by J. T. Edson
Dusty did not get a chance to move, there was a gunman on each side of him. They grabbed his arms, one on either side, holding him. The man standing next to the two holding Dusty, drew his gun and covered the cowhands. Vance nodded and the other man moved in on Mark Counter. Mark acted fast, he backhanded Vance to one side with a swinging smash that almost lifted the dandy from his feet. The other man leapt in, full on to a left swing which spun him around. Mark followed him up with fast-shooting fists as Vance came to his feet once more.
Mary watched, her eyes frightened for she knew what sort of a man Vance was. The two men were going to cripple Mark between them, she was sure of that. Mary licked her lips, then was about to open her mouth to give an order. She knew the cowhands would obey her and jump in to help Mark, even in the face of the gun. Before she could say a word it was too late.
The two men holding Dusty did not expect much trouble from him. They were gripping his arms and were both bigger and stronger. If he tried to struggle they could handle him. Dusty did not struggle, he stood still and his relaxation threw the men off guard. That was what Dusty waited for. Down in the Rio Hondo country, working as valet, servant and odd job man for Ole Devil Hardin, was a small Oriental, thought to be Chinese but actually Japanese. This small, inoffensive man was well learned in certain Oriental fighting techniques which gave him a decided edge over much bigger men. Only to one man had Tommy Okasi taught his tricks. That man was the smallest male member of the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan. It gave Dusty Fog an advantage which more than offset his lack of inches.
Suddenly the passive Dusty began to move and took the men holding him by surprise. He hooked his right leg behind the man holding his right arm, then thrust back. The man gave a startled yell as he lost his balance. He released the small Texan’s arm and crashed down on to his back. Even as the man was falling Dusty struck again. His free arm shot up, over his shoulder as he moved in front of the second man. Gripping the man’s head, Dusty bent slightly and brought him flying over, landing hard on the ground.
Dusty was moving with the same speed which made him known as the fastest gun in Texas. The man covering the cowhands became aware that something was happening but did not take his eyes from the crowd. It was a bad mistake but one he did not get a chance to rectify. Dusty smashed the back of his right hand around, driving the second knuckle into the gunman’s face just under the nose. Dusty went for, and hit, his favorite spot when dealing with such an emergency. His knuckle smashed just under the middle of the nose, the philtrum, a collection of nerve centers. He hit hard and even taking the awkwardness of the uraken, the back-fist of karate, into consideration the result was spectacular. The gunman’s head snapped back as if a mule had kicked it. There was a brief look of concentrated and unbearable agony on the man’s face as he went down in a limp heap.
Vance and his other man had troubles of their own. They were tough, strong and rough, but Mark Counter was tougher, stronger, rougher and more skilled. Mark’s fists shot out, not wildly, but aimed with the skill of long practice. Vance caught a right which spun him round; the other man hit Mark, crashing a fist into the side of his head. Mark staggered and felt Vance catch his arms from the rear. He held Mark while the other gunman smashed a blow into the Texan’s face, rocking his head back. Mark brought up both feet and drove them out, the man caught them and reeled back. He snarled, drew his Colt and lunged forward jerking up the gun to slash Mark with the foresight. The man felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to discover who gave it.
Dusty was behind the gunman, the small Texan’s right fist coming up as the man turned. The big gunman was lifted on to his toes by the power of the punch, and reeled backwards with arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance.
Mark used all his strength, he twisted and heaved, and Vance lost his hold. Coming around in a tight turn Mark gripped the front of Vance’s shirt and pulled. Vance was thrown forward, just missing the man Dusty hit. Mark spun round, interlaced his fingers and smashed them behind the man’s neck, knocking him flat on to his face. Dusty caught the staggering Vance with a punch, the man looked as if he was trying to go two ways at once, his feet coming forward while his head and shoulders went backwards. His big body smashed to the ground.
“Dusty!” Mary screamed a warning.
