by J. T. Edson
“Leslie,” Earp began. “I’m getting—”
“Mr. Earp,” Dusty cut in with an easy, gentle drawl. “You remember a skin hunter in Dodge, name of Shag Moxel? I’m the man who killed him.”
Earp’s face had flushed with annoyance at the interruption to his noble speech. Then the annoyance died and for an instant a flicker of something else took its place. Only for an instant was it there, then the face became an impassive mask again but Dusty had caught the expression. So had Mark, the Kid and Frank Leslie; caught it and read it for what it was.
“He’s telling you true, Wyatt,” said Doc Holliday from the sidewalk. “I was in town, didn’t get called out on business like you and Bat. I saw him right after he did it.”
There were times when Wyatt Earp wondered he ever took up with such an out and out ornery cuss as Doc Holliday. One thing Earp did not want was confirmation of the identity of the man who killed Shag Moxel. It still rankled Earp to remember how he’d left town when Dusty Fog came looking for the man who tried to kill his cousin Ben Holland. That was five years ago but Earp remembered every detail of it and so did Doc Holliday.
It was then a whisper ran through the crowd, loud enough for Earp to hear and give confirmation to his knowledge and memory.
“Yes, sir. That’s him. The Rio Hondo gun wizard. That’s Captain Dusty Fog.”
“How’re you calling it, Wyatt?” Holliday went on, always ready to fan up the flames and start the ball rolling.
There was death in the air of Tombstone that morning. It hung there poised and seething, just waiting for the first move to let it have its head. One move, one wrong word and guns would roar, men would die and the town of Tombstone would see its boot hill grow.
Virgil Earp came forward but he came with hand away from his guns. He came as a peacemaker and not the kind which Colonel Colt’s Hartford factory made so well.
“Break it off, Wyatt. Pull in your horns, King. If Buckskin Frank doesn’t want to introduce you to the lady leave it lie. You’re not fast enough to set in on a deal against a man like Captain Fog.”
It was not clear to the crowd, or to Earp and Rambeau, which of them he meant by this last statement. The words did give Wyatt Earp a chance to get out of a real tight spot. Rambeau’s two hired hands showed some relief now for they had a certain reluctance to match Colt courtesies with the four hard eyed, deadly looking men who faced them.
The only one who showed any sign of making a play was Rambeau, then suddenly he knew that he would not get the backing of the Earps. He knew he would have to back out now or lose their not over-strong friendship. To the Earps Rambeau was a man who could be useful for passing out pro-Law and Order Party talk and for handing over generous sums to the campaign funds. He was nothing beyond that, having neither the gun-speed nor ability to make himself a useful backer in any shooting which might be needed.
“All right, Virgil,” he said. “Leslie’s some touchy. I’ll get to know the lady later.”
With that Rambeau turned and walked away, followed by his men. Wyatt Earp was next to go, knowing he was leaving the field second best, but satisfied to be leaving it on his feet. Virgil stood for a moment, shrugged, turned and followed his brother.
The tension oozed from the watching crowd but talk rolled up among them. Leslie knew there was nothing more to be gained by standing here and so suggested to Madame Paula that she got her people into the wagon and headed for the rooming house where he’d booked them accommodation.
“Like to thank you for sitting in, Dusty,” he said while the show folks climbed back into the wagon.
“Any time, Frank. Any old time,” Dusty answered. “Where’d we be likely to find Texas John if he’s in town?”
“He came in last night and he’ll be in my place later. Go down and wait for him. I’ll be along after I’ve seen my folks bedded down.”
The two groups separated, Dusty, Mark and the Kid taking their horses to the livery barn and then making for the Bucket of Blood Saloon. They’d just finished making their bets when Texas John Slaughter came in. He was a smallish, tanned, hard looking man dressed in the style of a Texas cowhand, yet about him there was the unmistakable something which told other cowhands that here was a master of their trade.
