by J. T. Edson
“Why’d you say Lon was dead?” inquired Dusty, turning to Lindy when her mother had finished speaking.
“I didn’t know you were his friends and wanted to keep you out of the house. So I called you murderers to make you think you’d killed him. It wasn’t such a good idea, was it?”
“It was a smart idea,” growled Mark. “You near on scared Dusty out of three years’ growth.”
“You said there were eight of them, ma’am,” Dusty put in, bringing the conversation back to the shooting. “Lon got two, wounded another. We saw another two in town, leaves three more of them.”
“Them two in town,” interrupted Hollister, “they both dead?”
“Man’d say that’s how they finished,” Mark agreed. “They tried to kill Dusty and me. What should we’ve done, stood by and called their shots for them?”
“One thing’s for sure, though,” Dusty put in, before Hollister could make a reply. “One of them knew who we were, or at least, guessed.”
Hollister was wondering who the small man was and why he should think anyone would know him. “How’d you know that?”
“The way he acted. The other man stood and fought and he wasn’t better than fair with a gun. The one I downed, turned and ran for it. But when he came round shooting he showed he was better than fair. Yet he ran instead of fighting. I reckon he guessed who we are.”
“Which same’s more than I do.”
“This’s Mark Counter, I’m Dusty Fog. The man in the bedroom’s the Ysabel Kid. I reckon the gunman in town knew it. That was why he tried to run without fighting.” That figured to Hollister. Most any man would run if he knew he was faced with a shoot-out against Dusty Fog and Mark Counter. Far more so when the man was in possession of their friend’s horse and thought that he had killed the Ysabel Kid.
“You say one of them was hurt, ma’am,” remarked Mark, turning to Mrs. Mahon and receiving a nod in reply. He spoke to Bohasker. “I’d take it kind if you’d let me know when somebody comes in with a bad leg wound, Doc.”
“Hold hard there!” Hollister said as he realized what Mark meant. “I want the men who did this.”
“So do we.” Dusty’s words were soft and gentle; but there was nothing soft or gentle about the set of his jaw.
“Not in my county. Four killings in one day. That’s not going to happen again.”
“Meaning?” Dusty asked.
“I’m not having any more trouble in my county.”
“Mister,” Dusty’s voice was still low and menacing, “with trouble, it’s people who don’t want it who mostly get it. Like these folk here they didn’t want none but it came to them. Or would have, happen Lon hadn’t been here. Comes to that he didn’t want it either, but he got it. Eight lots of it. There’s three more lots riding the range now. Likely they’ll be back to finish what they started here and ole Lon’s in no shape to handle them. Sure you have them—if you get them afore we do.”
Hollister brought his chair legs crashing down to the floor and rose to his feet. “You can’t take the law into your own hands. You’ve both held badges and know that.”
“The law doesn’t come into it, one way or another,” snapped Dusty, letting the Springfield rifle slide to the floor and watching the sheriff. No longer did he look small, somehow he appeared to tower over every man in the room. “Lon’s closer than any brother to us. He’s stuck by us through anything we ever tied into and never worried about breaking the law. Now he’s been cut down by a bunch of hired guns and we’re not going to stand by until you get up off your tired butt-end and see what the hell’s going on in your county.” Hollister and Dusty stood face to face, eyes locking in a struggle for mastery. Hollister was no Earp-style trail-end bully or hired fast gun, but a brave, honest and straightforward lawman who had made a few so-called hard cases back water. This time he knew he was faced with a man who was no blustering imitation. There was no bluff about Dusty Fog; he was supremely confident in his skill and his ability to handle any eventuality.
The situation was getting out of hand. Hollister was not the sort of man who could back down and hunt his hole. Neither was Dusty Fog. Lindy watched the two men, then moved forward, coming between them. For the first time her mother realized that Lindy was a grown woman.
“Stop it! Stop it! Both of you! The way you’re acting would be better suited to a couple of saloon loafers than grown, responsible men. You’ve both the same idea in mind and want to get the men who attacked us.”
