by J. T. Edson
Turning after hitting Shanty, Red hurled himself off the sidewalk and landed on Lynn as the other charged into the attack. Wheezing a mite, Avon sat up and looked around, then started to rise. At the same moment a wild-eyed, cursing Clayd burst out of the saloon.
Going under Clayd’s flying fists, Dusty butted him in the belly. As the cowhand doubled over, Dusty straightened up and, by catching Clayd around the knees with his hands, pitched him over. Clayd landed on Avon as the other tried to reach the sidewalk and they went down in a cursing, yelling, tangled pile. Throwing a glance at Shanty, to make sure he would not be interfering for a while, Dusty saw the big man still sitting shaking his head and looking dazed. Satisfied there would be no danger from that source, Dusty swung around and stepped from the sidewalk. Rolling Clayd from him, Avon rose fast and came for Dusty in a way which showed he knew how to handle himself in a fight.
Already a growing crowd had gathered, the saloon’s occupants being augmented by everybody in town who could run, walk or hobble along. While the killing of Damon had provided a reasonable climax to the attempted auction of the Lazy M, San Garcia’s citizens had hoped for a more protracted fight. So they gathered fast, forming around the fighters in a figure which constantly altered shape as dictated by the movements of the struggling men. While trading punches with Avon, Dusty caught a glimpse of Betty standing in the forefront of the crowd on the porch. One glance at the expression on her face was all the small Texan needed to know that he and Red would hear more of the matter at a later date.
A pair of arms clamped around Dusty from behind, one circling his neck and the other around his waist without holding his arms. Clearly Clayd had recovered enough to rejoin the proceedings and must be dealt with as fast as possible. Throwing back his head, Dusty cracked the base of his skull hard into Clayd’s nose but did not effect a release. Taking his chance, Avon ripped a punch to Dusty’s face. Fully occupied with Lynn in giving the crowd as good a fight as San Garcia ever witnessed, Red could not help his cousin. Not that Dusty waited for help. Up drove his foot, catching Avon in the belly and sending him staggering backwards. Then Dusty caught hold of the arm around his throat, dropped to one knee and flipped Clayd over his shoulder.
Even as Dusty rose, he saw Red coming his way, propelled backwards by a punch from Lynn. Bringing his hands up, Dusty halted Red’s retreat and thrust him forward. Lynn had been following up on his punch and the sudden reversal of direction took him by surprise; he walked full into Red’s fist and reeled under its impact. Catching his balance, he halted Red’s rush with a jab to the mouth and took a hook in his ribs which brought a gasp of pain.
As Dusty started to leap over Clayd’s body to get at Avon, he felt the young cowhand catch his left ankle and heave. Landing on his hands to break his fall, Dusty lashed backwards with his free leg and his boot caught Clayd’s already bleeding, throbbing nose, to cause an immediate release of the captured ankle. Seeing his chance, Avon sprang forward and kicked Dusty in the ribs. Pain knifed through the small Texan as he pitched over to land on his back. Following Dusty, Avon tried to drop and ram a knee into his chest. Although Dusty just managed to avoid the crushing impact of the knee, it struck him a glancing blow and slid off him. Before he could make a move, Avon knelt at his side and gripped his throat in both hands. Raising Dusty’s head, Avon tried to smash it against the ground. To the side Clayd rose. Wiping a hand across his face, the youngster stared at the blood on it, let out a snarl and lurched towards Avon and Dusty.
Unnoticed by Dusty, Shanty had made his feet and pushed through the crowd to halt behind Betty. At the same moment Betty let out an angry hiss and started to go to her cousin’s aid. Seeing that, Shanty decided to prevent her from doing so. A grin twisted his bearded face as he hooked his right arm around Betty’s waist from behind.
‘You keep out out—!’ he began.
By which time Betty had been given a chance to decide on what course of action she should take. Gripping the big right hand in her right with its thumb in the centre of the hairy back and fingers on his palm, she hacked back at his shin with her left boot’s heel. While Betty did not wear her spurs, the kick packed enough force to make Shanty relax his crushing pressure. Twisting herself around and away from the man, Betty carried his right hand upwards and the way she held it caused his whole arm to turn so the back of his hand faced the ground. Now Betty stood slightly to Shanty’s rear. Swiftly she brought her left hand on to his elbow and forced down on it. Along with the continued twisting of his arm and the general unexpected nature of Betty’s actions, the movement caused his feet to leave the sidewalk and he flew over, off the edge and lit down hard on the street.
