by J. T. Edson
There had been little conversation during the return journey. Nor, when there was talking, had the subject been the double murder or Mort’s attempt to escape. Neither had Dusty and the Kid referred to their reason for having been in the vicinity. While interested in the latter, the sheriff and the rancher knew that this apparent lack of curiosity regarding the murder and Mort’s escape was not caused by disinterest. They were willing to wait until a more propitious time before learning in what they had become involved.
‘Shall we go and doff our hats polite-like when they start cheering you, Dicks,’ Dusty inquired, having discovered how the sheriff preferred to be addressed by those he considered his friends.
‘Let’s make them come to us,’ the peace officer replied.
Having delivered the pronouncement, Dickson turned his borrowed mount from the main street. Once his party was concealed from the group outside the jailhouse, he dismounted. Having told a couple of the town dwellers to take his injured horse and the claybank gelding belonging to the rancher to the livery bam, he sent the rest to resume their interrupted business. Asking if Dusty and the Kid wished to put up their stallions, then join him later, he was relieved to hear they were willing to leave this until after they had accompanied him to his office and learned ‘what was doing’. Remembering something said by Humboldt, he considered the presence of the small Texan might prove advantageous in the interview he suspected would soon be taking place.
Accompanied by the two Texans, on foot and leading their horses, the peace officer escorted Mort to the rear of the jailhouse. Unlocking the back door, after a momentary unaccustomed stiffness of the mechanism, he signaled for them to precede him into the building. The barred door connecting the cell section with his office was open, although he thought he had closed it before leaving. He was not permitted time to ponder upon either matter.
Following the sheriff and peace officer across the cell portion of the building, Dusty glanced around and concluded such places rarely differed greatly in their lay-out or appearance. The office was a fair sized room, with a well used desk in the center and surrounded by a quartet of none too new chairs. Attached to one wall was a big cupboard. Facing it at the other side, a rack held several rifles and shotguns. On a board to the right of the front entrance were pinned a number of wanted posters. The whole scene, he concluded, might have been the county sheriff’s office—-run by his father, Hondo Fog—in Polveroso City. However, like Dickson, his attention was soon diverted from what he was doing.
For a different reason!
While the sheriff was looking to where Brenton Humboldt was unlocking the front door and entering, the small Texan was glancing out of a window. Standing on the sidewalk, Scats Scanlan pointed along the street and said something to Jose Salar and Homer ‘Bury-‘Em’ Milton. Nodding in agreement, they followed him out of sight until shoving ahead of the crowd, they, appeared in the open doorway, then came inside.
‘I see you’ve caught him, sheriff!’ the banker boomed, walking forward oblivious of who was on his heels instead of his cronies.
‘I’ve caught him,’ the peace officer confirmed.
Before any more could be said, the town dwellers about to come into the office moved aside. They were sufficiently well acquainted with the temper of the big, shaggy coated, grayish dog to impede its search for its master. Tail wagging as it received a stronger scent than that which had guided it there, it entered.
‘Get the hell away from me, you stinking cur!’ Scanlan snarled, although there would have been more than plenty of room for the dog to pass. He stepped forward and drew back his right foot.
Despite Pete being far less dangerous than the men outside imagined, such an attitude produced a hostile response. Letting out a low growl, the dog swung towards the hard case. Even though it did not attack him, Scanlan snatched out his Colt 1860 Army Model revolver and fired. Giving a yelp of pain, as the lead seared across its head, the dog went down.
An angry shout burst from Dickson. By his side, Mort Lewis began to lunge forward without giving a thought to being unarmed. Fast though he moved, Dusty Fog acted even more swiftly. Sweeping off his low crowned, wide brimmed black hat, the small Texan lashed it into the rancher’s face. Dropping it as Mort’s advance was changed into a bewildered retreat due to the force of the unexpected blow, he plunged through the barred door like a living projectile.
