by J. T. Edson
“Let’s go get that drink, Danny,” Tommy suggested. “Come on, Mousey, gal.”
Taking Mousey’s arm, Tommy escorted her into the saloon and Danny followed. Inside he studied the place with interest. For a small cow town, the Cattle Queen sure looked mighty elegant. There were tables and chairs around a dance space for use of the customers; chuck-a-luck, faro and blackjack layouts, the usual wheel-of-fortune stood against one wall. A long, fancy bar with a big mirror behind it offered a good selection of drinks and was presided over by a tall, burly man with side-whiskers and bay-rum slicked hair. The bartender nodded to the new arrivals as they came to the bar and laid aside the glass he had been polishing.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Beer for me ’n’ Mousey,” answered Tommy. “How’s about you, Danny?”
“Same’ll do for me, amigo,” Danny replied.
“What’s all the fuss outside?” the bartender inquired as he poured the three beers with deft hands.
“We just brought in Sammy Howe, Pike Evans and Gooch,” Tommy explained.
“Whooee!” ejaculated the bartender. “What happened?”
“How the hell would I know?” snapped Tommy, the tensions of the day putting an edge into his voice.
A dull red flushed into the bartender’s cheeks at the words and his hand went under the counter toward his favorite bung-starter; a most handy tool with dealing with cowhands who forgot their menial position in life.
“I thought Gooch maybe——” he began.
“Thinking’s bad for a man,” Danny put in quietly. “Especially when you’re talking to a feller who’s just lost two good friends.”
Slowly the bartender turned his eyes to Danny’s face. Something in the young man’s level, gray-eyed stare caused the bartender to remove his hand from the bung-starter. Having a well-developed judgment of human nature, the bartender knew when to sit back and yell “calf rope,” so he backed water. While he might get by bullying a youngster like Tommy, the bartender reckoned he had best not try any of his games with that tall, blond newcomer.
Then a feeling of relief came to the bartender as he watched the women stream back into his room. At the rear of the group walked Ella Watson and the fancy-dressed hardcase who found Danny so interesting outside. With backing like that, the bardog allowed he might be able to chill the blond Texan’s milk. However, he remembered that his boss did not go for rough stuff in the rooms, especially at so early an hour and when dealing with cold-sober and unoffending men.
“Feller seems tolerable took by you, Danny,” Tommy remarked, nodding to the mirror’s reflection. “Ain’t hardly took his eyes off you since you come near him.”
“It’s not often they get a feller as handsome as me around,” answered Danny, taking up his drink in his right hand. “Who is he?”
“Name of Ed Wren. They do say he’s real fast with his gun. He works here as boss dealer.”
The name did more than ring a bell for Danny, it started a whole danged set of chimes going. In fact, Danny knew more than a little about the gunhand called Ed Wren. Among other things, he knew where the man picked up that bullet scar across the side of his head. A couple of years back Wren had hired out to prevent trail hands taking on to help drive the Rocking H herd to market. Trouble being that the Rocking H’s owner was kin to the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan and so Dusty Fog rode to his kinsman’s aid. Dusty had been the first man Wren tried to forcibly dissuade. That white streak across the side of Wren’s skull told the attempt had not been successful.*
Not for a moment did Danny believe Wren had forgotten the incident. Which could account for the gunman’s interest in him on his arrival. Although taller than his elder brother, Danny’s facial resemblance had always been fairly marked. Even now Wren must be trying to decide if this be coincidence or if Danny was either the man who shot him, or kin of the man. Either way, Danny found he had a further piece of trouble he must watch for.
Although Ella Watson did not come to the bar, but stood talking with Wren and casting interested glances at Danny, the other girls swarmed forward, eager to hear the news. Tommy looked them over, apparently seeking for one particular face and not finding it.
“Where’s Dora?” he asked. “I’ve something to tell her.”
“She’s upstairs, taking a bath,” replied a buxom, tough-looking brunette. “Was that young Sammy you brought in?”
“Yeah,” Tommy replied.