Dusty saw his danger and acted fast. Drawing up his left leg, he crashed his knee full into the side of Avon’s chest. As a grunt of agony burst from the man, Dusty shot up his right arm. He used the nukite, piercing hand, thrust, stabbing his extended fingers viciously into Avon’s throat. Instantly the hands about his neck loosened and Avon tumbled over backwards. Ignoring Avon for a moment, Dusty rolled on to his left side in time to meet Clayd’s attack. Running in, the cowhand drove a kick towards Dusty. Crossing his wrists, Dusty held them so they blocked the kick before it reached him. Then he caught hold of Clayd’s leg and pulled him forward. Up snapped Dusty’s right leg, the toe of his boot catching Clayd on the inside of the thigh just below the groin. Pain and the twisting heave Dusty gave to the trapped leg sent Clayd tumbling to the ground.
A revolver came from the crowd, holding close to Clayd’s side. Staring in rage, he reached for it. Gun in hand, he sat up and glared at where Dusty rose to deal with Avon. Cocking the gun, Clayd lined it at Dusty’s back.
Chapter Twelve
‘Drop it, Luke!’
At the sound of his boss’s voice, Clayd started to look around. Dusty heard the shout and turned. Springing forward, he lashed his boot at Clayd’s gun hand, the toe catching it hard and sending the revolver spinning away from its grasp. After yelling his order, Mobstell vaulted the hitching rail and shoved the staggering Avon aside as he tried to reach Dusty. Catching hold of Clayd’s shirt collar, Dusty heaved the youngster erect and smashed a punch across to the side of his jaw. Clayd went down as if he had been pole-axed, and a moment later Lynn sprawled on top of him to lie without moving.
Hearing a footstep approaching, Dusty turned ready to continue his defense. He recognized Mobstell and pointed to the revolver lying in the street.
‘Your boys said no guns, mister,’ he said.
‘What in hell started this?’ demanded the rancher.
‘Your boys wanted a fight, and got one.’
‘Four against two?’
Shaking his head and limping slightly, Red joined his cousin. After sucking in a deep breath, the redhead said, ‘Shucks, everybody wanted to get into the fun.’
‘Only I thought we were dealing with square-shooters,’ Dusty stated.
‘And?’ growled Mobstell.
‘That gun there proves some different,’ Dusty told him. ‘We left ours behind the bar.’
Walking forward, Mobstell picked up the revolver and looked at it. Then he returned, a puzzled expression on his face, and held the gun, butt first, to Dusty.
‘Luke uses a Remington,’ the rancher said. ‘All the rest of us tote Army Colts.’
Studying the gun, Dusty first noticed its five-shot cylinder. True it looked like a Navy Colt, but that gun carried six, not five bullets. So Dusty took in the other details: five and a half inch barrel, brass cone front sight, silver-plated back strap, walnut grips shellacked to a glossy finish, semi-fluted and rebated cylinder. Even without reading the words ‘Metropolitan Arms Co., New York’ engraved on the barrel, he identified the gun as one of that company’s Navy Pocket model revolvers; imitations of and in competition to the Navy Colt.
‘Where’d this come from then?’ asked Dusty.
‘Somebody in the crowd threw it,’ Mobstell answered. ‘From on the porch—’
Both he an
d Dusty swung towards the porch and found that the marshal, showing a remarkable burst of enthusiasm for his work, had already started to move the crowd off about their business. So effective had he been that people milled and moved on the sidewalk in a manner which prevented Mobstell indicating who stood in the area from which the gun came.
Suddenly Betty realized that a newly-married woman ought to be showing far more concern for her husband’s welfare than she had so far. Jumping off the porch, she ran to Red’s side.
‘Are you hurt, honey?’ she gasped. ‘Land-sakes, your face is bleeding.’
‘I’ll do,’ Red replied.
‘Oh no you won’t,’ she told him. ‘You’re coming down to the stable now and we’re going home.’
‘It’d be best,’ Dusty put in. ‘I’ll stay on here for a spell.’
‘And m—’ began Red.
