The Smoking Iron

by Brett Halliday

  “But that don’t mean we got to coddle him from here on out. Particular after he jumped you for stoppin’ the sheriff from killin’ him.”

  Pat licked his cigarette and lit it with a frown of concentration. “Can’t blame him so much for feelin’ that way. He was mad and ’shamed in front of the whole gang. He ain’t old enough to know it’s smart to be careful.”

  “He won’t never get old enough to larn any sense if he keeps on like he’s started,” Ezra muttered with disgust.

  Pat shrugged his shoulders. “I recollect times when you jumped a gun when you hadn’t ought to of.”

  “You gonna set up waitin’ fer him to come in?”

  “I’ll wait a little while anyhow.”

  “Yo’re a damn fool.” Ezra rolled over and buried his face in the thin hotel pillow. “It’ll make him boilin’ mad to find out yo’re watchin’ over him like a papa.”

  Pat said, “Maybe,” and he took a long drag on his cigarette. Ezra began to snore a few minutes later.

  Pat finished his cigarette and got up restlessly. He went to the window and leaned forward with his palms on the sill, looking down on Marfa’s Main Street.

  It looked like any other cowtown main street. The same lighted saloons with saddled horses waiting patiently at the hitching rails outside. The same occasional cowboy weaving his way out of a saloon and across the boardwalk to his mount. There was enough moonglow to light the scene with some distinctness.

  Pat stayed there at the window a long time, looking downward, but he wasn’t thinking about what he was looking at. He was remembering a hundred other western cowtowns at night, the adventures that had come to him in those towns; other nights of long ago when he had been young and wringy like Dusty Morgan.

  And he knew what Dusty was thinking about right now. Dusty was too hotheaded to take the sensible course. He didn’t care anything about Rosa. Pat knew that. Rosa was just a symbol of youth. The sort of girl a man thinks he wants when he is very young and the red blood runs hot in full veins.

  Rosa wouldn’t hold Dusty here in Marfa until past midnight. She had ceased to be important when she flung herself in the sheriff’s arms. But Dusty would stay. Pat Stevens knew that. And he knew he was powerless to prevent whatever was destined to happen. Ezra was right. They couldn’t protect Dusty from his destiny. Dusty didn’t want protection.

  Pat sighed deeply and withdrew from the window. He sat down in the chair and pulled off his boots, then padded over to the washstand in his socks and turned the lampwick very low. He left the door of the room wide open, went around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside Ezra. In a few moments, the big man’s rhythmic snoring lulled him to sleep.

  He came awake suddenly, in full and complete command of his senses. A single shot had wakened him. A second blast followed the first as he sat upright in bed and listened. Both shots had come from a short distance away.

  Ezra kept on snoring.

  Pat got up and went silently to the window. The moon was higher, shedding more light on Main Street. Most of the saloon lights were out and most of the saddled horses had disappeared.

  Silence followed the two shots. The saloon doors remained closed and no one appeared on the street.

  Then Pat’s ears caught the faint thud of running feet coming from the left. Hard bootheels resounded on the boardwalk below his window, and a loud shout came echoing through the night from the direction of the previous shots.

  The running feet pounded into the hotel lobby. Men were beginning to emerge from saloons, gather in little groups on the street.

  The running man was coming up the stairs, three at a leap.

  Pat turned from the window and saw Dusty Morgan slither to a stop in front of number seventeen, jerk the door open and fling himself inside the room.

  Another man was running toward the hotel, shouting hoarse words which Pat could not distinguish. Men trotted across the street toward him, toward the hotel.

  Pat shook the bed and Ezra sat up with a grunt. Before he could ask any questions, Pat directed quietly, “Go to the head of the stairs an’ keep everybody down below. Anybody starts up, throw some lead at the landing where they turn. That way, you can keep ’em where they can’t get a bead on you.”

  Ezra had taken queer orders from Pat too often before to question this one. Though not more than half awake, he obediently trotted out of the room and stationed himself at the head of the stairway with drawn six-gun.

  Pat followed him out, but stepped across the hall to the open door of Dusty Morgan’s room. The young gunman had lighted a lamp and was leaning over a bulging valise on the bed, desperately trying to buckle the straps.

