by J. T. Edson
Not only that, but Basmanov noticed a coolly confident attitude about the small Texan, except that Dusty no longer gave an impression of being small. There stood a big man and one fully competent in all matters pistolero; or the barn’s owner missed his guess. In all probability, he would not even require the backing of his watchful, proddy-looking companions to deal with Basmanov.
‘Put your horses up, if you want to,’ the owner muttered, darting a glance at the hayloft. Then he sucked in a breath as if steeling himself to continue. ‘The price is ten dollars a night, or fifty the week, for a stall. It’s seven or thirty if you want to put them in the corrals.’
‘Each, or for the lot?’ asked Waco coldly.
‘Each!’ Basmanov answered.
‘That’s sort of high, ain’t it?’ Waco challenged.
‘This’s no ordinary town, Brother Matt,’ Dusty pointed out, concealing his pleasure at the way in which the youngster had made the correct response to permit his answer.
‘Fellers like us have to pay high for what we’ll get here.’
‘That’s true,’ affirmed Basmanov, with an air of relief.
‘We’ll take a stall each for a week as starters, mister,’ Dusty went on, returning to the grulla, opening his saddlebag and extracting payment for the three animals’ accommodation.
‘My men aren’t around yet,’ Basmanov commented, slightly louder than was necessary, as he accepted the money. ‘If you don’t mind making a start on your horses, I’ll go and fetch them.’
‘For what we’re paying—!’ Waco began, bristling with indignation,
‘We can do the gent a lil favor,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Let’s make a start.’
Although he had taken no part in the conversation, the Kid had not been idle. His eyes and ears had continued to work, the latter gathering information that might prove of use later. Bosmanov returned to his office and closed the door. Looking pointedly at the hayloft, the Kid raised his right forefinger in a quick point and then vertically as if indicating the number ‘one’. Nodding to show they understood, Dusty and the youngster selected stalls and led in their horses. While taking care of the animals, the trio discussed their plans for celebrating and Dusty warned the other two about taking too many drinks.
Basmanov still had not returned by the time the trio had off-saddled and attended to the feeding of their horses. While they did not mention the matter, each of them assumed that he had left through another door in his office and was reporting their arrival to the mayor. Each of them stood outside his horse’s stall, waiting for it to finish eating. The sound of approaching footsteps and voices, one a woman’s, reached their ears. It seemed unlikely that the proprietor’s ‘Regulators’ would announce their coming in such a manner; but, instead of taking chances, the trio turned towards the front doors.
Accompanied by four young men, a small, petite, shapely and beautiful brunette entered. Dressed in a top hat, with a long, flowing silk securing band, riding habit and boots, she looked to be in her early twenties and seemed to enjoy being the centre of the quartet’s attention. The riding gloves she wore concealed her marital status. Whatever it might be, going by her companions, she showed mighty poor judgment of character or a misplaced faith in human nature.
All the quartet dressed well, like cowhands after being paid off from a trail drive. Their guns hung in fast-draw holsters and they exhibited a kind of wolf-cautious meanness that screamed a warning to eyes which knew the West. Even more than his companions, that applied to the tallest newcomer.
The swarthily-handsome features of Ben Columbo had been displayed prominently on wanted posters outside most Texas law enforcement offices. He had committed a number of robberies, always killing his male victims and doing much worse to any woman unfortunate enough to fall into his hands.
Although Dusty could not place them, two of Columbo’s companions probably had prices on their heads. He harbored no such doubts about the third. The last time they had met, Joey Pinter was a member of Smoky Hill Thompson’s gang and Dusty had been the marshal of Mulrooney, Kansas. Luckily for the success of the trio’s mission, rumor claimed that Pinter had branched out on his own recently. Dusty hoped it was true. He had no wish for Thompson, an old friend, to be in Hell, as that might complicate matters. Recalling how he had rough-handled Pinter at their last meeting, Dusty knew that the other would neither have forgotten nor forgiven him.
Everything depended on how effectively the beard served to disguise Dusty.
Becoming aware of the trio’s presence, the new arrivals stopped talking. All of them looked hard at Dusty, Waco and the Kid. As yet, Pinter showed no hint of recognition.
