by J. T. Edson
“Just a minute, Brownlow,” Rambeau said, dropping his hand to the back of the chair and turning it from the other man. “I’ve been looking for you. Haven’t seen you for a couple of days.”
The man called Brownlow’s eyes met Rambeau’s for a long moment. “That could be because I saw you first each time.” Dusty looked harder at Brownlow. He recognized the accent and it was not American. Those clipped, decisive and firm tones were British and upper-class British at that. Dusty had met some of these British gentlemen who had come west to find excitement and a new life. They were just what the word said, gentlemen in the strictest sense. He liked and admired their kind, it was their drive and spirit which made England the great country it was.
There was no hint of a smile on Rambeau’s face and he kept his hand on the chair back, never taking his eyes from the other man’s face. All talk in the shop had died down now, every eye on the two men. The barber, the burly owner of the building, drew back from his chair.
“Have you thought over my offer?” Rambeau asked.
“It didn’t need thinking about. I’ll take the chair and have my haircut.”
“Not yet. I’m in a hurry and I want the chair.”
“’Fraid not,” replied Brownlow. “I’ve waited my turn and so can you.”
With that the man gripped the chair and turned it back towards him but before he could sit down Rambeau had kicked it so it spun back towards him once more.
“You don’t get a haircut today or any other day, Brownlow. Not unless you cut me in on that herd.”
There was no fear in Brownlow’s face, only a slight tightening of his lips as he replied, “Do you run Tombstone now?”
“You haven’t been able to hire a hand, have you?”
“I put that down more to your hired killer than to any effort on your part,” Brownlow replied and his voice grew hard. “Move your foot and I’ll have the chair.”
Rambeau grinned, showing his coat clear of the gun butt. “I’m having it. Are you fixing to stop me?”
The watching men were silent. Not a Tombstone dweller here but who knew what was going on between Rambeau and the tall Englishman. There had been word passing around the town that no cowhand had better take on to drive cattle for Vance Brownlow on pain of offending Iowa Parsons, boss gun for King Rambeau. Why this was, not one man present, apart from the two main actors of the scene, could say. One thing was for sure, whatever their differences King Rambeau was now forcing the issue. The two gun hung men at the door would prevent anyone either going to fetch the law, or help Brownlow.
Rambeau’s foot came down from the chair and he moved back a pace his hand lifting to hover his gun butt. Dusty watched the other man, saw how his feet moved slightly into what could have been a fighting stance. Dusty noticed the way the man stood but more so at the way the right fist was held. The hand was closed but the first knuckle extended beyond the others in what at first might have appeared an awkward manner. Dusty’s brows drew together in a puzzled frown. Either that Englishman did not know anything much about defending himself with his hands, or he knew a very effective way.
“Make your choice,” Rambeau sneered. “I’m either your partner and you can have the chair. Or I’m not and we settle it right now.”
“On your terms, you armed and I’m not?”
Never taking his eyes from Brownlow the handsome saloon keeper spoke to the owner of the shop:
“Barber, take one of your customer’s guns and put it on the chair in front of Brownlow. I’ll give him a chance.”
The barber gulped. He knew something about guns and shooting and knew Vance Brownlow would have no chance in a fight, not like that. He would have to bend for the gun, straighten and line it. With a strange gun in his hand he would have no chance at all. The only difference would be that Brownlow would be armed, technically, and so Rambeau could plead self-defense.
“I’m waiting, barber,” Rambeau went on. “You’ve got a real nice place here. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to it, now would you?”
That showed the barber clearly where he stood. He must do as Rambeau demanded or his business would suffer for it. Rambeau worked for the syndicate, that was a common piece of knowledge around town, and the syndicate knew every method for making life uncomfortable for people who crossed them. He looked at the other customers of his shop, then at Brownlow, and licked his lips nervously.
Dusty Fog’s right foot tapped on the floor in a casual and what might have been taken for a nervous gesture. Mark Counter caught the sign and just slightly tensed, ready for the sudden action he knew was coming.