Starting to turn his Colt so as to shoot down the rancher in what he would claim to be self defense, Scanlan had no time to even think about the impediment to his scheme before a fist crashed against his bristle-covered jaw. Although small, Dusty was muscled like a Hercules in miniature and possessed a strength well beyond the average. 29 Furious at what had happened, and deducing why it was done, he put every ounce of power and all his weight behind his right fist. Taken by surprise, Scanlan was sent blundering helplessly against the wall by the cupboard. Although starting to fall when he arrived, he was prevented from going all the way. He was not, however, offered an opportunity to recover.
Following the burly hard case, Dusty delivered a backhand swing with his left arm. The second knuckle caught Scanlan in the center of the top lip, sending waves of agony through him. Rising after striking and reversing direction, the fist hit the side of his face and slammed his head over. Although no mean performer in a rough house brawl, Scanlan was unable to protect himself against the sheer fury of his small assailant’s attack.
Giving vent to a snarled profanity, Milton darted forward with the intention of helping his companion. His hope of taking Dusty unawares came to nothing. Flying up, the small Texan’s right hand jerked open one half of the cupboard’s door and swung it into the lean face of the approaching hired gun. Meeting it head on, Milton’s nose was smashed and spewed a spray of blood. Tottering away, half blinded by tears of pain, but with his right hand going instinctively to grasp the butt of his holstered revolver, the attempt to draw it came to nothing. Pivoting on his right leg, the small Texan sent his left foot in a kick which took and folded its recipient at the middle like a jack-knife being closed. As the foot descended, Dusty fetched up a punch with his right hand. Meeting the lowered jaw, it lifted Milton erect to send him backwards and supine upon the unyielding boards of the floor.
Watching what was happening, Salar reached for his low hanging Colt. No caballero of pure Spanish blood, which he boasted of being, would think of descending to anything so barbarous as fist-fighting. Particularly against one so clearly competent as that swift moving big young Texan. However, before the weapon could be lifted from its holster, he had other things than avenging the suffering of his companions upon his mind.
Thrusting the Winchester into the hands of the sheriff, who grasped it instinctively, the Kid sprang across the room. He alighted in front of the Mexican, the massive bowie knife already clear of its sheath and its razor sharp, clip pointed blade held ready to be driven in either a thrust or a belly ripping slash.
‘I don’t do no fist-fighting neither, Salar!’ warned the black dressed Texan, although at that moment his face was the cold and savage mask of the Pehnane Comanche Dog Soldier he could rightly claim to be. ‘So leave her lie, or you’ll be trying to lift her with a bloody stump!’
Knowing he was not hearing an idle threat and feeling certain Cabrito was capable of carrying it out, the Mexican released his hold on the butt and moved the hand aside. There were limits to how far he would go for a companion and, while no coward, he considered the limits had been passed at that moment.
Granted a respite by Milton’s intervention, Scanlan pushed himself from the wall. Thrusting with his hands, he gave a shove which sent the small Texan reeling to the center of the room. Then, forgetting he was still armed—despite having dropped one Colt—in his determination to repay the blows he had taken, he charged with the intention of smashing his assailant by brute strength. A low and startled exclamation burst from the sheriff at the sight. Although he had stood transfixed, amazed by the strength and sheer fury of th
e attack Dusty had delivered, he thought the disparity in their respective size and weight would turn the tables now the element of surprise had gone.
Before Dickson could make a move to intervene, Dusty leapt as if meaning to meet the burly hard case head on. Instead, swerving at the last moment, he caught Scanlan by the right wrist. Feeling a powerful twisting wrench given to the trapped limb, the hard case was propelled in a twirling rush towards the door. Making Humboldt leap hurriedly aside, he crashed backwards into the wall with an impact which caused some of the wanted posters to fly from the board. Given not a moment to recover, he had the small Texan’s right fist sunk almost wrist deep into his belly. Starting to fold over, his shoulders were grasped and flung to smash against the wall once more. His eyes began to glaze and his body started to crumple as consciousness left him.
Filled with a cold and savage rage over the shooting of the big dog, Dusty was oblivious to the condition to which he had reduced the hard case.-Catching hold of the front of Scanlan’s shirt with his left hand, he pulled back the right. Instead of knotting a fist, he kept it extended with fingers together and thumb bent across the palm in the exceptionally effective way he had been taught by Tommy Okasi.