Spinning round Dusty saw that the two men he had thrown were over their surprise and about to enter the game. They were sitting up with hands reaching hipwards in a manner which suggested only one thing. His hands crossed in a sight-defying flicker, the matched guns sliding clear of leather, blued barrels glinting dully as they fined.
“Just try it!”
The men sat still; both knew they had called the play wrong. Here was no dressed-up kid trying to appear tough. This was the real thing, one of the fast guns and more deadly dangerous than any they had even seen. They kept their hands clear of guns, for such speed was rarely attained without the corresponding ability to place the bullets where they would do the most good.
Vance rolled on to his face, moving slowly like he suddenly felt old and worn out. He forced himself on to his hands and knees. The young cowhand, Vance’s victim, was trying to get up. He looked dazedly at the big man, braced himself and with all his strength swung a punch. Vance was groggy and in no shape to handle a crippled midget right at the moment. He took the punch, it snapped his head to one side and he went down again. His big hands dug into the hoof-churned earth in a convulsive movement, then he went limp. The young cowhand had put all he had got in that one punch and fell forward across Vance.
There was a momentary silence, then one of the cowhands gave a whoop of delight and the others moved forward. Mary and Lindy stood staring at the three unconscious men, hardly able to believe their eyes. Neither girl could see how so small a man as Dusty could pack such a powerful punch. Mary knew of Dusty’s skill at cowhand work or with a gun but this was the first time she had ever known he could handle his fists.
Dusty walked forward and looked down at the two scared gunmen. “All right, on your feet, both of you.”
The men scrambled up fast. One of them licked his lips and said, “We was only funning, mister.”
“Why sure,” Dusty drawled and holstered his guns. “I like a good laugh.”
His right fist smashed into the jaw of one man, and in the same move lashed the fist backhanded into the other’s face. The men rocked under the impact but neither of them made a move to defend themselves or fight back. They knew Dusty and Mark could take them in any kind of fight and did not mean to carry the incident any further.
“Get some water from the well and douse those three,” said Mark, grinning. The big Texan knew he had been lucky in the fight. Vance and his pard were rough and hard but they were not skilled fighters. Vance’s reputation must have been gained the easy way, against smaller and less able men. Mark looked at the girl, “What would you want doing with them?”
“Get them off the spread,” snapped Mary, her face still hot and angry. “I’ll tell Mr. Rangoon about this. What started Vance picking on Tommy?”
“Ole Vance come in with the other four,” a delighted-looking cowhand explained. “Allowed we ought to head into town and take on some coffin-varnish, then go teach the nesters a lesson. Tommy wouldn’t have it, said we should oughta wait here for you. So Vance started into him. Say, friend, how the hell did you hit that feller there. I’ve never seed a man go down like he done.”
The last words were directed to Dusty. Mark Counter grinned, in all the time he had known Dusty, he never managed to work out how the deadly karate and ju jitsu tactics were done. All he knew was they worked and the result was mostly effective and very spectacular. The question remained unanswered for Dusty was busy herding the two gunmen along, getting water to douse the groaning victims of the fight.
Vance was first to recover, he sat up, cursing, as cold water drenched him. The man shook his head, then forced himself to his feet. For a moment he stood glaring at Dusty and Mark, then his hand went to hi
s side. One of the two men caught his wrist, stopping him drawing the gun.
“Don’t do it, Vance,” warned the man. “I recognize him now, he’s Dusty Fog.”
Vance’s hand came clear of his gun butt, his eyes going to Mary as he wiped the blood from his nostrils. “The boss ain’t going to like this. He sent me over to take on as foreman—”
“Mr. Rangoon said you’d take over if I couldn’t get a good man,” Mary corrected grimly. “I’ve got two. Mark Counter’s acting as my foreman until Hank’s on his feet again and Captain Fog’s riding for me.”
Talk welled up from the group of ten cowhands. They knew Vance to be a top hand but they also knew he was a bunkhouse bully. They did not relish the idea of Vance being foreman, even for a few weeks. None of them objected to the idea of Mark Counter taking on as segundo of the ranch, or of Dusty riding with them. It would be something to boast of, having ridden with the two Texans. There was no objection to Mary’s words.