‘You will not!’ Betty snapped. ‘You’re coming with me.’
Red allowed himself to be led off by Betty. Watching them go, Mobstell scratched his head.
‘How in Sam Hill did a lil gal like that toss Shanty over her head?’ he demanded. ‘Which same, I’ll fix his wagon but good when I get him to the ranch, laying hands on her like he done.’
‘We’re a talented family,’ Dusty smiled. ‘And I reckon you’ll find Cousin Sarah wouldn’t want him treated mean on her account. Right now though, I want to know more about that gun.’
‘I can’t see anybody not wearing one,’ Mobstell said, scanning the crowd. ‘Not that that means anything, way they’re moving about. You had enough?’
The last was directed at Avon who walked slowly forward. Rubbing his jaw, the cowhand nodded his head.
‘I’m surely satisfied,’ he answered, holding his right hand towards Dusty. ‘Friend, you’ve sure got an elegant way with you. Say, who did that to you, Shanty?’
‘Ain’t sure whether there was six or seven of ’em,’ the bearded hand replied. ‘Let’s help the sleeping beauties rise.’
‘Don’t ask me to kiss either of them awake,’ warned Dusty.
At that moment Stevie came up carrying a bottle of whisky. ‘For the victors, with the boss’s compliments,’ she announced.
‘Thanks,’ Dusty answered, drawing the cork. ‘I need it. These boys can sure fight.’
After taking a drink, Dusty passed the bottle to Avon, who wiped the blood from his face and helped himself to a generous drink. Then the cowhand went to assist Shanty with their companions. Lifting Lynn and Clayd to their feet, the other two steered their wobbly legs towards the horse trough outside the blacksmith’s shop. While the dazed pair ducked their heads under the water, Avon and Shanty returned to their boss.
‘Here, walk down the livery barn and give these to Sandy McGraw,’ Mobstell ordered Shanty, holding out Red’s hat and gunbelt brought from the bar at Stevie’s orders.
‘M-me?’ gulped the bearded cowhand.
‘You,’ confirmed his boss with a dry grin. ‘And if you come flying through the window, I’ll know you ain’t learned to keep your hands to yourself yet.’
‘Sure, boss,’ Shanty muttered, reluctantly accepting the items. Slowly he turned and ambled off, with more than one backwards glance as if in the hope that Mobstell might suffer a change of heart.
‘I’ve seen him bust head down and guns bellowing into a bunch of maybe twenty-thirty Kaddo bucks and not think twice about it,’ marveled Mobstell. ‘Say, just how in hell did that pretty lil lady toss him over her head?’
‘I could tell you better over a drink,’ Dusty replied, thrusting the Metropolitan revolver into his waistband.
‘We all could do with a drink,’ Stevie enthused, taking Dusty and Mobstell by the arms. ‘You owe me one from earlier, too, Cal.’
With that she steered the men into the saloon and towards the bar.
At one pound ten ounces weight and ten and five eighths inches overall length, the Metropolitan was a pound lighter and three and three eighths inches shorter than the 1860 Army Colt. So it rode light in Dusty’s waistband and struck him as being worthy of the name Navy Pocket revolver. The Navy part referred to its .36 barrel, that having become accepted as the ideal caliber for use by sailors.
Being intent on studying Mobstell, Dusty gave no thought to the significance of the Metropolitan’s characteristics. He wanted to discover what kind of man the rancher might be. The fact had not escaped Dusty that Mobstell might have told his hands to pick a fight if the opportunity arose. Nor did he overlook the possibility that Mobstell had thrown the revolver and shouted too early, meaning to give the order just as Clayd squeezed the trigger. True Mobstell’s Colt still hung in its holster, but a man could easily conceal the Metropolitan; it had been designed with that in mind.
Again something happened to take Dusty’s thoughts from the revolver. Collecting his property from the bar, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Apart from a bruise on his cheek, he had come out of the fight unmarked, but his clothes, face and hair bore a liberal coating of the plaza’s dust.
‘I could use a chance to clean up,’ he remarked.
‘Why not come across to my place and do it?’ asked Stevie, darting a quick glance around her.
‘Do you live here in the saloon?’
‘No, Ed. We have a small house out back, all the girls room there. Come on over and tidy up if you like.’