Suddenly Dusty tilted his head back and let laughter burst from him. The transformation was amazing. He was once more the small and insignificant cowhand. The tension left him as he moved back a pace, his face flushed and red as he realized what he was doing. Dusty recalled the many times he had told his hot-tempered cousin, Red Blaze, not to act without thinking and to quit letting his temper run away with him. Now Dusty himself was doing just that. He was allowing his emotions to run away with his judgment. He grinned, if Cousin Red got to hear about it, Dusty was going to be rode unmercifully.
“I’m sorry, sheriff,” said Dusty with a smile. “Reckon we were both sort of set to go off half cocked. Sure Mark and I’ll be looking for the men who downed Lon. You couldn’t expect us not to. If we can we’ll bring them in alive.”
“That’s fair enough with me, Cap’n Fog. Reckon we both started to paw and bellow for nothing.” Hollister replied. “I reckon having Wes Hardin in town’s got me all shook up.”
“Why?” asked Mark, grinning at the worried look on the sheriff’s face.
“I don’t know. All he’s done so far is play poker—but he might be fixing to rob the bank.”
Dusty laughed. “I don’t know who’s been telling you about Cousin Wes, but one thing he never does is rob banks.” Hollister stared at Dusty. “Cousin Wes?”
“Nor trains, or stagecoaches comes to that,” Dusty went on without bothering about the sheriff’s interruption. “Nor even people, unless it’s with a mean deck of cards. All Wes’s wanted for is shooting a nigra. ’Course, I know that’s about as bad a thing as a man can do—even if the nigra was twice as big as Wes, mad drunk and coming in with a razor ready to use. That’s what Wes Hardin’s wanted for. They called it Reconstruction, but what it meant anyplace south of the Mason-Dixie line was if he’s black he’s right.”
The Mahons and Hollister were not Confederate sympathizers but they knew something of the horror called Reconstruction in the south. It was a terrible period, fortunately now over, when the Union Army occupied the Southern States and protected the freedom maddened negroes. John Wesley Hardin shot down a huge, drunken negro who was trying to kill him with a razor and since that day was a hunted, wanted man, force to kill time after time to save his life. iii “So he’s kin of your’n?” said Hollister, for he had never connected Ole Devil Hardin with the deadly Texas killer. He could foresee trouble ahead for the men who had shot down the Ysabel Kid. Dusty’s next words proved it.
“Sure—and a real good friend of the Kid. Cousin Wes’ll likely be on the look-see for the men who downed Lon. You want, I’ll tell him to bring them in on the hoof.”
“How’d he find them?” Hollister asked worriedly, seeing his peaceful county faced with a dangerous upheaval in the near future.
“Man can learn a whole lot just sat in a poker game. Like I said, I’ll pass Wes the word I want the men alive. That way we might just get them like it.” Dusty’s voice showed that if Hardin found the men first, there was not much hope of their being brought in any way but feet first. “We’ll be staying on in town until Lon’s back on his feet. I hope you don’t mind if we drift in and see him regular, ma’am.”
“Feel free,” replied Mrs. Mahon. “I’m sorry for the way we all acted when you rode up.”
“Shucks, ma’am, you’ll be having us think you meant it next,” Dusty replied and took up the Springfield rifle. “I’ll fix this for you, then we’ll head for town and send Uncle Devil a telegraph message, that we’ll be delayed. He wouldn’
t want us to go back until Lon’s on his feet. When’ll he be ready to make some talk, Doc?”
“Not before tomorrow morning at the earliest and I don’t want him disturbed much even then.”
Mark finished cleaning the old Dragoon gun. Reaching across the table he picked up the powder flask and prepared to load the weapon. The powder flask had a measure fitted to the top that regulated the flow of powder and gave the correct forty-grain charge without the trouble of weighing. Mark tilted the flask over the top of the first empty chamber and pressed the lever, allowing the charge to flow in. Then he took up a round lead ball and placed it on top of the charge, turned the chamber under the rammer, worked the lever and thrust the ball home.
“Got me some combustible cartridges in my saddle pouch,” Hollister remarked, watching Mark reach for the powder flask again. “I can let you have some if the Kid’s out.”
“No thanks. Ole Lon likes to pour her in raw and stick a round lead ball on top, then ram home. He allows that for man or bear there isn’t a made cartridge and shaped bullet to touch that load.”