  He whirled about with his hand on his gun when he heard Pat on the threshold. He stared for a moment, then said, “Oh, it’s you.” In the yellow lamplight, his face looked yellow. He seemed older, not a reckless youngster any more but a grimly determined man.

  Pat said, “Yeh. It’s me.” He added casually, “I heard a couple of shots. Then you came running.”

  “That’s right.” Dusty bent over the valise again. He said soberly, “The sheriff is dead.”

  Pat nodded and said, “I was afraid you’d kill him.”

  “But I didn’t.” Dusty’s fingers trembled on the straps. He drew in a long breath and stared at Pat. “I swear I didn’t. Somebody beat me to it. I follered him down an alley an’ heard a shot up ahead. I ran an’ stumbled over him. I throwed one shot up the alley but whoever’d done it was gone by that time.”

  Ezra’s .45 thundered loudly down the hall.

  Dusty jumped and stared in that direction, his hand on his gun. “What was that?”

  “Ezra. He’s holdin’ everybody downstairs,” Pat told him quietly. “So, the sheriff’s dead?”

  “Yeh. With a bullet through his back. And his gun is still unloaded,” Dusty went on bitterly. “Just like you gave it back to him.”

  “Anybody know you were in the alley?”

  “Not more’n half the town. Oh, I’d made my brags. When it was midnight, I went out to look for him. No one’ll ever believe I didn’t do it. I got to get out of town.”

  “I believe you.”

  The young man flinched. “Why?”

  “Because he’s shot in the back.”

  Ezra fired again from the head of the stairs. His bellow sounded through the echoes of the shot: “Stay down there, you damn fools. I’ll kill any man that shows hisself on the landing.”

  “You’re the only one that will believe me,” Dusty Morgan stated fiercely.

  Pat nodded agreement. “You got yoreself right behind the eight ball, looks like.”

  “No use you an’ yore pardner mixin’ up in it. It’s too late to get away now.” Dusty dropped the valise decisively. “I’ll go out an’ go downstairs.”

  Pat stayed in the doorway. “They’ll lynch you without askin’ questions.”

  “Not me. I’ll make ’em kill me first.” Dusty stopped a foot in front of him. “You’re blockin’ the door.”

  Pat stayed there. “Other men’ll get killed too,” he reminded the youth. “They’re doin’ what they think is right.”

  “I can’t help it. It’s done now.” Dusty’s voice rose fiercely. “Get outta my way.”

  “Why no,” said Pat, “maybe we can think of somethin’.” He held up his hand, turned to listen to the sounds coming up from the street through the open window of his room.

  There were loud voices and some angry shouting mingled with the scuffing of boots on the boardwalk outside the hotel. Above that noise came the loud clatter of galloping horses down the street, the jingle of chains and the creak of wheels.

  “What time is it?” Pat asked swiftly.

  “A little past midnight. What’s it matter? It’s too late to matter what time it is.”

  “Maybe not,” muttered Pat. “That’s the El Paso stage pullin’ in. If you could get out the window …”

  “What good would it do? Even if I did get out th
e window an’ could get on the stage? I’m branded as a murderer. They’d send word ahead to stop the stage.”

  “Sure. The regular stage wouldn’t be no good. But there’s another one leaves right after the El Paso stage gets in. For Hermosa.”

  “On the Border?”

  That’s right. If you could get on that …” Pat moved past Dusty to the window of number seventeen. He leaned out and looked down, nodded with satisfaction. “This is right over the alley. No one’s watchin’ it. They think they’ve got you cooped up an’ you can’t get out ’cept down the stairs.” He snatched up a thin blanket from the bed and began tearing it into strips.

  “Wait a minute.” Dusty’s voice was sullen. “If I do slip off like this an’ get away I’ll have to keep on goin’ across the Border. There’ll never be a chance of provin’ that I didn’t do it.”

  “How much chance you think you’ll have if you go downstairs now an’ get killed?”

  “But that’s the cleanest way,” Dusty argued. “Better’n spendin’ the rest of my life a renegade.”

