Austin Brant’s black brows drew together in a perplexed frown.
“Boss,” he said, “there’s something mighty funny about this business. To my mind it just doesn’t make sense. There’s plenty wrong with Cole Dawson, granted, but Cole Dawson wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back, nor an armed one, for that matter. He just isn’t made that way.”
“Maybe not,” grunted Webb, “but Cullen Brady sure got shot in the back. There’s a hole in his back and none in his front.”
Brant’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Which means the bullet is still in his body.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Webb admitted. “Of course it might have been an accident, somehow.”
“A mighty convenient accident, seems to me,” Brant replied grimly. “And the bullet’s still in him. Let’s go down and see Dawson.”
At the jail they were admitted to Dawson’s presence. They found Cole surly and defiant. Brant didn’t waste time consoling him.
“Dawson,” he said, “you and me don’t always see things eye to eye, but we’ll pass that up. I want you to tell me, did you shoot Brady?”
“Shoot him, hell!” Dawson exploded. “I didn’t even shoot in his direction. I shot two shots at somebody who was throwin’ lead at me from out of the dark across the street.”
“You didn’t see anybody over there?”
“No! I told you it was dark. I just saw the gun flashes.”
“They could have been holed up behind something, then.”
“Could have been. I sure didn’t see ’em.”
“Did you see anybody else shooting?”
“I didn’t see anybody, but I sure heard somebody,” Dawson replied. “Somebody up the street. That’s when I looked around and saw two fellers runnin’ around the corner, and Brady layin’ on his face. I tried to tell the marshal that, but he just laughed at me. Reckon the jury’ll do the same.”
“Most likely,” Brant agreed. “It does sound sort of loco. Now tell me one more thing. Were you packing your own gun last night?”
“I don’t ever pack no other,” Dawson growled. “And the marshal has it?”
“Reckon he has, he picked it up and stuck it in his pocket,” Dawson answered. “Why?”
“Nothing much, but if I get the break I’m hoping for, you can thank your lucky stars that there are mighty few Smiths, especially the Russian Model, around in this section. Come on, John, I want to see the coroner.”
They left behind a profane and bewildered Dawson.
The coroner turned out to be a white-whiskered old frontier doctor with a truculent eye. Brant introduced Webb and himself.
“Doctor,” Brant asked, “where is the bullet that killed Cullen Brady?”
“Inside him,” replied the doctor, jerking his head toward a sheeted form in the back room.
“I’d like for you to dig it out.”
The old doctor bristled. “What’s the sense in that?” he demanded. “There ain’t no need for an autopsy in this case. No doubt as to the cause of Brady’s death.”
“So I gather,” Brant nodded. “You’re certain, then, that Brady’s death was caused by the bullet now lodged in his body?”
“Of course I’m certain,” answered the doctor. “Why do you want me to remove that slug?”
“Because,” Brant said quietly, “by doing so you may save an innocent man from being hanged.”
The coroner stared, started to argue, then apparently changed his mind.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”
He got out his instruments and went to work, while Brant and Webb sat in the outer office and smoked. In a short time the doctor came out, wiping something with a cloth. He held forth a bid of lead.
“Here it is,” he said. “Not battered much, either. Went through the soft tissue of the heart and ended up in the big muscle that runs alongside the spine.”
Brant took the slug and turned it over in his fingers, his keen eyes narrowing as they concentrated on the object. He looked up to meet the coroner’s expectant gaze.
“Not hard to see, even with the naked eye,” he remarked. “But I suppose you’ve got a magnifying glass handy? Put the glass on it. I guess you know considerable about guns. Remember Dawson was packing a Smith & Wesson.”
The doctor procured his glass and peered through it at the bullet.
“See them?” Brant asked, revolving his finger in a spiral motion.
“By gosh son, you’re right!” exploded the coroner. “How in hell did you come to think of it?”
“It just sort of came to me,” Brant deprecated. “You see, what happened didn’t fit into the picture with Cole Dawson, that’s all. He’s ornery as hell in some ways, but he didn’t size up to this sort of thing.”
“Well, he can thank the Good Lord that somebody felt that way about him,” said the coroner. “You’ll be at the inquest, of course—two hours from now?”