Dusty, knife in hand, looked up from where he was carefully working the torn case from the breech of the Springfield. “Times are I agree with him.”
The case emerged and Dusty laid the rifle on the hooks again, looking at it with disgust. Then his attention went to the Pettingill Navy revolver which Lindy had put back in the holster.
“Are these the only weapons you own?”
“Yes, Cap’n,” Mahon apologized. “We never needed anything better and they were all we could afford at the time.”
“They good enough for you?” Dusty inquired.
“We’ve never needed weapons before,” Mahon pointed out.
“Man, you’ve got a whole lot of faith in Apaches. Was I you I’d get a repeater and a cartridge Colt. Had Mark and I been Apaches coming across that garden it’d have gone bad for your ladies.”
“Cap’n Fog’s right, Thad,” Hollister went on. “If you can afford them I’d get a couple of decent guns. We’ve never had trouble with the Apaches, since they went on the reservation, but you know what Juan Jose’s like. Give him but one good chance and a few rifles and he’ll be off the reservation looking for war.”
Mahon knew the truth of this. The chief of the reservation Apaches would be willing to dig up the hatchet and go to war. In that case the Mahon house would be poorly defended. It might never happen, but if it did, there would be no time to run for town and buy new weapons.
“We need the guns all right,” he conceded. “Lindy, you go in and buy them.”
Dusty drew the Pettingill, examining it. There was none of the wonderful, hand-fitting feel of the Colt about it. The Pettingill would be awkward to use, hard to keep in order and difficult to point by instinct. Then he was aware that this was not one of the .44 caliber Pettingill Army revolvers he had seen, but a .36 Navy model.
“I’ll give you ten dollars for this gun. Uncle Devil collects firearms and doesn’t own a Pettingill Navy. Reckon we owe him something for staying away from work, waiting for Lon to recover.”
“That’s good of you, Captain,” Mahon replied, seeing there was no charity meant in the offer. The money would be useful, going towards paying for a second-hand cartridge revolver.
“Shucks, I’ll take it out of Lon’s pay when we get back home.”
Lindy looked delighted at a chance to go into town. Mahon realized for the first time how lonely it must be for the girl here on the farm. It was only on a rare trip into town she could meet up with people of her own age. The trip would do her good.
Mrs. Mahon was not so sure. “Do you think you can get to town and back today, dear?”
“You can spend the night with us if you can’t, Lindy,” Hollister put in. “My gal was saying she hadn’t seen you for a piece now.”
“We’ll ride in with you,” said Dusty. “I can telegraph Uncle Devil, fix up a room at the hotel and we’ll bring you back in the morning. I’m wanting to hear what Lon says about the men who shot him.”
Five – Bushwhack Lead
Military Avenue looked much the same as when Dusty and Mark rode out, except that the crowd was gone and the town lay under the heat of the sun at just gone noon. A spirited little black mare stood hipshot in front of Culver's General Store. A fine-looking little animal, probably some cowhand’s go-to-town horse, Dusty thought as he tied his paint next to it. It was not a remuda horse for no mares were allowed in the remuda, but could be the sort of mount a cowhand would choose to come to town on, dainty and pretty enough to satisfy his demand for such things.
Lindy looked surprised to find herself in town so soon. The ride in went by without her knowing it. Mark drove the buggy for her, his big bloodbay stallion fastened to the rear. The sheriff and Bohasker left them at the edge of town and now they were at the store. She almost felt sorry that the ride was over for none of her friends had seen her with the handsome Texans by her side. There was a smile on her face as she looked at the little black mare.
Mark climbed down from the buggy and dropped the weighted rope which was fastened to the horse’s bridle. Then he went around and helped Lindy down, before going to the rear, fastening his horse to the hitching rail and joining the others on the porch.
The inside of the store presented the usual mixture of goods that any small town establishment showed. The shelves, counters and boxes were filled with a wide variety of goods, almost anything a family would need for a home on the range. The stock ranged from needles to farming gear, from clothes to cooking utensils. The firearms were on a rack and in a glass-topped case at one side of the room, a fairly representative selection for the day, ranging from a couple of new Remington Creedmore rifles to an old muzzle-loading flintlock.