Two of the hands helped Tommy to his feet and to the bunkhouse. Vance stood staring at Dusty, then at Mark, cursing himself for a fool. He had thought the two were just dressed-up kids and knew he had made a bad mistake. If he had noticed the true worth of the Texans he would have acted in a far different manner. He gripped the saddlehorn of the horse one of his men brought him, hooked a foot in the stirrup iron and swung into the saddle. The other two were now on their feet and also mounting their horses, hunched in the saddles and swaying. Vance’s eyes were filled with hate as he looked the two Texans over once more.
“I won’t be forgetting this,” he snarled.
“Get down and make another try, happen that’s how you feel,” challenged Mark but Vance did not take him up.
Turning his horse Vance rode off across the range, the other four men following him. Mary watched him go and did not speak until the five riders were just dots on the horizon. Her relief was evident for she knew that trouble was narrowly averted and her suspicions correct. Vance would have taken the Lazy S crew into town and stirred up a whole lot of trouble. It was surprising that a mild little man like Mr. Rangoon would hire a bully like Vance and toughs such as the other four. Then Mary thought of the other men at the Flying Fish, they were all of the same kind, not a really good cowhand amongst them. For the first time she was suspicious, then as Lindy spoke to her, shook off the suspicions. An inoffensive, mild little man like Rangoon could not have planned the terrible things which were happening in Gun River County.
“What now?” Lindy asked.
“We’ll get settled in at the hawg-pen,” answered Dusty. “Unless the segundo wants us out and working.”
Mark remembered times when Dusty took command, there was rarely any loafing around done then. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea at all. We’ll take a ride out and look the range over tomorrow. Didn’t see much of it as we came in. You’d best take one side and I’ll handle the other, Dusty.”
“Why sure,” agreed Dusty. “Who borders you, Mary?” The river on two sides. Blayne’s on the east and Flying Fish to the right.”
“You take the river and Blayne’s side, Mark,” Dusty suggested. “I’ll take the Flying Fish range.”
Mark watched Dusty. He knew his friend better than any other living man and he knew something was bothering him. Mark suddenly felt suspicious. That visit to the saloon was for more reason than just asking if they could come to the ranch. Then Mark had a flash of intuition. It was wild, unimaginable, almost beyond any belief; the small owner of the Banking House saloon could not be the one behind the trouble. It was then Mark recalled what Dusty had told the sheriff when Hollister mentioned Rangoon’s lack of inches. Dusty was a small man, no taller than Rangoon, yet he controlled and ordered men taller than himself. No, it was a foolish idea. There was only one Dusty Fog, he was a class of man on his own. When they made Dusty they threw the mould away.
“You going to stand there all day, Mark?” Dusty asked, cutting in on Mark’s thoughts. “Let’s get the gear into the bunkhouse.”
The following morning Mark and the young cowhand who had fought with Vance rode the range together. Mark picked Tommy out as the best of the crew, the one most likely to make a top hand. They rode together at an easy pace, making a careful check of everything they saw. Mark knew every facet of the business and knew a well-cared-for ranch when he saw one. The Lazy S crew might be young but they knew their work.
In the late afternoon Mark and Tommy rode towards one of the line cabins the two ranch crews maintained. These were small log huts on the ranch line, one-room buildings with a small corral out back and a lean-to. They were used by members of the ranch crew who were on the far ranges and did not wish to head back to the ranch at the end of a day’s work.
The line cabin they were making for lay in a wood. Tommy stopped his horse, looking ahead. Smoke rose from above the tree, a slender plume, not enough to give him any cause for alarm.
“Visitors, probably one of Colt’s hands.”
“Likely,” agreed Mark. “I reckon we’d best Injun up and take a look, what with the way things are.”
They left their horses tied out of sight and moved forward carefully. They reached the edge of the trees and flattened down out of sight of the cabin. Six horses were secured outside the buildings, three with saddles, the other three with blankets tossed over their backs.