Dusty came from the bar, holding out his hand which Slaughter gripped in a friendly shake. “Howdy John,” Dusty said. “I came as soon as Uncle Devil got your telegraph message.”
The rancher shook hands with Mark and the Kid after Dusty and then waved to a nearby table, suggesting they took the weight off their legs and talked things out.
“You know why I sent you?” he asked.
“Only what you said in the telegraph message,” Dusty answered. “We’ve just signed in for the shooting. Though why you wanted us out from Texas just for that I don’t know.”
“See the boards, how Earp’s favored high for both shoots,” drawled Slaughter. “He mustn’t win either of them. If he does Tombstone and Cochise County’ll toss their votes his way when they come to elect their sheriff. Then we’ll be under Kansas lawmen and you know what that means.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on a carpet-bagging Republican,” drawled Mark grimly.
“Was I a praying man I’d say amen to that,” went on the Kid.
Kansas lawmen. They were an anathema to any Texas cowhand who’d trailed a herd north to the railheads. The men who ran the law in the trail end towns were for the most part northern sympathizers with a built-in hatred for those rebel Texas boys who came with the cattle. The hatreds of the Civil War were fanned afresh by the men who wore the badges of town marshal, kept alight by the way they treated the cowhands. To every Texan a Kansas lawman was a cold-blooded cowardly murderer at worst or a bribe taking pimp at best. Wyatt Earp’s name ranked high on the list of Kansas lawmen and for him to run the law in Cochise County would mean bloodshed.
“Earp’s after the sheriff’s post then?” asked Dusty.
“Pushing all he can, him and the rest of the Law and Order Party. I wouldn’t take sides, Dusty, but he’s been boasting so loud and long I reckon it’s time his bet was called.”
“And you reckon we can stop him winning?” asked Dusty with a smile.
“Reckon?” scoffed Slaughter. “I’d be tolerable surprised if you couldn’t.”
While the men were talking, Buckskin Frank Leslie entered the saloon, having seen his people safely to their accommodation. He passed the table without more than a friendly greeting for a sudden thought had struck him while delivering Madame Paula. It was a thought which caused him to make a hurried and apologetic departure without even waiting for Joe Raymond to finish his unpacking and come for a drink.
The bartender laid aside the cloth with which he was polishing the glasses and came along to greet the boss, grinning broadly and jerking a thumb to the table.
“Those cowhands throw their money around,” he said jovially, sure his boss was going to be pleased with his making money for the business. “Signed on for the shooting in the Fair. I set the two tall ones in at three to one, I didn’t want to offend them by going any higher. The dark boy’s took it to win on the rifle and the blond to come in second or third with the revolvers.”
“Three to one?” gurgled Leslie, thankful the saloon had not been full of men who knew the West.
“Sure,” grinned the bartender. “The best laugh was when that little feller took on for the Pistol Match.”
Somehow, the bartender thought, the joke was falling flat. He could not think how or why. There was a look of horror almost on Leslie’s usually expressionless face, for he was not looking at the bartender, but at the board on which the odds were written.
‘Ten to one!” The words were torn from Leslie as if every one of them hurt him. “You laid odds of ten to one that Dusty Fog didn’t win the Match?” He shot out a hand across the bar. “Give me that rag and chalk, quick!—”
At the table John Slaughter was staring at Mark Counter in amazement.
�
�Ten to one, Mark?” he gasped. “You’re jobbing me.”
Mark grinned broadly for he was seated facing the bar and watching Leslie’s agitated actions. “Was I never to leave this chair again, John, I’m telling you the bartender started Dusty at ten to one. I stand at three to one for a place and he put Lon in at three to one for a win with his old yellow boy.”
Money jingled in Slaughter’s pocket as he thrust back his chair. He could not see what was happening at the bar.
“I always thought you didn’t gamble, John,” drawled Dusty casually.
“So who’s gambling? It’s like finding money in the street.”
For all that John Slaughter was cautious as he crossed the room, heading for the bar. He did not glance at the boards but leaned by Leslie, who was standing also with his back to the boards, looking just as relaxed and unconcerned.