‘You are strangers,’ the brunette challenged, her voice holding just a touch of a foreign accent that tended to enhance her obvious charms. ‘Has my husband seen you?’
‘Depends on which of these gents he is, ma’am,’ Dusty replied.
‘None of them. He is the mayor of Hell,’ the woman explained. ‘But, if he has not seen you, why are you wearing those guns?’
‘I didn’t know we was supposed to check them in, ma’am,’ Dusty said, watching the quartet studying his party. ‘Anyways, these gents’re wearing their’n.’
‘But yes,’ agreed the brunette. ‘My husband has given them permission to do so. It is the ruling of the Civic Council that no visitor may wear a gun without being given' permission. Surely your guide explained that to you?’
‘No, ma’am,’ Dusty drawled, growing increasingly aware of the scrutiny to which Pinter was subjecting him. ‘We didn’t bother with no guide to get here. Still, if them’s the rules, we’ll play along. Let’s go and see the mayor, Brother Matt, Comanch’.’
A sensation of cold annoyance bit at Columbo as he thought back to how he had been compelled, by the threat of lurking Kweharehnuh warriors, to hand over his weapons. That he had submitted to such an indignity and the small, insignificant stranger had avoided it aroused his anger. He knew how Giselle Lampart regarded such matters and suspected a threat to his position as her favorite escort.
‘It’s not that easy, hombre,’ Columbo declared, stepping away from the woman. ‘You don’t walk around heeled until after Mayor Lampart says so.’
‘Is that the for-real legal law?’ Waco inquired, lounging with his left shoulder against the gatepost of the tobiano’s stall.
‘It is here in Hell,’ Columbo confirmed and, attracting one of his companions’ attention, gave a nod which sent him moving towards the young blond.
‘Are you the town’s duly-sworn and appointed peace officers?’ Dusty asked.
‘You might say that,’ answered Columbo. ‘Which being so, I’ll start by taking your guns.’
‘Ma’am,’ Dusty said, addressing the brunette but keeping his gaze on the men. ‘Would you mind waiting outside?’
‘But why?’ smiled Giselle Lampart.
‘If Columbo tries to take my guns, I’m going to stop him,’ Dusty explained in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘And I’d hate to shed his blood before a beautiful and gracious lady.’
‘Gallantly said, sir!’ Giselle applauded, knowing her actions would act as a goad to Columbo.
‘Just go wait by your hoss, Giselle,’ Columbo ordered, cheeks turning red. ‘This won’t take but a minute.’
‘My!’ the brunette sighed. ‘I feel just like a lady from the days of King Arthur, with the knights jousting for my favors.’
With that, Giselle strolled to where a dainty palomino gelding stood in a stall. Her whole attitude was one of complete unconcern and suggested that such incidents had become commonplace in her daily life. Reaching the gate, she turned to watch the men with an air of eager anticipation.
‘All right, short-stuff,’ Columbo snarled menacingly. ‘Hand over the guns and nobody’ll get hurt.’
‘If you want ’em, you’ll have to come and take ’em,’ Dusty warned. ‘Only, happen that’s your notion, fill your hand before you start. Because if you try, I’ll see you don’t get the chan
ce to rape another girl.’
‘You’ve just got yourself killed, you short-growed son-of- a-bitch!’ Columbo spat out and flickered a glance to his right. ‘Watch the ’breed, Joey. You keep the kid out of it, Heck. Leave short-stuff to me, Topple.’
About to obey, Pinter became aware of the change which had apparently come over Dusty. In some way, the small Texan appeared to have gained size, bulk—and an identity which showed through the beard and the trail dirt.
Like most men who had locked horns with and been bested by Dusty Fog, Pinter had ceased to think of him in mere feet and inches. Instead, he regarded the small Texan as a very big, tough and capable fighting man. A man such like the bearded blond giant who loomed so menacingly before them.
Exactly like him, in fact!
‘Watch him, Ben!’ Pinter barked, commencing his draw. ‘He’s—!’
Due to his surprise and haste to deliver the warning, Pinter had made an unfortunate selection of words. Catching the urgency in his voice as he said, ‘Watch him,’ Columbo did not wait to hear the rest of the message. Already as tense as a spring under compression, Columbo needed little stimulation to trigger him into action. Even as Pinter tried to identify Dusty, Columbo’s right hand started to grab for its gun’s fancy pearl butt.
