark.”
The big white stallion stood snorting for a moment, then set off from the livery-barn, headed in the direction it had been brought to town. The two men rode out after it, watching all the time. Thunder was moving definitely, not just running blind. Dusty turned in his saddle and looked back towards the Banking House saloon. Men were carrying bodies towards the undertaker’s establishment. Dusty never took killing lightly, or liked doing it, even though he had been compelled to do so since he was fifteen. This time he felt less badly. The men were hired killers and must have cut the Kid down without a chance of his fighting back. All too well Dusty knew the Comanche-wild way the Kid could fight; those two could not have taken his horse while he was alive.
Something was worrying Dusty. The two gunmen might, or might not, have known who the Kid was. They would take his horse along, for a fine animal like the white would command a fair price. They should have kept the horse out of sight for a time for such a fine-looking animal would attract attention. The men would not head for the first town, or should not have done so. Then Dusty recalled how the two men had reacted when challenged; one stood and fought while the other tried to run away. Dusty puzzled this out, trying to keep his thoughts from the Ysabel Kid. There was not much of a chance that the Kid was still alive but Dusty knew he must go and see. If more than the two men were involved in the shooting, Dusty and every other member of the floating outfit would never rest until they were caught and killed.
The big white horse was sticking to a trail, following it with decision. The trail was nothing more than the scars left by the wheels of wagons and ran parallel to the Gunn River. About a mile from town the range changed into farming country: the occasional small house or brush encircled, cultivated land the small areas of growing crops protected from the range cattle. This was the first time Dusty and Mark had traversed the Gunn River country and they did not know the lay of the land, or the situation. They could see the nesters were there to stay but not in any great number; nor in a way which would affect the free range grazing of the ranches.
A small, rickety buggy came toward them, driven by a thin, work worn woman; a tired-looking man by her side. The man looked up, saw the two cowhands coming towards him and reached down to lift an old Ballard rifle from the floor of the buggy. His eyes were cold and unfriendly as he watched them approach, following the big white horse. The two young men did not even glance at the buggy as they rode by, their only concern was to find their friend. The man turned as they passed him and watched them. Dusty and Mark did not look back, to do so was an insult, implying the person could not be trusted.
Further on, Dusty and Mark got another inkling of the situation in Gunn River County. An old man was working on a strip of land, following a big old mule as it dragged the plough. The man reached down and took up a muzzle loading rifle when he saw them approaching, standing with it held across his body. He did not relax until they had gone by. At any other time this would have interested Dusty and Mark; given them something to talk about. Now they were too busy with their own thoughts.
The chances of their finding the Kid alive were not great, yet neither could believe he was dead. He was their friend, but more than that; he was like a brother to them. It did not seem possible that he could be dead; would no longer ride the range and share their fun. They were thinking of the good times they had shared. Now they were going to look for his body.
They came over a rim and brought their horses to a halt, looking down at a small, neat house, then at the broken gate in the picket fence and the dead horse which lay outside. A buggy, with a patient horse in the shafts, stood by the dead horse but there was no sign of people. The white was going faster now; this must be the place where the Kid was shot, although they saw no sign of his body as they headed down the slope and brought their horses to a halt by the buggy.
A rifle barrel emerged through the window of the house, lining and cracking: the bullet slashing the air between Dusty and Mark. They reacted with speed: both were used to such things happening. They left the saddles and took cover behind the buggy, guns in hand. Dusty started to move when a second bullet hit the side of the buggy and a scared female voice yelled:
“Keep away, you murderers! Don’t you come here!”
“Murderers?” Dusty spat the word out. “Lon’s in there, Mark. I’m going ...”
Mark caught Dusty’s arm and hauled him down by sheer strength. “Easy, that gal’s so scared she
might hit you by mistake.” He indicated the hoof-churned ground. “This’s where it happened, looks like there was a bunch of them. I wonder how they got Lon mixed in with it?”
“Lon’s dead,” Dusty answered, hardly hearing a word his friend said.
Mark nodded, not wanting to speak about it. The girl in the house must know how it happened, but she would not let them get near enough. He shoved his gun back into leather and growled:
“That’s a Springfield she’s using. She can’t get both of us.”
“Sure,” agreed Dusty, knowing what his friend meant to do. “Let’s go!”
In the house Lindy Mahon stood by the window, resting the heavy rifle on the sill and rubbing her shoulder where the recoil slammed the steel butt plate against it. She had seen the white returning and the two riders following it. They were not part of the bunch which had attacked the house, but they were after Loncey’s horse. With that in mind Lindy went into action without a word to her mother. She grabbed the rifle from the wall, dug out a box of bullets and started to shoot.
“What is it, dear?”
Lindy turned and found her mother standing behind her, face pale and worried. “Two men after Loncey. I’ve …”
What she saw stopped the girl from saying any more.
Dusty and Mark erupted from either end of the buggy, vaulting the picket fence and sprinting across the garden; separate, and swerving as they ran. High-heeled cowhand boots were not the best footwear for running but the two cowhands made good time. They had to confuse Lindy so she did not know which target to take first. They did just that.
Lindy’s rifle swayed to and fro, first at Mark, then at Dusty. The girl could not make up her mind what to do and both men were coming closer all the time. Her finger tightened on the trigger and sent the bullet kicking up dirt between the young men. Desperately she jerked open the breech, it was stiff and she used all her strength. The extractor tore the head off the cartridge, a common and deadly defect with the Springfield; dangerous because it left the remainder of the cartridge case firmly fixed in the breech and rendered the rifle inoperative. Lindy stared down, not sure what to do. The two men were at the side of the house now, flattened on either side of the door.