“Fine day, Frank,” Slaughter said.
“Real fine,” agreed Leslie.
“They do tell me Dusty there’s in for the Pistol Match at the Fair,” Slaughter went on. “I reckon I might have a couple of dollars on him just for old time’s sake.”
With that Slaughter leaned back and offered Leslie a cigar. They were friends or the rancher would never have thought of playing things this way. It would make a good story to say he’d got the better of Frank Leslie and taken odds of ten to one that Dusty Fog did not win the shooting match. However, it had to be played careful or Leslie might see the board in time and alter the odds to something more in keeping, as would be his right.
“Yes, sir,” Slaughter went on in the nonchalant, disinterested tone of a horse-trader trying to get a hundred dollar stallion for the price of a wind-broken plug. “Just lay this here two dollars on Dusty Fog for me, bar keep.”
Slaughter offered the money, still without looking at the board and took the slip in return. Then he turned, a broad grin spreading on his face—and dying again.
“What the h—”
Leslie had made good with his time. Dusty Fog’s name was still there but the odds showed a thick broad white mark where other writing had been erased. Now they stood not at ten to one, but at even money.
“Reckon the drinks are on you, John,” Dusty remarked, coming to the bar.
“You saw what he was doing and never said a word,” replied Slaughter. “Let me go against my principles and start betting—”
“You reckon you’ve worries,” answered Leslie with a grin. “How about me if the place had been full? It’s nothing but luck that nobody got any money down.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” drawled Mark as he and the Kid joined the others. “Nope, I wouldn’t say that at all”
With that Mark held the receipt so that Leslie could see it and read the amount on it. Leslie shrugged. One bet wouldn’t break—then he saw the Kid also held out a slip.
“No.” The word came in a strangled gasp. “Hank, you didn’t take these bets, did you? You did? Oh well, we might break even on the bets we’ve got on already.”
The Kid grinned and held out his receipt. “Is she worth fifty dollars as she stands, Frank?”
“Any time, right now if you like.”
“Here, barkeep,” laughed the Kid. “Throw this away and make it out at the right odds. Man, your face when you saw it, Frank.”
Mark and the Kid exchanged their betting slips, giving away odds of ten to one without a thought. Buckskin Frank Leslie was their friend and they would not take advantage of the slip.
“Say, who was that handsome dude out there on the street?” Dusty asked.
“King Rambeau,” Leslie replied. “He runs the King Saloon for the syndicate. Got him one of their top guns on hand, Iowa Parsons.”
Dusty sipped at his beer thoughtfully. The syndicate were the unknown group who ran saloons, gambling houses and dance halls throughout Arizona. They controlled at least one place in every town and their take must have been high. Dusty was curious, the handsome saloon owner was not the usual type of man the syndicate put in charge of their places.
“Where’s he from?” he asked.
“Ran a place in New York until he had to buy a trunk and head west. There’s some talk that he’s trying to work a private move, without the syndicate, although I don’t know what it is. They shipped him Parsons in when Billy Clanton allowed he’d been cold-decked and it looked like trouble. Parsons has been here ever since.”
Mark glanced in the mirror. He was rather more disheveled than he cared to appear in public so he cut in before Dusty could ask any more about King Rambeau.
“I’m going for a haircut and bath,” he said. “Then we can go and show the ladies of Tombstone what they don’t have to go on missing.”
“We’ll come along, Mark,” Dusty answered. “See you back here, John. What do you want us to do from now on until the Fair starts?”
“Come out to my place if you like,” Slaughter replied.
“Leave it until you’re freshed up. We’ll have a night in town and then see what you reckon.”
“That sits well with us,” Dusty answered. “We’ll see you later then.”
Slaughter and Leslie watched the three young Texans leave the saloon and the rancher grinned. “Now there goes the three best men I know.”
Leslie crumpled the two betting receipts in his palm and tossed them into a spittoon. “You’re right about that, John,” he replied.