Faster than a striking rattlesnake and with much less warning Dusty made his move. His right hand lashed out and back suddenly. The way the hand was held looked strange to a man used to seeing fist fighters in action. Instead of clenching the fist Dusty kept his fingers extended, held together with the thumb over his palm. The hand, edge sideways, lashed around, aimed with skill and precision straight for the gunman’s solar plexus. The gunman caught the first move from Dusty and dropped his hand towards his gun. He was a full half-second too late for the blow landed before the gun was clear. Awkward though the way Dusty struck appeared to the gunman the blow came like the bite of the edge of an axe. His hand missed the butt of his gun as he gave a croaking gasp and doubled forward, the breath forced from his lungs in a painful manner. Gasping in pain the man sank to his knees, his face an ashy gray color and masked with agony.
The second gunman started to grab for his gun and almost made it. Fingers which gripped like the closing jaws of a bear trap clamped on to his arm. He gave what started as an angry curse and ended as a yell of agony as his wrist was crushed in powerful hands. Mark Counter came to his feet, swinging the gunman before him with no more trouble than if he was handling a baby. Then Mark brought the gunman’s arm up behind his back. The man was bent forward, helpless in those hands. Mark turned again until they faced the wall. Then with a sudden surge of his muscles Mark sent the man hurling head first into the wall. The gunman’s head hit hard and with a moan of pain he sank down.
Rambeau saw, reflected in the mirror, what was happening to his men. He started to swing around with his hand dropping and lifting his gun. He recognized Dusty and Mark as the two men who had backed Leslie on the street and once more they had crossed his path.
For all his gunfighter’s belt Rambeau was not fast with his gun. The Colt was lifting as Dusty came to his feet, right hand flickering across his body. Yet from so far behind Dusty still had his gun out and lined before Rambeau cleared leather. The bone handled Colt was in Dusty’s hand, the left holster empty, the hammer drawn back under his thumb and the four and three-quarter-inch barrel lined on Rambeau’s middle froze the saloon-keeper’s draw still not more than half done.
“Don’t try it, Rambeau,” warned Dusty.
It was at that moment Rambeau realized what Iowa Parsons had told him all the time since he bought the gunbelt.
Parsons’ oft-repeated warning that Rambeau was not fast enough to tote a gun in such a rig was clear now. The saloon keeper had come west after his saloon on New York’s Bowery had grown too hot for comfort. He had come from a world where a gun was not yet considered as a useful tool for settling a difference and had started to learn, too late, the secrets of handling a smoking Colt in a Western corpse-and-cartridge affair. Slowly his hand came away from his gun and for the first time in his life he knew the raw ache of fear biting into him. He swore that never again would he be fool enough to strap on a gunbelt.
“I’ll take the chair, Rambeau,” Brownlow said coolly. That put the play back in Rambeau’s hands once more but he no longer fancied backing it. Without being told he knew murder was out, even murder done under the flimsy guise of self-defense. That small—small? Suddenly Dusty Fog was small no more in Rambeau’s eyes, in fact he suddenly appeared to tower taller than any other man in the room to the saloon keeper. That fast-moving Texan would never allow Rambeau to call the play with guns.
There was the prospect of standing up against Vance Brownlow in a rough-house brawl but no longer was that appealing to Rambeau. He was a skilled fist fighter who learned his game in the slums of New York but the Britisher was also skilled and his ways of fighting were something completely beyond Rambeau’s understanding. He did not wish to get into a fight and risk having his handsome face marked up. Not when he thought of that beautiful young actress who arrived in town that morning. Rambeau was proud of his good looks and did not want them marked. Marked they would get if he stacked up against Vance Brownlow.
“I’ll not forget this, Brownlow,” he snarled, turning to cross the room to where Dusty’s victim was getting to his feet, groaning and holding his stomach. He looked back at Vance Brownlow and went on, “You’ve done wrong, hiring a gun.”
“I never saw either of these gentlemen before,” Vance Brownlow replied. “I’m sorry, chappie, but I don’t need a partner. Much less do I need one who puts nothing in and wants to take twenty-five per cent of all the profits out.”