‘Dusty!’ the Kid yelled, knowing that some of the Japanese fighting techniques his amigo had learned from the man who now acted as valet to General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin could kill if delivered at full strength. ‘Leave be. The dawg’s only creased!’
‘And you leave that gun in leather, Leftie!’ Dickson supplemented, turning the black dressed Texan’s Winchester into alignment as the segundo of the Standing DMS ranch came into the office with his left hand closed about the butt of the near side Remington New Army Model of 1863 revolver. ‘Way I see it, that cousin of yours got what he asked for, throwing down on Pete like he did.’
‘There’s some might not see it that way, sheriff,’ Wilson “Leftie” Scanlan answered, but refrained from trying to complete his draw.
‘There always is,’ the peace officer admitted. ‘Let’s leave it’s we agree to disagree and have them both toted the hell out of here.’
‘Get some of the boys to do it, Jose!’ the segundo commanded, eyes on the cause of his cousin’s bloody and battered condition as the Mexican went past to carry out his instructions. Wondering how one so small could have even survived, much less inflicted so much damage—the men from the posse having failed to find him on their return, due to his having an assignation with a married woman—he went on, ‘I don’t know how you did it, feller, but you’d best be long gone afore he comes ’round.’
‘I’m aiming to be staying hereabouts for a spell,’ Dusty declared, having released his hold and stepping back a few paces as his victim slipped flaccidly to the floor. ‘So, happen you’re kin with feelings for him, make sure he stays well clear of me.’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Scanlan asked, staring harder at the small Texan and developing the impression of greater bulk which the force of his personality could create in such conditions.
‘The name’s “Edward Marsden”,’ Dusty partially introduced, having guessed the identity of the banker and, remembering the comment from the young hard case, wanting to learn more about the situation before supplying more detailed information.
‘Sounds familiar,’ the segundo growled, eyes flickering to the wanted posters on the board and floor.
‘Why don’t you take a closer look to see if I’m on a dodger?’ the small Texan suggested, making the words a challenge, ‘And, should I be, I’ll leave it to you how you play it next.’
‘Running down wanted men’s not my chore,’ Scanlan replied, feeling sure the newcomer did not come into such a category and deciding the moment for taking the matter of Mort Lewis further was not yet at hand. Nodding to the men who were entering led by Salar, he went on, ‘I’ll go to the doctor’s with Cousin Slats, sheriff.’
‘You do that,’ Dickson authorized. ‘And, after him and Milton have had their hurts ’tended, get them out of town along with the rest of your crew.’
‘Mr. Stewart isn’t going to take kind’ to hearing you’ve run his boys out of town,’ the segundo warned.
‘Mr. Stewart’s away in Austin for a spell, what I hear,’ the peace officer answered. ‘And I’ll be right here should he want to complain when he comes back. Only you tell him, afore he does, I don’t take kind’ to fellers riding in a posse I take out trying to lynch the man I’m after when they catch him.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Scanlan promised.
Although little showed on his face as he was leaving the office behind his companions, the segundo was seething with rage.
Up until hearing the posse had returned with Mort Lewis alive, Scanlan had been satisfied that everything was going even better than anticipated. Following a revision of the scheme proposed by Dennis ‘Waxie’ Corovan, a horse had had the appropriate shoe prepared to add to the ‘evidence’ which would incriminate Mort Lewis. There had been no difficulty in murdering Dexter Chass and his son, using a Spencer carbine the segundo had borrowed from one of the ‘warriors’. After this, the timing of the affair had been even better than he had dared to hope. Not only had the bodies remained undiscovered, due to the unsociable and inhospitable reputation of the family, but the intended victim—brought by information received at Sanchez Riley’s trading post—had returned on the day the sheriff was told about the killings.