Four – King Rambeau Makes Demands
Dusty Fog walked with his two friends along Toughnut Street, making for the barber’s shop Leslie recommended to him. He thought as he looked around that these wide-open towns were much the same. The faces changed but the general type of people remained the same. The same sort of crowds moved along the sidewalks, the same type of business premises flourished. There were mine workers, burly men with sleeves rolled up to expose their biceps and strong arms, with Levis trousers that had the seam stitching reinforced with brass clips and with steel toed boots. There were cow-hands with wide-brimmed Stetson hats worn at just the right “jack-deuce” angle, over the offside eye, gay shirts and Levis with cuffs turned back. There were townsmen of various types, the better class in good broadcloth suits, the others in lesser grades of suiting. Mingled among this crowd were drummers, salesmen in loud check suits and derby hats, and cavalrymen on furlough.
All in all the scene was one of constant change, of color and what appeared to be unending numbers. It was Tombstone but it might just as well have been Dodge City, Quiet Town, Mulrooney or any of the other towns which boomed wild, woolly and wide open, then faded and were gone.
“Man, Tombstone’s surely grown some since we were here last,” drawled the Kid, watching the passing crowd as they strolled along.
“It’s just like Dodge, Newton, Wichita or any of the big trail end towns when the herds were in and the crews paid off,” Mark replied, giving a wink at a pretty young girl who smiled, then turned her sun bonneted head away as her mother gave an angry snort.
“More like Quiet Town,” said Dusty with a smile, for he’d noticed the wink and its result. “There were never any mine workers in the trail end towns.”
“Quiet Town,” the Kid remarked. “Now there was a town. She was the wildest of them all.”
Dusty could have agreed with that. Quiet Town, in Montana, and just after the War had been the wildest of them all. It had also been the first town in which he held the law badge and it was the first town he tamed, with the aid of his tough and handy deputies.
On a quiet side street they found the building they were looking for. It was a long, fairly new looking building and split into three parts. The first window had a display of male clothing, clothing to suit the cowhand, the mine worker, the town dweller or the professional gambler. Next door to this was the barber’s shop and beyond it the bath house. This was an ideal arrangement and showed some considerable forethought on the part of its owner. It was situated handily to the edge of town and the men coming in from the mines or the ranches could enter one
building, take a bath, then have shave and haircut and finally spend money on a change of clothing before going on to the pleasures of the town.
The barber’s shop was crowded when Dusty and Mark emerged from the bathroom. They’d been before the Kid in the baths and so were ready for their haircuts while he was still soaking in the hot water. All three of the chairs were occupied and the barbers working fast while the lather boy attended to his stove kettle and worked up lather. In the seats around the walls sat the other customers, there were only two spaces left, one on either side of the street door of the building. Dusty took one and Mark the other, sitting back and listening to the conversation, the jokes and small talk which flashed between the barbers and the customers.
Time passed and a customer left the chair to allow the next man in. A tall, tanned, spare man in his early thirties rose to take a vacant chair. Dusty looked the man over, noting he wore cowhand dress of a style which showed he had money to spare, and was probably a rancher. There was something more about him, he walked with the stride of a horseman, but did not have that something which marked the born and bred cowhand. He did not wear a gunbelt either and that was strange; it was almost like seeing a man without his trousers, fact being there were men in Tombstone who might forget their trousers when rising in the morning—but they would never forget to strap on their guns.
The tall man was almost at the chair when the door of the shop opened and three men entered. One moved towards the vacant chair, the other two stopped with their shoulders against the door, their hands thumb-hooked into their gunbelts near the butts of the low-tied Colts.
Dusty had a good memory for faces and recognized the newcomers. They were Mr. Earp’s friend, King Rambeau, and his two gunmen. More, they were clearly looking for trouble with the tall man who was next in line for a haircut. Dusty glanced by the two gunmen and caught Mark’s eye. By the slight inclination of Mark’s head Dusty knew he was not alone in the recognition and was set for trouble.