  “Any way of spending yore life is better than not spendin’ it at all,” Pat snapped. He was busily tying strips of the blanket together. “A smart man knows when to run away,” he went on angrily. “Long as you’re alive, there’s a chance of comin’ clear. Only time a man has to give up is when he’s dead.” He tossed the improvised strips out the window and began tying the end to the bedstead. “I reckon the Hermosa stage starts out from the livery stable. Best way, I figger, is to slip down the alley an’ get down the street to a place where the stage’ll pass right after it starts out. Stop the driver an’ make him take you. Ezra an’ me’ll stay here an’ keep ’em downstairs till the stage is gone.”

  “What about my hawses? When I get to Hermosa …”

  “Keep right on goin’ across the river at Hermosa. Hole up at Boracho on the other side. We’ll be ridin’ that way tomorrow, and we’ll bring all four hawses with us. Get goin’.” Pat stepped back and nodded toward the window.

  Dusty Morgan hesitated another instant. “I don’t know why yo’re helpin’ me …”

  “Because you need help.”

  “But you’ll get into trouble.”

  Pat laughed and shook his head. “Not us. Trouble is somethin’ me an’ Ezra sleep with. Get goin’ out the window before that Hermosa stage takes out.”

  Dusty hesitated with his lips clamped in a thin straight line. Then he nodded and held out his hand. “I’ve been a danged fool,” he admitted gruffly.

  Pat gripped his hand. “See you in Boracho in two-three days.”

  Dusty nodded and slid over the window sill. Pat leaned out and watched him go down the blanket strips to the shadowed alley. His gaze followed Dusty Morgan’s body until it was swallowed up by darkness at the other end of the alley.

  He turned and went out of the room, grinned down the hall at Ezra who was crouched, barefooted, at the head of the stairs with his gun trained on the landing below.

  Ezra’s one eye glared back at him questioningly as he went into number nineteen and sat down to pull his boots on. Then he picked up Ezra’s boots and carried them to him.

  “Dusty’s gone out the window,” he announced quietly. “I’ll hole ’em here while you pull yore boots on.”

  “What’s it all about?” Ezra grunted. “What do they want him for?”

  “Sheriff’s dead. Shot through the back.”

  Ezra stared at him for a moment, then said, “You do get us into the dangedest messes,” and began pulling on his boots.

  6

  Dusty Morgan was in a confused and bitter frame of mind when he hit the ground at the end of the blanket rope from his hotel room. He crouched there in the shadowed dimness for a moment, listening to the loud muttering of the men gathered in front of the hotel.

  They were cursing him, thirsting for his blood, and here he was, slipping away from them like any common criminal, cowering here in the darkness while two strangers held the angry men at bay upstairs.

  The thought of escape under these circumstances was revolting to him. It would be accepted as a sure admission of guilt. If he did get away into Mexico, he’d be forever marked as a murderer, one who had shot an unarmed man in the back in a quarrel over the favors of a half-breed Mexican girl.

  For a moment as he crouched there, he was tempted to go boldly to the street and announce himself to the mob who clamored for him. If they’d give him a chance to explain …

  But, he realized they wouldn’t. They were in a mood to shoot first and ask questions afterward. Pat Stevens was right, of course. Dead, he’d never prove his innocence. As long as he remained alive there was always the chance that the truth about the shooting of the sheriff might become known.

  He gritted his teeth and turned away from the street, skulked cautiously along the side of the hotel to the rear exit of the alley.

  Keeping in the shadows as much as possible, he made his way around to a point near Joe Baines’ livery stable on the road leading westward into the Big Bend. He could see the big El Paso-San Antonio stage halted in front of the livery stable, and hostlers were bustling about changing the twelve-horse team.

  In front of the big stage was a smaller one, with six horses harnessed and waiting. He knew that must be the Hermosa stage. He crouched by the side of the road and watched while men transferred baggage and supplies from the through stage to the smaller one. From that distance, he couldn’t see very clearly, but it looked as though some passengers were being transferred. Then he saw the driver climb into his high seat in front, and a moment later his whiplash cracked out over the backs of the leaders.

  The six-horse team swung away sharply from the stable.