Even as she spoke, the girl darted another almost nervous glance around the room and halted it for a moment at the door marked ‘Private’ which Dusty assumed led into Towcester’s office. It almost seemed that the girl did not want her boss to see her make the offer.
‘Go ahead, Ed,’ offered Mobstell. ‘Me ’n’ the boys’ll have that drink with you when you come back.’
Knowing cowhands, it would probably be more than one drink, Dusty guessed. So he decided to take the girl’s offer, giving Mobstell’s bunch time to drink enough for somebody to become loose-tongued. Not even Lynn raised objections as Dusty walked from the room with Stevie on his arm. An admiring grin creased Lynn’s face, for nobody had previously managed to get so far with the girl.
‘How in hell did I ever think he was small?’ Lynn demanded.
‘He sure don’t fight small,’ Avon grunted, touching his jaw with a wince of pain. ‘Boss, he hits near on as hard as you do.’
‘Let’s tip a glass to him then,’ offered Mobstell, pouring out drinks. ‘Yes sir, there is one mighty tough big man—’
Lying some fifty yards behind the saloon, the small house proved to be clean, comfortable—and deserted. Stevie unlocked the front door and led Dusty to her quarters, a suite of three rooms with elegant furnishings. On entering the sitting-room section of her suite, the girl closed the door. Then she turned and faced Dusty, looking him over with calculating interest.
‘You’re strong,’ she said.
‘I figure it’s best to be,’ Dusty answered, putting his hat and gunbelt on the table.
The next moment Stevie stood close to him, arms around his neck and mouth reaching hungrily for his. Pure instinct caused Dusty to wrap his arms about the girl’s waist as she kissed him passionately. As his grip tightened, Stevie gave a gasp of pain and tried to pull away.
‘Did I hurt you?’ Dusty asked as the girl took a pace to the rear.
‘N-no,’ she replied, but he guessed that she lied. ‘I just wondered what kind of a cheap lobby-lizzy you’d think I was, throwing myself at you like that. Only I just couldn’t stop—’
‘You’ve got dust on your face,’ Dusty told her as the words trailed off.
With a little gasp, Stevie flew to the dressing table in the next room and stared into the mirror. While removing the smudge of dust, she studied Dusty’s reflection and watched as he walked towards her with his gunbelt in his hand.
‘The washroom’s through there,’ she said, indicating a curtained-off alcove. ‘You can take your shirt off, I won’t peek.’
Which proved to be another lie. Even with the curtains closed, a sufficiently large
gap remained for her to watch Dusty remove his shirt and begin to wash. Stripped to the waist, Dusty’s muscular development became fully apparent. Stevie took in the width of his shoulders, the bulk of his biceps and powerful forearms, with the strong-fingered hands, realizing how he came to defeat two larger, heavier men. Then her eyes strayed to the gunbelt and its matched Army Colts. Never had she seen such speed as when Dusty drew and shot down the hired killer.
Dusty managed to remove the dust at Stevie’s wash-stand and rejoined the girl in the sitting-room after drawing on his shirt again. Holding a clothes-brush, Stevie walked to meet him.
‘Let me help you with the places you can’t reach,’ she said.
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed, buckling on his gunbelt and allowing the girl to whisk at his back with the brush.
While submitting to Stevie’s ministrations, Dusty wondered at her interest in him. From the look of her rooms, she stood high in her employer’s favor and would hardly be likely to throw away such luxury for a casual flirtation. Of course everybody loved a winner, except possibly the losers, and a man who displayed considerable talent could expect the fair sex to take an interest in him. Dusty might have accepted Stevie’s actions as normal, but under the prevailing conditions he felt there might be some deeper motive behind her invitation. Anyway, as Mark Counter would have said, finding out should be fun.
Suddenly the room’s door burst open and Towcester lunged through it. Dusty heard Stevie’s low gasp of fright as he whirled and his left side Colt flicked into his right hand, lining on the door. Towcester slammed to a halt, his right hand freezing just as it was about to enter the left side of his jacket. For a moment an almost bestial rage twisted the saloonkeeper’s face; then it went, to be replaced by his usual expression of polite courtesy.
‘I heard a noise in here,’ he said, speaking slowly as if feeling out his words. ‘Not knowing you’d left the barroom, Stevie, I thought it might be somebody who’d broken in to steal something.’