With that the tall Englishman sat in the chair in a gesture which clearly showed the interview was over as far as he was concerned. Rambeau’s face showed anger but he kept clear his hand from the gun butt. Dusty Fog stood to one side, his Colt back in the holster but that meant nothing as Rambeau knew. It had been in the holster before, but came out fast enough. Rambeau turned his anger on the gunman who was now on his feet.
“Get your pard up,” he snarled, jerking a thumb towards the groaning man on the floor. “Let’s get out of here.”
The gunman gritted his teeth but bent and helped the other man to his feet. Rambeau jerked open the door and the two gunmen went by him; he stood for an instant, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him. The customers let out their breath in a long and concerted sigh which was echoed by the three barbers and the lather boy. This latter had stood from start to finish holding the lather-brush poised in the air.
“Excuse me, mister,” said the prosperous-looking townsman who had been seated by Mark, rising to look at Dusty. “No offense meant, but I was wondering if you had entered for the pistol shoot?”
The man spoke with some care. It paid to do so when addressing such a remark to a man who wore two guns in a rig like that with the holster bottoms tied down. It was a saying in the West that a man who tied down his holster bottom was apt not to talk much with his mouth.
“Reckon I am, sir,” Dusty answered.
“Wouldn’t take it wrong was I to ask your name, mister?” the man went on in a polite and respectful tone. “I’d surely admire to lay a bet on you.”
“No offense taken. The name’s Dusty Fog.”
“Dusty Fog!” the well-dressed man’s repeating of Dusty’s name was echoed by every other man in the shop. “I’ll be back in a minute, Sid!”
The same idea apparently struck every other customer in the shop, including the two who were receiving treatment in the chair. There was a sudden rush for the door and Tombstone was presented with the spectacle of several citizens, including one with one side of his hair short, the other long and shaggy and the other with half his face still lathered, the barber’s towels still around their necks, heading at a dead run for the Bucket of Blood Saloon.
Dusty watched the exit, then turned and grinned to the barber, who was by the cash drawer and taking money out. “I’m sorry we cost you some trade, friend,” he said.
“That kind of gun work don’t need no apologizing for, Cap’n Fog,” replied the owner of the shop. Then he turned to the lather boy. “Sammywell,” he said, holding out the money, “head for the Bucket of Blood and ask the bartender to put this on Cap’n Fog in the Pistol Shoot.”
The lather boy took the money and the other two barbers also handed over bets to be placed for them. The lather boy left the shop on the run and the barber waved a hand to the now empty chairs. A grin came to his face as he thought of the chance he had to win, for he was betting on Iowa Parsons and Wyatt Earp as well. Now it looked as if he’d covered all the bets.
“Take a seat, gents,” the barber said. “Looks like you won’t have to wait at all.”
The Kid emerged from the bathroom and took a seat. He did not know what had happened, but was pleased to see he would not have to wait long for his haircut. His two friends and another man appeared to be the only customers and they were in the chairs now.
Vance Brownlow looked across to the two cowhands as they sat back, the towels in place and the barber’s shears moving.
“I haven’t thanked you two gentlemen yet,” he said. “I hope you will allow me to show my appreciation by standing you a meal at the Eating House when we’re done.”
“No thanks are needed, friend,” Dusty replied.
“I was watching how you hit that gunman, Captain Fog,” Brownlow went on. “It’s a remarkable coincidence but you used something like a karate trick I learned from a Japanese merchant in Hong Kong. I was a young subaltern in the Rifles out there.”
“Now that’s a real coincidence,” Dusty answered and his two friends grinned as they listened. “I thought I was using the tegatana against his suigetsu.”
“Gad!” Vance Brownlow ejaculated, twisting around in the chair and looking at Dusty with more interest. “I could have sworn that I was the only man in Arizona knew karate.” Dusty chuckled. “You’d best sit back afore you leave an ear on the floor. I learned karate and ju-jitsu down home to the Rio Hondo country. My Uncle Devil’s man Tommy Akasi, taught me. I didn’t know if the hand sword would work against his solar plexus, but I reckon it did.”
Vance Brownlow threw back his head and laughed, making the barber jerk back his clippers in a hurry to avoid cutting the rancher’s head.