“I will,” Brant promised. “Bring the slug along. And have Marshal Brooks bring Dawson’s gun. Keep quiet about this, Boss,” he cautioned Webb.
As the inquest got under way, things looked bad for Cole Dawson, and as it progressed they looked blacker. To all appearances it was an open-and-shut case. Marshal Brooks told how he found Dawson standing over Brady’s body, the smoking gun in his hand. The poker game row was cited in detail, as a motive for the killing. Impartial observers agreed that Dawson had been violently angry with Brady; that later he had stalked out of the saloon, his face working with rage, his hand on the butt of his gun. The shooting in the street was heard a few moments later. Nobody came forward who had seen the actual killing. It was plain the jury considered Dawson’s story fantastic. The faces of the jurymen were set like stone when Austin Brant arose and requested leave to address the jury. Doc McChesney, the coroner, readily granted the request. His expression betrayed a trace of sardonic amusement.
“Gentlemen,” Brant began informally, “I’ve a notion I’m safe in assuming that you all know considerable about guns.” He paused, expectant. There was a general nodding of heads.
“So,” Brant continued, “I’d like to ask you a question. How are Colt revolvers rifled?”
The jury looked surprised, then the foreman spoke up.
“They’re rifled with a left-hand twist and six grooves.” The others nodded agreement.
“And how about Smith & Wesson revolvers?” Brant asked.
There was a stir of excitement in the crowded courtroom. Some folks were beginning to get the drift.
“How about Smith & Wesson?” Brant repeated. Again the foreman spoke up.
“A Smith is rifled with a right-hand twist and five grooves.”
“All except one model, the Texan,” Brant corrected. He turned to the crowd, raising his voice.
“Anybody want to argue with what’s been said?” he asked.
There was a general shaking of heads.
“Okay,” said Brant. “And I guess everybody will admit that it’s easy to spot the riflings on a bullet that’s been fired, if it isn’t badly smashed up.”
Again there were only nods of agreement.
Brant turned to the coroner. “Doctor McChesney,” he said, “will you please produce the bullet that killed Cullen Brady, the bullet you removed from his body in the presence of myself and John Webb? Thank you. Please hand it to the jury foreman, and to make it easier for him, let him use your magnifying glass.”
The foreman accepted the bullet and the glass. The others crowded around him.
“Well?” Brant asked as the foreman looked up.
“Well,” said the foreman, “this slug waren’t never fired from a Smith & Wesson six, that’s for certain. “Looks to be a .44, but she came out of a Colt. The riflings show that, plain.”
“Exactly,” said Brant. “Now will Marshal Brooks please produce the gun he took off Cole Dawson, the gun Dawson was holding as he bent over Cullen Brady’s body? Thank you, Marshal. Please pass it to the jury.”
Cole Dawson’s old Sm
ith & Wesson was passed from hand to hand, to an accompaniment of mutters and wagging heads. The foreman turned to the coroner.
“Well, Doc, it looks like we came damn near to hangin’ the wrong man,” he said. “The Dawson feller never shot Brady with this hogleg. Guess he never shot Brady at all, ’less he had another gun and swallered it, which don’t sound reasonable.”
The jury didn’t even take the trouble to retire to consider a verdict. They sat around and smoked while the foreman laboriously wrote it out. When he finished, it read—
Cullen Brady came to his death at the hands of a party or parties unknown. We recommend that the marshal find out and run down the hellions as quickly as possible.
There followed a typical cow country rider—
And we further recommend that the town try to hire that smart young fellow, Austin Brant, to help him do it.
Cole Dawson was released at once. He evinced very little relief, only glowered at Austin Brant.
“Feller,” he said, “guess the right thing for me to do is say much obliged. Reckon I’ll have to. But I’m gettin’ deeper and deeper in your debt all the time, and I don’t like it.”
Old John Webb opened his mouth to speak his mind, then closed it again with nothing said. What the hell was the use!
But that night in the hotel lobby, with Norman Kane sitting beside them, he spoke very earnestly to Austin Brant.