“Apache hosses,” Tommy whispered. “What the hell are they doing here?”
“Them as waits mostly learns, boy,” replied Mark.
Time dragged by, the two men remained where they were. There could be some quite innocent reason for the party being at the line cabin but Mark was not willing to chance it. The way things were in Gunn River County a man did not want to take chances.
The door of the cabin opened and men came out. The first three were squat built, dark-skinned Apache braves. The three who followed them wore range clothes, although one of them was a dark-faced lank-haired man showing more than a little Apache blood. It was this man who was doing the talking, waving his hands in the direction of the range and the town. The three Apaches stood by and all began to talk at once, then stopped and allowed one of their number to carry on. The half-breed listened to what was said and made a reply, looking back at the two white men as if for corroboration.
At the distance they were separated from the house, Mark and Tommy could not hear a word which was being said. There was not a chance of their getting nearer and no use if they did, for neither spoke the Apache tongue. Tommy was looking at the two white men and began to move restlessly. The men wore cowhands’ clothes, one was a big, hulking shape, the other smaller, both wore their guns tied down.
“Don’t work for us or Colt Blayne, none of them,” growled Tommy and tensed ready to get up.
“Hold down, boy!” Mark hissed, gripping Tommy’s arm with fingers of steel. It was regarded as a serious crime for strangers to use a line cabin except as a place to stay overnight. If the men did not belong to either of the ranches which owned the cabin they should not be there. They most certainly should not be meeting and entertaining Apaches in the cabin.
Tommy was held down by Mark’s hand, and made no try to get up. He knew Mark was fully aware of the seriousness of the visit, he also knew it was not fear of a fight making Mark stay down. So Tommy lay by him waiting and watching.
The group at the cabin door was splitting up now, the Apaches mounting their horses and heading off in the direction of the reservation. The three men watched them ride off, then the big one nodded and the half breed mounted his horse.
“Headed for town from the looks of it,” Tommy whispered. “We letting him go, Mark?”
“Why sure. Back off and get the horses. We’ll ride up like we’d just come to the cabin,” Mark replied. “You keep mum and don’t let on what we’ve seen. Not until we get in close and find out what’s happening.”
Backing off, the two cowhands went to their horses and mounted. Tommy was bubbling with excitement and unasked questions, wondering what M
ark aimed to do. It was rare that this line cabin was used for the range here was not the best for cattle. The two men could have bunked down for any length of time without the danger of discovery.
The men turned as they heard horses approaching, the bigger one loosening his gun. For all that, he sounded amiable as the two rode towards him. “Howdy, you ride for the Lazy S?”
“Why sure, this’s our line cabin,” Mark replied. “Ours and Colt Blayne’s.”
“That’s right. We ride for Colt. Got us up here watching in case any of them pesky nesters try to move this way,” said the big man, waving his hand towards the other. “That’s Denver, I’m Grat.”
“Howdy,” Mark cut in before Tommy could speak. “I’m Sam, this’s Tommy.”
“Light down and take something, coffee’s on the boil. Which way’s you come?”
“Up from the south,” Mark replied. “We’re out looking for strays.”
“See anybody?”
“Not a living soul,” lied Mark. “Who’d be out this ways?” Mark and Tommy swung down from their saddles, left the horses tied to the crude hitching rail, and entered the small one-roomed cabin. The room showed signs of having been lived in for some time. The two bunks were untidy and the place needed some cleaning. Mark was less interested in the state of the building than in the rifle which lay on one of the bunks. It was long, heavy and unmistakably a Sharps. The Texan gave no sign of what he thought; the other men were, in the room now, Tommy looking around in some annoyance at the state of the place. Grat and Denver were at the door, watching every move Mark made.
Slowly Mark’s eyes dropped to a pile of clothing laying in the corner of the room. Something blue caught his eye and without thinking Mark stepped forward to pull it from the other clothes. It took him a split-second to know what he was holding; a pair of brand-new, dust-covered bib overalls.
“Mark!” Tommy yelled out a warning.