by J. T. Edson
‘I’ll show them my deputy sheriff’s badge,’ Becque replied. ‘And if that doesn’t work, I’ll put my faith in Tenby’s scattergun.’
Behind the bar Towcester writhed in fury at the words, for he had planned to make his escape through the cellar after using the entrance close to him. He had also hoped that at least some of the men who drank his whisky earlier would return to his aid. Neither hope could now materialize. Clearly Stevie had told Dusty Fog everything about the saloon and so blocked off the last avenue of escape. Towcester did not doubt that Becque held the office of deputy sheriff, although the other had never made the fact known, and the men who backed Tenby earlier would not go against a peace officer.
That left Towcester with only one choice. To stay put and wait out the time until Robles’ men arrived. If sufficient hired guns came, they would overawe the town and rescue him.
A point which had not escaped Dusty’s attention. Nor did the small Texan underestimate the danger of trying to take Towcester in his present position. Remembering the bartender’s shotgun, Dusty put aside any thoughts of making a concerted appearance with Red at each end of the bar. He did not doubt that Towcester now held the wicked weapon ready for use. With its cut-down barrels, the shotgun would spray out its charge in a murderous manner. Anybody facing it at that range must be caught in its pattern of death.
Of course if Dusty and Red timed their moves correctly one of them would be certain to get Towcester; but the other was just as sure to be killed.
While waiting for Cactus to return with his rope, Dusty had questioned Stevie and learned all he could about Towcester. One aspect of the man’s nature struck Dusty while listening to the girl: Towcester’s obsession and pride of ownership. Anything Towcester possessed belonged to him alone and he protected it jealously. Once he ordered the girl to make herself attractive to Seth McGraw and beat her brutally because he felt she went too far. Then there was his attitude to anyone who tried to damage the saloon’s fittings, especially two items of them.
Remembering that, Dusty swung up his carbine and started to shoot. Firing as fast as he could work the lever, he sent bullet after bullet crashing into the chandelier. Glass shattered in a hideous jangle of sound as Towcester’s prize fitting disintegrated under the hail of lead. Although Dusty could not see Towcester, he guessed the man was able to watch the destruction reflected in the bar’s mirror.
Red watched Dusty and guessed what his cousin hoped to do. At the same time Red recalled that Dusty did not wear a gunbelt and must have few bullets left in the carbine’s twelve-shot magazine. Dropping to one knee, Red drew his left side Colt and sent it sliding across the floor in his cousin’s direction.
‘Dusty!’ he called and swung the Spencer to his shoulder.
Counting his shots automatically, Dusty knew that the carbine held only two more bullets. Yet Towcester still did not make an appearance. So Dusty changed his aim and fired twice at the bar mirror.
Snarling in fury, Towcester burst into sight at the end of the bar. Dusty dropped the empty carbine and dived towards Red’s revolver. Going over in a roll, he caught up the gun and landed on his back. Towcester’s shotgun boomed, its lead slashing the air. Something hot knifed into Dusty’s leg and he started to fan the Colt’s hammer. Three times he shot. Twice splinters flew from the bar, moving closer to Towcester. On the third shot the saloonkeeper jerked and the muzzle of his shotgun turned just far enough for its charge to miss Dusty as Towcester pressed the trigger. Mingled with the roar of the shotgun, Red’s Spencer barked. The top of Towcester’s head seemed to burst open and a grayish pulp sprayed into the air. Then he collapsed to the sawdust-spotted floor.
‘Did he get you, Dusty?’ Red asked, running to his cousin’s side.
‘One ball did in the leg,’ Dusty replied. ‘Make sure he’s finished.’
‘If he’s not,’ Red said dryly, looking at the hideous mess of Towcester’s head, ‘he’s the toughest cuss I’ve ever seen.’
Chapter Seventeen
While Doctor Paczek dug a .32 caliber buckshot ball from Dusty’s leg, Becque cleared him of the false accusation. Most people in town accepted the evidence of the two clean Colts produced from the Wells Fargo safe. Any lingering doubts departed on hearing that Paczek had extracted a Winchester Bullet from Corlin’s body and that Becque had found in Towcester’s office a rifle which had been fired.
A deputation of well-armed citizens greeted Robles’ hired guns at the edge of San Garcia and made it plain that their presence in town would be neither needed nor tolerated. Seeing the determined faces of the citizens, and realizing there would be no payment for fighting, the gun-hands turned their horses to ride back the way they came.
Two days later Sandy and Sarah McGraw arrived at their new home. After they had settled in, Dusty told them everything he knew.
‘I don’t reckon you’ll have any more trouble, Sandy,’ he finished, rubbing the injured leg. ‘We settled the man behind it all.’
‘Did he kill Uncle Seth?’ Sandy demanded.
‘That’s one thing we’ll never know for sure,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Maybe he did, or perhaps that illness saved him the trouble.’
‘He would have tried sooner or later,’ Betty went on.
‘How about that girl, Stevie?’ Sarah asked.
‘She’s selling the Golden Goose and going to Kansas,’ Dusty replied. ‘It’s only right and she’ll keep quiet about what Towcester was after. None of his hired help other than Tenby and Murphy knew about the mine and they can’t talk. Nor will Cactus, Frenchie Becque or any of us.’
‘What do you aim to do about it, Sandy?’ Red inquired. ‘We searched Towcester’s place and never found a hint about where the mine might be.’
For a moment Sandy did not reply, thinking of the range through which he rode to reach the ranch house.
‘I saw a silver-strike once,’ he said quietly. ‘Folks flocked in, tearing up the range, ruining it. And all the thieves, macs, lobby-lizzies and scum came swarming in like buzzards to a dead cow. Lordy lord. I’d sure hate to turn that loose up here.’
‘So?’ Dusty asked.
‘So as far as I’m concerned ole Jim Bowie’s lost mine can stay lost. Uncle Seth willed me this place as a ranch, not a mining camp.’
Thinking back to what he had also seen in areas following the discovery of precious metals, Dusty felt Sandy made the right decision. The small Texan looked at his cousins and read that they agreed. So Dusty rose to his feet. McGraw’s inheritance was safe. No longer did Sandy and Sarah need fear the unknown menace that threatened their lives. With his work in San Garcia done, Dusty wanted to start out and return to the OD Connected.
The Floating Outfit Series by J. T. Edson
The Ysabel Kid
.44 Caliber Man
A Horse Called Mogollon
Goodnight’s Dream
From Hide and Horn
Set Texas Back on Her Feet
The Hide and Tallow Men
Quiet Town
The Hooded Riders
Trail Boss
Wagons to Backsight
Troubled Range
Sidewinder
Rangeland Hercules
McGraw’s Inheritance
... And more to come every month!
About the Author
J.T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson's works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized "West That Never Was", at a pace that rarely slackens.
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More on J. T. EDSON
i Told in Wagons to Backsight
ii Made in The Fastest Gun in Texas
iii Told in The Wildcats.
iv Told in Trail Boss.
v For a description of a snake-fight read The Colt and the Sabre.
vi One example is given in Sidewinder
vii Told in Quiet Town
viii Claybank: a yellowish mixture of sorrel and dun.
ix One of the reasons the otherwise excellent Spencer repeaters failed was that their inventor designed them with the breech and lock mechanisms operating separately.)
x Knobhead: a mule.
xi Pelado: Used in such a manner, it means grave-robber.
xii Redjacks: Light, waterproof leather boots.