“Remember what I told you?” he said. “That Dutch Harry bunch is snake-blooded and smart. They deliberately set out to frame poor Dawson for a hanging, and if it hadn’t been for you, they’d have gotten away with it. And they’ll hold that against you, too. Well, when they come looking for you, you won’t be here. I’ve got to get that money to Wes Morley in time for him to meet his bank note. So you’re headin’ south with the dinero, and it’s a hefty passel come early mornin’.”
Brant had his doubts about Wes Morley’s urgent need of money, but he couldn’t very well argue with the Boss. He could see that Webb was anxious to get him away from Dodge City as quickly as possible. The Morley matter made a good excuse.
“I got my powders,” he replied. “Be ready to ride come daylight.”
“Good!” Webb nodded. He turned to Norman Kane. “Those hellions won’t forget you had a hand in the business, too, Kane,” he remarked. “Better watch your step.”
“Don’t figger to be here long anyhow,” Kane returned easily. “Got important business to attend to in Oklahoma. Well, I’m headed for bed. Buenos Noches.”
“Feller uses a heap of Spanish for an Okie,” Webb remarked as Kane left the lobby.
“Don’t rec’lect him saying he was from Oklahoma—just said he owned a spread there,” Brant pointed out.
“That’s right, he could be from down along the border,” Webb agreed.
Brant was up by daylight to prepare for his long ride back to the Texas Panhandle. Before leaving the hotel, he thought of saying goodbye to Norman Kane, if the latter was out of bed. He stopped at the desk to inquire.
“Mr. Kane checked out shortly after midnight,” he clerk replied, after consulting the register.
“Checked out! Didn’t say where he was going?”
“Evidently not,” the clerk replied. “There is no notation.”
Brant nodded and left the hotel. “Decided to stick closer to his men, after the rukus last night, chances are,” he reasoned.
Shortly afterward, Smoke’s irons were clicking on the boards of the toll bridge. With no bad luck, Brant hoped to cover the nearly seventy miles to Doran’s Crossing by dark. He knew Smoke was good for the distance, travelling at a fast pace. The trail was not bad and few difficulties of terrain offered between Dodge City and the Cimarron. He would spend the night at the Crossing, ford the river the following morning and then cover the three hundred odd miles to the Running W at a more leisurely pace. But with the thousands Webb had received for the cows carefully tucked away in inside pockets, he desired to put distance between him and the Cowboy Capital as quickly as possible. Somebody might very well have guessed the reason for his abrupt departure from Dodge. He was not particularly uneasy, however, for it was not likely that any gentlemen with “notions” would have figured he intended riding from Dodge this morning.
Barely had he crossed the bridge when Brant saw the first dust cloud rolling up from the south. A few minutes later he was flashing past the first great herd headed for Dodge City. Soon there was another dust cloud and another herd. Then another, and another, till it seemed to the Running W foreman that the endless miles between Kansas and the plains of Texas were one vast sea of rolling eyes, shaggy backs and clashing horns.
“Wouldn’t seem there were that many critters on all the Southwest rangeland,” he mused as he waved reply to the riders shoving along their reluctant charges.
All day long he passed the herds, some large, some small, but all rolling northward toward the waiting markets. The longhorns were on the march!
Brant’s saddlebags were crammed with provisions. Around midday he paused beside a spring and cooked a comforting surroundin’ to which he did ample justice. Smoke grazed contentedly the while, apparently none the worse for the many miles he had galloped. After eating Brant rode on. The stars were shining brightly when he at last sighted the lights of Doran’s Crossing.
“A little helpin’ of chuck and a drink, and then I hope I can get a decent bunk to sleep on in that shebang,” he told Smoke. “I’ll just rack you outside till I get the lowdown on what’s what. Ought not to be any trouble tieing onto a nosebag for you.”
Tethering the moros at a convenient hitchrack, he entered the Deadfall. The big room was less crowded than on his former visits, and quieter. He recognized several Texans with whom he had a passing acquaintance and nodded to them. Standing at the far end of the bar, per usual, were massive, black-bearded Phil Doran and his wizened, ice-eyed partner, Pink Hanson. Brant nodded to them, and they nodded back. He saw the partners’ heads draw together. As they talked, they shot glances in his direction.