“I think it did at that. I hope you accept my offer of the meal down at Mother Handy’s place.”
“We never refused a meal yet,” Dusty replied. “It’s on your head though. Your friends’ll likely cut you dead if they see you in the street, associating with folks like us.”
Before the other customers returned Dusty, Mark and Brownlow were finished and the Ysabel Kid sat having his long black hair trimmed.
Five – Vance Brownlow Needs Hands
Mother Handy’s Eating House stood on Toughnut Street, a large, white painted wooden building, clean looking and giving forth appetizing smells which boded well for the meals served on the inside.
There was a good crowd in the Eating House when Vance Brownlow entered with the three Texans. He led them to a table by the central aisle and they sat around it, hanging their hats on the backs of the chairs. The waitresses, three pretty girls in black dresses and clean white aprons, moved among the other customers and did not give Brownlow’s party a glance. At the door of the kitchen Mother Handy, a smallish, plump and white-haired old woman, neatly dressed, gentle in appearance, was giving the cook the benefit of a tongue lashing that did not fit in with her appearance at all. She turned, slammed the door and came down the aisle to halt by Brownlow’s table, smiled at the men as they shoved back their chairs and started to rise.
“Sit down, all of ye,” she said. “Vance, me darlin’ boy, and when is it you’ll be bringing us some of that good beef in?”
No question need ever be asked to Mother Handy’s home country, not with a brogue thicker than a New York Irish policeman’s on Saint Patrick’s Day.
“As soon as I can gather in a trail crew,” Vance replied, without looking at his guests. “Birdie’s trying around town right now.”
“Huh!” snorted Mother Handy. “I’ve been hearing why it is you can’t get the men.” Her eyes went to Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. For a moment she studied the Kid’s Indian dark face, then she nodded. If three men like these, so obviously top hands, had taken on to ride for Vance Brownlow, he would get all the others he needed. She asked no questions, that was never done. “I can’t offer you much by the way of meat, boys. The Folks in town are eating it faster than the local ranchers can supply it.”
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“Never heard tell that the Clantons or the McLowery boys had trouble raising beef, ma’am,” drawled the Kid. “They do tell that every Clanton cow has at least five calves and even some of the bulls have young ’uns too.”
“Well, I wouldn’t buy nothing from the likes of them. I can prove all the beef I buy isn’t stolen. I wouldn’t buy no kind of dishonest goods.”
“Smuggled wine isn’t dishonest then, ma’am?” asked the Kid mildly.
The old woman snorted explosively, the sudden annoyance came and left her face as she laughed, holding out her hand to the Kid. “Lon Ysabel,” she gasped. “The Saints preserve us. I heard you’d been killed down in Mexico just after the War. Sure and you’re not still doing that awful and evil smuggling, now are you?”
For all the outburst there was a note which was more of hope than condemnation in the old woman’s voice as she looked at the boy, who, with his father, had sold her more than one consignment of good wine on which no duty ever was paid to the U.S. Customs.
“Nope, I done retired,” the Kid answered sadly.
The old woman opened her mouth to make a suggestion to Vance, then closed it again. She took their order for the meal, turned and headed for the kitchen to roust up the cook. Mother Handy liked Vance Brownlow and his pretty wife and hoped they would be able to get the men they needed. However, she could not interfere in their private business. If Vance had hired the three Texans all would be well. If he had not, Mother Handy could hardly poke her nose in and interfere.
“Would a man be out of line to ask what’s between you and Rambeau?” Mark asked of Vance after the old woman walked away.
Before the question could be answered there was an interruption. The door of the room burst suddenly open and a small, plump yet pretty blonde woman entered and came across to the table. There was anger on her face. There was anger in the way she stamped down her dainty, high-heeled boots. Her white Stetson was thrust back from her head and hung on her back by the storm strap. Her blonde hair was cut short and curly, the hair style a woman living far from other women would choose as being easily cared for and need little attention. Her figure was plump, yet there was hard, firm flesh, not flabby fat. Her round, full breasts strained against the open necked tartan shirt and her hips strained the washed-out blue jeans which hung cowhand style outside her boots.