“What happened?” put in another girl excitedly. “Who shot him?”
Before Tommy could answer, the batwing doors swung open and a tall young man swaggered into the room. Danny studied the newcomer in the bar mirror, not liking what he saw even though the other wore a deputy sheriff’s badge. Unless the deputy possessed money of his own, he dressed a whole heap too well and fancy for a junior peace officer in a moderate-sized Texas county and not a rich county at that. From hat to boots, the deputy wore the rig of a cow-country dandy. If the truculent assurance on his sullenly handsome face, the cocky air about him, and the low hanging brace of ivory-handled 1860 Army Colts be anything to go on, he reckoned himself to have something extra special in his presence.
Crossing the room, the deputy halted behind the two cowhands and jerked his thumb contemptuously over his shoulder toward the door. A hard expression, or what he fondly imagined to be hard, came to his face as he snapped out an order.
“All right, cownurse. Un—The Sheriff wants you at his office pronto!”
Normally Danny would have obeyed a member of the county law and reserved his comments on the other’s impolite mode of address until away from the view of the local citizens, so as not to weaken the other’s authority and standing in the community; but for once he did not. Aside from his dislike for the manner in which the deputy spoke, Danny had a part to play in Caspar County. He saw a good chance presented for him to establish his character before the woman who might possibly be behind the cow stealing in the county.
“I’ve not finished my drink yet,” he answered without turning.
Hearing the sniggers of the watching girls, the deputy scowled. He longed to have the kind of reputation which inspired fear, if not respect, in the hearts of all who saw him. So, wishing to grandstand before the girls, he made a mistake. Shooting out his left hand, he caught Danny by the arm and dropped his right hand to the butt of the off-side Colt.
While training as a deputy under his father, Danny was taught never to lay hands on or threaten a man and that he must only place his hand on the butt of his gun when the situation warranted drawing and using the weapon. To Danny’s way of thinking other law-enforcement officers should respect the same rule. He did not like the slit-eyed manner in which the deputy studied him, and pegged him as being the kind of hawg-mean show-off who would gun down an unsuspecting man just to be able to claim he had made a kill.
So Danny did not aim to give the deputy a chance. Pivoting around, Danny threw the hand from his sleeve and tossed the remainder of his drink full into the deputy’s face. Caught unawares, the deputy took a hurried step to the rear, entangled his spurs and sat down hard on the floor. Although partially winded, the laughter of the watching girls drove the deputy to worse folly.
“Why, you——!” he began and clawed at the right-side Colt once more.
Instantly Danny drew his off-side gun and threw down on the deputy, his thumb cocking back the hammer and forefinger depressing the trigger as the Colt’s seven-and-a-half inch barrel slanted down into line on the deputy’s body. At the same moment Danny saw Ed Wren move. Give him due, the gunman had speed. The fancy Remington licked out of his sash in around three-quarters of a second—which explained how he came to fail against Dusty who could cut a good quarter of a second off that time. However, Wren could handle a gun faster than Danny and the young Ranger admitted the fact without shame.
“Drop it, cownurse!” Wren ordered.
“Don’t see how you can down me without I get to put lead into the deputy at the same time,
hombre,” Danny answered, making no move to obey the man’s order.
Which statement was true enough. Even a head shot could not save the deputy from taking lead; in fact, one would ensure he did get a bullet in him. Danny held his Colt with the hammer drawn back and trigger depressed. No matter where the lead hit, should Wren shoot, the impact would cause Danny’s thumb to release the hammer. From then on the gun’s mechanical processes would automatically take over, firing the charge in the uppermost chamber of the cylinder and expelling a bullet through the barrel which lined on the deputy’s favorite stomach.
Rank fear etched itself on the deputy’s face as he remembered that Wren showed considerable interest in becoming a member of the sheriff’s staff on his arrival in town. However, Uncle Farley hired only one deputy and could not take on another, even one of Wren’s standing. The gunhand now had a remarkably good chance of creating a vacancy in the sheriff’s office by shooting the newcomer.