Brant was discussing his drink when Doran left the end of the bar and came sauntering in his direction. The Deadfall owner paused, and looked Brant up and down.
“See you met up with poor Cort Porter out on the prairie, Brant,” he remarked casually.
Brant stared at Doran in astonishment. Under the circumstances of his meeting with Porter, it was the last thing he would have expected of Doran, to admit knowledge of Porter’s activities north of the Cimarron.
“Yes, I met up with him,” he replied.
“Uh-huh, so I figgered,” Doran said. “Wasn’t a very nice thing to do, Brant, even if you did have a run-in with him here—to shoot a poor jigger in the back.”
Brant stared again. His eyes narrowed slightly. He did not at the moment reply to Doran’s astounding charge.
“Uh-huh,” Doran repeated, “not a very nice thing to do. The boys found him, or what was left of him, out there by the canyon mouth.”
Brant spoke. “If the boys, whoever they were, found him, they know damn well he wasn’t shot in the back, and they know, too, how he come to get shot,” he replied quietly, his gaze hard on Doran’s florid face.
“Porter was my bunky,” Doran went on, as if not even hearing Brant’s statement. “And I’m tellin’ you, Brant, I’m out to even up the score for him.”
Instinctively, Brant’s thumbs hooked over his cartridge belts. The significance of the gesture was not lost on Doran. He shook his bristling head.
“Nope, not that way,” he said. “I know I wouldn’t have any more chance with you at gun slingin’ than a rabbit would have in a houndawg’s mouth. I know you’re a quick-draw man, and I know that’s what you rely on to get you by. Feller always uses an ace-in-the-hole to back up a yaller streak. But if you weren’t packin’ them irons, I’d put a head on you you wouldn’t forget for a spell, you low-down hyderphobia skunk!”
Brant’s face went a little white. He was boiling with anger but he kept a grip on himse
lf.
“I figger you must have been drinking your own snake juice, Doran,” he said. “Either that or you’ve gone plumb loco, but I reckon in either case I’ll have to ram your words down your throat.”
He turned, glanced about. Swiftly unbuckling his belts he handed them to a big Texas cowboy he knew slightly.
“Hold ’em,” he said. “Have ’em ready for me if I should happen to need ’em,” he added significantly.
The Texan took the belts. “I’ll hold ’em,” he promised, adding with grim emphasis, “and I’ll use ’em, too, if necessary.” He swept the gathering crowd with hard eyes. “No interferin’, gents,’ he warned, “or things will get lively.”
Brant faced the bulky Deadfall owner. “Okay, Doran, you’re called,” he said. He cast a quick glance toward Pink Hanson, who was standing back of Doran and a little to one side. In Hanson’s pale eyes was a peculiar look of malicious satisfaction, the look of one whose well-thought-out plans are coming to fruition. It puzzled Brant, but before he could give it much consideration, he had another matter to think about.
Austin Brant was a fighter and he could hit like the kick of a mule, but like the average cowhand, the science of boxing was a closed book to him. Phil Doran, on the other hand, had somewhere in the course of his dubious career, picked up more than a little knowledge of the art of self-defense. He was quick as a cat on his feet, despite his bulk, and he knew how to use his hands.
As Brant charged in, he was met by a vicious jab to the mouth that brought blood and staggered him. Before he could recover, Doran hit him again, left and right, with plenty of power behind the blows. Brant reeled, almost lost his footing. Doran glided in. But Brant was far from out. He ducked a left hook, countering with a swinging right that knocked Doran sideways against the bar. With plenty of courage, but little judgment, Brant rushed. Doran slipped away, feinted with his left, brought over a straight right and knocked Brant off his feet.
The Texas cowboy bounded erect almost before he hit the floor and bored in, swinging with both hands. A cool and experienced Doran, ducked, weaved and covered up, getting in several hard jabs at the same time. Again Brant was forced to give ground. And Doran was after him, jabbing, hooking, drawing blood, staggering the tall cow-hand with lethal rights and lefts. Brant was breathing hard, his face was cut and bloody, his eyes already swelling. As he lurched back a little farther, he glimpsed Pink Hanson’s face once more. It was ablaze with exultation. His eyes glowed.
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