There were only two people in the store, a scrawny man behind the counter and a small, very pretty girl on the customers’ side. The girl turned and her face lit up in a warm, friendly smile as she saw Lindy. For her part, Lindy was obviously just as pleased to see the girl, her delighted face showing they were old friends. This was further proved by the way they greeted each other.
“Hey shorty!” Lindy greeted.
“Hey fatty,” smiled the other girl, her teeth contrasting with the tan of her face. “I was wondering if you’d show in town today—So was Brother Tad.”
The girl looked pointedly at Dusty and Mark, seeing they were with Lindy. She knew Lindy’s father was a nester and the two men were no sod-busters. They were cowboys, both of them and top hands at that or she had never seen one. They were looking back at her with the same interest. She was small, petite and very pretty, her dark hair cut almost boyishly short and very curly. Her clothing was ranch style, the shirt a violent tartan which jarred the eye, her skirt divided for easy riding and hanging just to the tops of her high-heeled cowhand boots. A low-crowned Stetson hat lay on the counter by her hand.
“Before you swell up and burst with impatience,” Lindy spoke mockingly. “I’d better present my friends. This is Mark Counter and Dusty Fog—Boys, this is Mary Simmonds; she’s color blind, which accounts for her wearing a shirt like that!”
“Hey now, easy there, fatty,” answered Mary, not showing any offence at the words. “I wouldn’t want to tell the boys about the time you and Annie Hollister got drunk on applejack.”
“I just bet you wouldn’t,” agreed Lindy, “seeing as how you was just as drunk as we were.”
Mary Simmonds shook hands with the two young Texans. She did not know if she should believe they were Mark Counter and Dusty Fog. The cowhand was an inveterate joker and the two might be joshing Lindy, pretending they were two famous Texans. Then Mary remembered what she had heard on her arrival in town, looked down at Dusty’s butt forward guns and knew the truth. Mary was born and raised on a cattle spread and could have told Lindy things about the two Texas men. She recalled the cause of the shooting in town.
“Did you find out what happened to the Kid?”
“Sure!” Mark agreed. “
He’ll live, thanks to Miss Lindy and her mother.”
“Lindy and her mother,” gasped Mary, swinging round to face her friend. “How did you get mixed in with the Ysabel Kid?”
Lindy did not get a chance to reply for the man behind the counter had finished checking through a list on a sheet of paper and looked up. “Got it all, Mary. I’ll have it ready for your cook. When’ll he be here?”
“Tomorrow morning, Pappy, Tad and our foreman are coming in this afternoon. Should be along any time now,” Mary replied. “Say, Lindy, how about seeing the rest of the girls and stirring up a dance? We can take Dusty and Mark along.”
“I’d like that,” said Lindy delightedly, then her face fell. “Perhaps Dusty and Mark want to get back and see how Loncey is getting on.”
“Shucks no,” answered Mark. “Ole Lon won’t be able to talk today and he’s an obliging cuss. Wouldn’t want us to miss a dance.”
The girls exchanged glances. An impromptu dance at the livery barn would not be hard to organize and the other members of Escopeta’s younger set would want to meet the two famous Texans. It wouldn’t do Lindy or Mary one little bit of harm, specially to be seen as friends of Dusty Fog and Mark Counter. It might even make Mary’s brother, Tad, just a little bit jealous, Lindy thought, which wouldn’t be a bad thing at all. Then Lindy remembered why she’d come to town.
“I’d like to buy a revolver and rifle, please, Charlie.”
“Take a look at them over there,” the scrawny man answered. “They’re all we hold in stock right now.”
Lindy crossed the room and looked into the glass-topped case where the revolvers lay. There were a couple of new Colt Peacemakers on one side of a partition, on the other side, a half dozen or so secondhand weapons. Lindy sighed, eighteen dollars was more than she could afford to pay for a new revolver. She opened the lid of the case but hesitated. The secondhand weapons were where she must look but she did not want to buy a dud which would need a lot of repairs. Her eyes went to a pearl-handled Colt Artillery Peacemaker; it appeared to be the best gun of all in the secondhand section.