Since coming to Hell, Giselle Lampart had witnessed a number of gunfights and even provoked a few of them. So she considered herself to be a connoisseur of such matters. In her opinion—and it was the reason why she had shown him so much attention—Ben Columbo was the fastest man with a gun she had ever seen. It seemed most unlikely that his small adversary could hope to survive the encounter.
Crossing so fast that the eye could barely follow their movements, Dusty’s hands closed on the bone handles of his Colts. Half a second later, the guns had left their holsters, been cocked, turned outwards, had the triggers depressed and roared so close together that the two detonations could not be detected as separate sounds. At almost the same instant, a .45 of an inch hole opened in the centre of Pinter’s forehead and a second bullet caught Columbo in the center of the chest.
Having come to a halt some twenty feet from Waco, Heck heard Pinter’s shout and started his draw. Thrusting himself away from the gate, the young blond sent his right hand dipping to the off side Army Colt. Flowing swiftly from its contour-fitting holster, the gun lined and bellowed. Hit over the left eye, Heck went down with his weapon still not clear of the holster.
Having decided that his help would not be needed, Topple stood with his thumbs hooked into his gunbelt. At the sight of Columbo reeling backwards and Pinter’s lifeless body spinning around, he snatched free his right hand with the intention of rectifying his mistake. Alert for such a possibility, Dusty also realized that the young outlaw possessed sufficient skill to pose a very real threat to his existence.
Cocking his Colts as they rose on the recoils’ kick, Dusty swung their barrels to the right. Even as Topple’s revolver started to lift in the small Texan’s direction, two 250-grain bullets passed over it and into the outlaw’s torso. Flung from his feet, Topple dropped his gun and crashed to the floor.
Although he had taken a serious wound, Columbo neither fell nor dropped his Colt. Bringing his bullet-propelled retreat to a halt, he tried to lift and aim his weapon. Almost of its own volition, Dusty’s right hand Colt cocked, passed beneath his extended left arm and turned towards the vicious young killer. Again flame spurted from the muzzle and lead struck Columbo, still without knocking him down. Turning his left hand Colt and elevating it to eye level, Dusty took the split second needed for a rough alignment of the sights. He squeezed the trigger and the hammer fell. The top of Columbo’s head seemed to burst open as the bullet drove up through the handsome face and out of his skull. Stumbling backwards, he struck the wall by the door and collapsed.
Once again Dusty thumb-cocked the Colts as their barrels lifted to the thrust of the recoil. Spinning to the left, he pointed his guns at the men who appeared through the door of the tack-room.
‘Stay put until I know who you are and where you stand!’ Dusty commanded.
‘Which’s my sentiments all along the trail,’ Waco went on, turning right to cover another pair of townsmen who came out of Basmanov’s office.
Satisfied that his amigos could attend to the new arrivals, the Kid let them get on with it. Twisting out his old Colt, he tilted its barrel towards the floor of the hayloft.
‘And tell that feller’s was stamping around up there to come down, pronto, the Kid continued. ‘Else I’ll send something up’s’ll make him wish he’d been more fairy-footed.’
‘You are right, Ivan,’ boomed the man who stood behind the barn’s owner at the tack-room’s door. Stepping by Basmanov, he walked towards Dusty. ‘They are remarkable young men. Gentlemen, please put up your guns. I’m Mayor Lampart and I extend you a cordial welcome to the town of Hell.’
Chapter Seven – One Tenth of Your Loot
The mayor of Hell was a rubbery, blocky man of middle height, jovial-faced and with a pencil-line moustache over full lips. Clad in a well-cut gray Eastern suit, a diamond stick-pin glowing on his silk cravat, he exuded an air of disarming amiability like a professional politician.
At a word from Lampart, Basmanov ordered the man to come down from the hayloft. The other new arrivals crowded forward to look at the four bodies. As a sign of his good faith, Dusty holstered his Colts.
‘I’m right sorry I had to do that in front of your good lady, sir,’ the small Texan stated, indicating the dead outlaws. ‘Only you can’t let that kind push you around.’
‘I suppose not,’ Lampart replied and gave his wife a glance. It was the first sign he had made of being aware of her presence. ‘Giselle will survive it. Won’t you, my dove?’