“Just hold everything!” snapped Ella Watson, stepping forward but keeping out of line of fire. “Ed put up your gun right now.” Not until Wren obeyed her order did she turn her eyes to Danny and continue, “And you, cowboy, if you know what’s good for you. I know Clyde there acted a mite hot-headed and foolish, but he is the sheriff’s nephew.”
From the woman’s tone, Danny could not decide if she gave warning that the sheriff bore strong family ties and would strenuously object to his nephew going home with a .44 caliber hole in his stomach; or that she merely figured any relation of the sheriff could not help acting foolishly. However, Danny reckoned he had made his point and could rely on the woman to prevent any further need of his Colt. Wren had already returned his gun to the sash, so Danny lowered the Colt’s hammer on to a safety notch between two of the cylinder’s cap-nipples and spun the gun into its holster. Instantly the deputy let out a snarl and reached toward his off-side Colt. Ella Watson stepped between Danny and the deputy, standing squarely in front of the young Ranger and glaring down at the deputy.
“Now that’s enough, Clyde. You asked for what you got and if you want to take in the cowhand under arrest, I’ll send for Dean Soskice to act for him.”
Just who the hell Dean Soskice might be Danny did not know; but the name appeared to have a mighty steadying effect on the deputy. With a menacing scowl, the deputy took his hand from his gun and rose to his feet. Once again he jerked his thumb toward the door.
“You’re still wanted down at the jail,” he said.
“Why sure,” Danny replied. “I’ll come right now. My drink’s gone now, anyways.”
“I’ll come with you, Danny,” grinned Tommy, eyeing his new acquaintance with frank admiration. “The boss said for both of us to go along. See you after we’ve done, honey.”
“I’ll be here,” Mousey promised.
“After you, deputy,” drawled Danny as they reached the door. “I was raised all polite and proper.”
Still scowling, but with none of the cocky swagger which marked his entrance, the deputy preceded the others from the saloon. Ella Watson watched them go and returned to the gunhand’s side.
“Well?” she asked.
“Naw. It’s not him. That kid’s not better than fair with a gun and Dusty Fog’s a whole heap faster. Still he looks a whole heap like Fog, except that he’s some smaller and not so hefty built.”
Watching the gunhand reach up and finger the bullet-scar, Ella Watson felt relieved. A man did not soon forget the feller who marked him in such a manner and licked him to the draw—Ella discounted Wren’s story that Dusty Fog shot him from behind—and it came as a relief to know the newcomer was not the Rio Hondo gun wizard.
“I hope that fool Simmonds handles things better than his nephew did,” she said. “I’d like to know more about that cowhand. If he’s safe, he’s just what we want, brash, looks like he needs money—and not too good with a gun.”
Clyde Bucksteed did not speak to Danny and Tommy as they walked toward the sheriff’s office, nor did he follow them as would a deputy taking in a couple of suspects. Instead he walked before them, conscious that most of the folks who saw the procession knew where he should be if bringing the two in and not merely running a message for his uncle. Already the bodies had been taken from the street, but a few folks hung around in the hope of fresh developments, enough to make sure the story of Clyde’s failure to control the cowhands be broadcast around the town.
“Who-all’s this Dean Soskice?” Danny asked of Tommy.
“A law wrangler. Not a bad jasper though. Talks real fancy and gets us boys out of trouble should we take on too wild and rowdy comes pay day. He sure has old Farley Simmonds buffaloed. Wouldn’t be surprised if Dean’s not in there right now.”
Knowing the cowhands’ usual contempt for law wranglers, Danny looked forward to meeting this Dean Soskice who buffaloed the county sheriff. On entering the sheriff’s office, Danny found his wish granted. Not only was the sheriff-buffaloing law wrangler present, but Danny also found himself face to face with the remainder of the Caspar County law.
Simmonds proved to be a florid-featured, sullen-looking man, run to fat and with an air of lassitude about him. For all that he dressed well and looked a whole heap more prosperous than he should. Unlike his range-dressed nephew, Simmonds wore town-style clothing and sported a gunbelt from which he must be able to draw the fancy-looking Prescott Navy revolver in no less than three seconds starting with a hand on its butt.