  Dusty Morgan began trotting forward to meet it, giving the impression that he was running toward town in an effort to intercept the vehicle.

  He timed his approach well, was seen by the driver before the stage had gained much speed, but after it was well away from the stable and from any possibility of his being seen and recognized by any of the townspeople.

  The lead team snorted and swerved aside to avoid running him down. The driver tightened his lines and leaned down from the high seat to peer at the dismounted man as Dusty shouted:

  “Hey! Stop the stage for me.”

  The driver sawed on the lines and brought the six horses to a stop twenty feet ahead. Dusty panted alongside and leaned over the front wheel. “My hawse gave put down the road a piece. This the stage to Hermosa?”

  “That’s right. You got a ticket?”

  “No. I was jest ridin’ in to catch it. But I got plenty of money.” Dusty reached into his pocket.

  The driver glanced back over his shoulder at the stage depot a couple of hundred yards away. An avaricious glint showed in his eyes. He grunted, “No use wasting time goin’ back to buy a ticket. I’ll take the cash. The fare’s twenty dollars.”

  Dusty counted out twenty dollars in gold and handed it up to the driver. He went back to the side door and jerked it open.

  There was a loud shouting at the livery stable. Men began running toward the halted stage.

  With the cash fare in his pocket, the driver was as anxious to get away without having his passenger seen as was Dusty. He yelled at the leaders and cracked his whip just as Dusty stepped inside the dark interior of the vehicle.

  The resulting lurch sent Dusty sprawling onto the floor. The horses swung into a trot and then into a wild gallop. Dusty got up off the floor and made his way back to the rear of the swaying coach. He pressed his face against the pane of dirty glass and looked back, but the moonlight was too dim to give a clear picture of what was going on back there. He had a confused impression of men gathering on horseback. It might well be a mounted posse forming to follow the stage. Someone might have seen the strips of blanket dangling from his hotel window, or Pat and Ezra might have let the secret of his escape out.

  He couldn’t tell. At least, there would be some respite even if a posse was after
him. The stage was rolling along at high speed and mounted men would have to push their horses hard to overtake it.

  Dusty turned back from the window and felt his way in the darkness to an empty seat. He couldn’t see whether there was anyone else inside the dark coach or not. He got the makings from his pocket and mechanically be gan to roll a cigarette. He spilled some of the flake tobacco, but eventually fashioned a thin cylinder which stayed together. He struck a match and cupped it in his hands, putting flame to the tip of his cigarette. As he drew in deeply, the tiny light flared up, briefly illuminating a face. A voice spoke hesitantly from the seat across from him: “You going to Hermosa too?”

  Dusty’s fingers twitched and the match went out. He took a deep puff of smoke before replying, “Yeh. I dang near missed the stage back yonder.”

  “You live around here?” The voice sounded young and eager. Sort of strange and cityish, without the Texas drawl Dusty was accustomed to hear.

  He said, “Yeh. Near abouts,” in a gruff tone to discourage further questions.

  But the other passenger was not easily discouraged. “My name’s Ben Thurston,” he told Dusty. “From Colorado. I’ve been riding stages for five days getting here.”

  Dusty pulled on his cigarette and didn’t say anything. He listened intently for some sound of pursuit from behind, but the rumbling noise made by the stage was so loud he couldn’t have heard a posse if it was coming.

  “I’m headed for Hermosa,” Ben Thurston said importantly.

  “Dodgin’ the law?”

  Ben laughed. A sort of whinnying laugh. “No me. But they do say there’s lots of outlaws here in the Big Bend. Is that so?”

  “I reckon.”

  There was a short silence inside the stage. But the Colorado youth was avid for conversation. “Are you acquainted with the K T ranch on the Border?”

  “Not personal. I’ve heard tell of the Katie.”

  “There’s a girl running it now. Katie Rollins. She was named after the ranch. Katie. See? For the brand: K T.”

  Dusty had heard all about Katie Rollins and the big ranch she had inherited after her father’s death, even as far away as Pecos. He gave a noncommittal grunt and dropped his cigarette butt on the floor to toe it out. He wondered how long it would take a posse to overtake the stage rocking along behind galloping horses.