‘I will,’ agreed the brunette, displaying neither distress nor concern over having seen her four companions shot down. ‘But I don’t think Ben will be so lucky.’
‘His death was only a matter of time,’ Lampart said philosophically. ‘A most unstable young man, with a number of objectionable traits, I always found him. And whom, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of addressing?’
‘Didn’t ole Lard-Guts Butterfield’s pigeon get here to say we was coming?’ Waco inquired, having holstered his Colt and strolled to Dusty’s side.
‘You know about that?’ Lampart demanded and Basmanov let out a low exclamation in a barbaric-sounding foreign language.
‘Brother Ed figured it out,’ Waco explained, in a tone which implied that, with his ‘brother’ doing the figuring, it must be so. ‘He allowed ole Lard-Guts’d send word’s soon’s he got back to Paducah and’d soaked his aching feet-bones in hot water.’
‘Huh?’ grunted the mayor, looking puzzled.’
‘They do reckon doing it’s good for aching feet-bones like he’d have,’ Waco grinned.
‘I—I’m afraid I don’t understand,’ Lampart told Dusty in his pompous East-Coast accent.
‘Two Rangers tried to jump us in Paducah, but we got the drop on them,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘Sheriff had to get up a posse and come after us. We figured he’d take kind to having an excuse to stop afore he caught us, so Comanch’ here went back the first night out and give him one.’
‘How?’ Giselle asked, staring at Dusty with considerable interest.
‘He ran off all their hosses, ma’am,’ Waco answered. ‘Serves ’em right, for shame, fetching along that undertaker when they was chasing us.’
‘Undertaker?’ the brunette gasped, swiveling her gaze at her husband.
‘If he warn’t, he sure dressed like one,’ Waco told her. ‘Big, hungry-looking jasper. That gun he toted, though, he could maybe drum up some business if there wasn’t any.’
While Dusty had said that the trio should try to impress the people of Hell by deducing Butterfield’s connection with the town, he had also decided that they should pretend that they did not tie Hatchet in with it.
‘You ran off Orv Hatchet’s horse?’ Giselle gurgled
delightedly. ‘Oh dear. What I would give to have seen his face.’
‘You know the gent, ma’am?’ Dusty asked.
‘You made a shrewd assumption about the sheriff, Mr. Caxton,’ Lampart interrupted, silencing his wife with a glare. ‘Now, if you gentlemen will accompany me to my office, I will acquaint you with certain matters pertaining to the running of our community.’
‘How about those four?’ Dusty asked, nodding to the corpses.
‘How about them?’ Basmanov challenged.
‘There’s ten thousand dollars on Columbo’s head,’ Dusty replied. ‘Pinter’s worth another five and I’d say there’s a reward on the other two.’
‘So?’ growled Basmanov.
‘So it’s a right pity we’re out here and got no way of toting them someplace’s we could turn ’em in,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Only they’d not keep above ground long enough in this heat.’
‘That’s true,’ Lampart agreed. ‘So we will accommodate them in our boothill. Leave these gentlemen of the Regulators to attend to that.’
‘It’s your town, Mr. Mayor,’ Dusty answered. ‘Get your gear, boys. We’re ready when you are, sir.’
A small crowd had gathered at the front doors, being kept outside by the man from the hayloft and some of the Regulators. These latter had the appearance of prosperous businessmen. All wore guns, but did not give the impression of being experts in their use.
Taking his wife’s arm, Lampart glanced at the front doors and suggested that they leave by the side entrance. With their saddles and bridles slung over a shoulder and saddlebags dangling over the other arm, Dusty, the Kid and Waco accompanied the couple from the building. While leaving, Lampart acted as if he were watching for somebody. If that was so, the expected parties did not make an appearance. Looking relieved, Lampart led the way along the rear of the buildings.
As the party was passing the Honest Man Saloon, the centre of its rear doors opened. A statuesque, beautiful blonde woman stepped out to confront them. From the looks of her, she had not long been out of bed. Her face had no make-up and the hair was held back with a blue ribbon. One naked, shapely leg emerged provocatively through the front of her blue satin robe and it was open sufficiently low to suggest that it came close to being her only garment.