Although not one to judge by first appearances, Danny decided that he did not care for Caspar County’s law-enforcement officers. With Simmonds and his nephew running the sheriff’s office, Danny could well imagine that the county would be full of cow thieves. In fact, he felt considerably surprised that Caspar County did not serve as a haven for more types of outlaws. From what Danny could see, any help he might require locally would not come from the sheriff’s office and he doubted if the secret of his identity would remain a secret for long should he take either Simmonds or the deputy into his confidence.
From Simmonds, Danny turned his attention to the other two occupants of the room. Jerome sat by the sheriff’s desk, chewing on the end of a thick black cigar and looking mean as hell. The other man caught Danny’s main attention, being the lawyer who buffaloed sheriffs.
Even with the type of man Danny figured the sheriff to be, the young Ranger could hardly believe that he would allow Dean Soskice to bother him. Soskice proved to be a tall, slim young man with long, shaggy brown hair, a pallid, slightly surly face and an air of condescending superiority about him; dressed in an Eastern-style suit, shirt and necktie, none of which showed any signs of lavish attention having been spent on them. As far as Danny could see, Soskice did not wear a gun and in Texas at that period seeing an unarmed man was even rarer than finding one walking the street without his pants. Nothing about the lawyer told Danny how he managed to buffalo Sheriff Simmonds and Danny reckoned it might be worthwhile to try to find out the reason.
“You’re the young feller as found the bodies,” Simmonds stated in a ripe, woolly politician’s voice, then he turned his eyes to his nephew. “Say, Clyde, boy, how come you’re all wet?”
“He threw beer over me,” Clyde answered sullenly.
“Now why’d he do a thing like that?” asked the sheriff and swivelled his gaze back to Danny. “You hear me, boy. Why for’d you do that?”
“Feller caught me arm, pulled me around,” Danny answered. “Next dang thing I knowed, there he was with my beer all down his fancy shirt front.”
Low mutters left Clyde’s lips and Soskice moved forward. “If there’s a complaint being sworn out against you, cowboy, I’d advise you to tell the truth,” the lawyer said, his voice that of an educated Northerner.
“You got a complaint against the feller, Clyde?” the sheriff inquired. “I only telled you to fetch him down here for a talk.”
Anger and resentment smoldered in Clyde’s eyes as he studied the lawyer’s mocking face. However, Clyde recalled other occas
ions when he had tangled with Soskice on a legal matter and been sadly beaten in verbal exchanges. Soskice knew every aspect of the law as it pertained to working to the advantage of the one Clyde figured on arresting and used that knowledge to build a sizeable following among the cowhands, most of whom had a hefty antipathy toward the peace officers who often interfered with their fun.
“I got no complaint,” Clyde finally muttered, knowing Soskice would worm the cowhand out of trouble should he try to make a complaint stick. “The cowhand got me all wrong.”
“You’d best tell the sheriff your side of this business, Danny,” Jerome remarked. “I’ve told him the way I saw things and he wants to hear what you’ve got to say about it.”
Just in time Danny prevented himself from delivering the story like a lawman making his report. Instead he told what led up to his discovery of the bodies and left out his own conclusions on the affair.
“Just come on ’em, huh?” grunted Simmonds at last. “Where’d you come from and why’d you come here?”
“Come up from Austin last and happened by this way looking for work.”
“Been working in Austin?”
“Nope. Just wanted to see what the big city looked like.”
“Where’d you work last?” Clyde asked.
“That’s a good question,” drawled Simmonds. “Only let me ask ’em, Clyde.”
“Sure, Uncle Farley,” was the sullen reply.
“Boy’s a mite eager, but he’s got a good point,” the sheriff went on. “Where did you work last?”
“For the Tumbling D, that’s Joe Dudley’s place down to Ysaleta,” Danny answered, giving one of the places Murat named as references.
“And your name’s Danny Forgrave?”