Although the rancher had gone straight to see Dickson on his arrival, his escape and flight had presented an opportunity which Scanlan had sought to exploit. Ordering his cousin and other of the ‘warriors’ to go with the posse, he had not joined them. In addition to wanting to avoid giving too much proof of collusion, he had seen he would have a chance of dalliance with the wife of one of the town dwellers who had offered to go in the hope of gaining the approbation of his employer. Acting upon his instructions, Salar had contrived to injure the horse to be used by the sheriff. By doing so, it was hoped Dickson would be unable to keep up and prevent the young rancher from being shot while fleeing, or lynched should he fall into the hands of the pursuers.
Seeing the crowd gathered outside the jailhouse as he was leaving the unfaithful wife, Scanlan had been on his way to investigate when his cousin, Milton and Salar entered the building. Noticing the big dog going in shortly after and hearing the shot, he had guessed what was intended. However, on arriving, he found things had gone badly amiss. Instead of having provoked the intended victim into an act which would allow him to be gunned down for what would pass as self defense, perhaps even the sheriff meeting a similar fate, he had found Slats and Bury-’Em unconscious and Salar standing like a statue before the threat of the bowie knife in the hand of the second newcomer.
‘Who the hell were those two beef heads, Jose?’ the segundo demanded.
‘Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid,’ the Mexican replied. ‘They stopped Lewis on the trail, but wouldn’t let us do anything to him. What do we do now, amigo?’
‘What we started out to do,’ Scanlan replied.
‘With them backing Dickson?’ Salar inquired.
‘If they do, they’ll get taken out along with him and Lewis,’ the segundo claimed, remembering something he had heard about the plans which were being formulated by Humboldt and how Ole Devil Hardin was involved. Suspecting Dusty Fog might have come to Holbrock to discuss this matter, he considered he might be able to kill two birds with one stone. ‘The boss’ll like that, only doing it’s going to cost him a pretty fair sized bonus for us when we’re through.’
Twelve
This Could Be Why They’re Here
‘You say those men tried to lynch your prisoner, sheriff?’ Brenton Humboldt asked, after the “warriors” from the Standing DMS ranch had left the office, refusing to refer to Morton Lewis by name in spite of realizing how such an act might have affected the hopes he had for the future of the town as well as himself.
‘They did,’ Sheriff Jerome Dickson confirmed, passing the
Winchester Model of 1866 rifle he was holding to its owner who accepted it after sheathing the massive James Black bowie knife.
‘Mr. Chass and his son were well liked,’ lied the chief of the banker’s sycophants, seeing what he believed was a chance to further ingratiate himself in that direction. He and the rest of the County Commissioners had entered the jailhouse when the departure of the “warriors” left space for them. Without allowing anybody else a chance to comment, he went on, ‘So, while they might have acted a trifle hastily, they were merely wanting to see that justice was done.’
‘I always thought a court of law had to decide that,’ Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog remarked, from where he was examining the wounded dog with its owner. ‘Fact being, way it’s always been taught to me, in these United States, a man is innocent until a jury’s heard what it’s all about and found him guilty.’
‘He is guilty!’ the sycophant declared. ‘There’s been bad blood between him and old Dexter Chass for years.’
‘Had they got to throwing lead at one another afore this?’ the small Texan wanted to know.
‘Well, no,’ the sycophant admitted reluctantly, then nodded at the young rancher. ‘But you know what men like him are like!’
‘Half-breeds, huh?’ Dusty hinted, sounding as if he was impressed by being consulted by a person of such obvious superior intellect and social status.
‘Yes, although I suppose “white Indians” might be a more polite term,’ the sycophant replied smugly and as if conferring a favor upon Mort by his magnanimous correction. ‘You know how dangerous the Indian blood they have makes them.’
‘I’ve allus heard tell it do,’ the Kid drawled, cradling the rifle across the crook of his left arm and darting a glance of what the speaker took to be contempt at the rancher. ‘Had this hombre’s got made wolf bait been scalped?’
‘Scalped?’ the sycophant repeated, then he nodded in understanding and a note of disappointment came into his Mid-Western voice as he continued, ‘Well, no. Not that I know of. Why?’