by J. T. Edson
There sounded an angry, savage growl from the listening cowhands. Amongst the riders who worked around Holbrock the big dog was a firm favourite. It could outfight any other dog within miles and could run down a coyote which no other dog could do. There’d been considerable money won betting on the dog in both capacities and the cowhands were riled by the wanton killing. If Mort Lewis himself had been killed by the posse the cowhands would not have worried. He was one of them, friendly with them, but that was all. There would have been no demonstrations either for or against the man who had done the shooting. The dog was different and Stewart knew he’d lost the support of the cowhands for Scanlan was his man.
‘You stood by and let him do that to one of my men?’ Stewart snarled at the sheriff.
‘That’s right, I did,’ agreed Dickson evenly. ‘I’d have done it myself but Cap’n Fog licked me to it. You’d best get them to the doctor. Dave, happen you want to be on hand to give evidence.’
Stewart took the hint. He turned on his heel and a couple of the loafers helped his men to the doctor’s house. The rest of the crowd began to move away. There was nothing more to be done now, except wait for the result of the inquest.
Humboldt and a couple of his partners moved forward. There was an air about all of them which amused the sheriff who knew them to be snobs of the first water. He knew that none of them would have thought of speaking to an insignificant looking cowhand like Dusty Fog unless there was something in it. They would have been even less friendly to the Kid under other circumstances, for there was a dangerous and most disrespectful air about him which would not go down with men like Humboldt.
‘I hope that you’ll find our little proposition quite to your satisfaction, Captain Fog,’ Humboldt gushed. ‘I’ll expect you and your friend to dinner tonight, unless he’d rather I arranged alternative entertainment for him.’
The Kid grinned. He knew that Humboldt would never think of inviting him to visit the house wider normal circumstances and would have been only too keen to avoid the sort of dinner Humboldt would give. This time he intended to go along with Dusty, just for laughs.
‘We’ll see about it, after the hearing,’ Dusty replied. ‘I want to know what’s happening hereabouts before I make any decisions.’
‘It’s simple really,’ Humboldt said. ‘Mort Lewis is a half-breed. He’s supposed to run a small cattle spread in the hills but he spends a lot of time away from it. He acts as guide for hunting parties and things like that. His neighbour, old Dexter Chass, and he don’t — didn’t get on well together—’
‘We’d best get to the Long Glass,’ Dickson put in. ‘Will you and the Kid act as special deputies, Cap’n?’
‘Sure will,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Go fetch that gent along, Lon.’
The Long Glass saloon was quiet, soberly quiet. The bar and tables were cleared of glasses, bottles and decks of cards, and there was an air of expectancy among the all-male crowd, a silent awareness of dramatic happenings.
‘If you’d care for a drink, to refresh yourself after your long ride, I think it could be arranged, Captain,’ Humboldt said in a confidential whisper.
‘No thanks,’ Dusty replied, watching the door of the saloon. He saw the Kid approaching with Mort Lewis and glanced at Stewart who was sitting at a table at the side of the room.
Dickson took a seat at the same table as Dusty and Humboldt, in the centre of the room. The Kid, still carrying his rifle, followed Mort to the bar just behind the table. Humboldt looked down at Mort, then gulped for he was not fastened in any way. He was about to raise the matter when Dusty spoke:
‘Start from the beginning, sheriff. What’s this all about?’
‘Are you setting up as judge, or something?’ Stewart asked.
‘Nope, just wanting to hear why you want this man hung for a murder. Do you object, mister?’
Stewart’s snort could have meant anything but he made no reply, nor did he offer to take up the challenge. He sat up straighter in his chair, his lips tight and unsmiling as he watched what was happening. Before the arrival of the small Texan he would have been at that centre table, running things. Now he was shoved back and the men who would have supported him were siding with Dusty Fog.
‘First off, Captain,’ Dickson replied, speaking so that his words carried to the listening men. ‘Like you were told, Mort and Chass were neighbours. It’s not good grazing up there in the hills and Mort allowed Chass was driving his stock on to the Lewis land. Got to hard words over it and Mort threatened to shoot any more of Chass’ stock he found over the land.’
‘We all heard Lewis threaten old Dexter,’ Stewart yelled. ‘Right in this saloon he said he’d gun down any more of Dexter’s cattle he found over the line. And shooting a man’s cattle’s a sure way to get him riled up and shooting back.’
‘Only there wasn’t any shooting back, way you told it,’ Dusty answered, ‘What happened next, sheriff?’
‘Couple of days back, Dave there came in asking if anybody’d seen Dex Chass around. Nobody had, they’d not given it no thought, he didn’t often come into town. So yesterday Dave went to see Chass and found him dead.’
‘That’s right,’ Stewart put in. ‘He was lying face up. I didn’t find the bullet hole until I went to look at him. He’d been shot in the back; been dead for ten, eleven days.’
‘How’d you know that?’ Dusty asked, watching the rancher.
‘I saw him eleven days back. Come to think of it, the date was the eleventh and it’s the twenty-third today. Was over to talk a deal with Dex; he wanted to sell out, sounded real scared of Lewis. I told him to come over to my place and see me the next day but he never showed. We had that cloudburst, remember, Jerome. It kept me busy for the next few days and I thought Dex must have changed his mind. Then, when I heard nobody’d seen him around I went out to his place. He was either killed soon after I left or during the storm.’
‘You certain sure about the date?’ inquired the Kid.
‘I am. There were no tracks around the house and the rain left some real soft earth all around. The killing took place either before the storm, or during it; that was what washed the sign out. If it’d been done after the storm, there’d have been plenty of sign,’ Stewart replied.
‘Was Chass good with a gun?’ Dusty drawled.
‘Naw,’ scoffed Stewart, seeing a chance to blacken the evidence against Mort Lewis even more. ‘Old Dex wasn’t any sort of hand with a gun. Didn’t even own a handgun, only a worn out Kentucky rifle. He wouldn’t have stood any kind of chance in a gunfight against the half-breed.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘What’s strange about it,’ growled the rancher, seeing Dusty was holding the crowd’s attention.
‘Why Mort’d shoot a man in the back and take a chance of getting hung, when he was in the right and could have taken the same man in what’d be classed as a fair fight,’ Dusty answered. ‘It doesn’t figger to me.’
‘Hell, you all know what half-breeds are,’ Stewart answered. ‘He wouldn’t stack up against any man in a fair fight.’
‘That’s a lie and you know it, Stewart,’ Mort Lewis growled, he was quivering with anger but controlling it for he knew that if he attacked Stewart the rancher would shoot him down, pleading self-defence. ‘I’ll face you any time you haven’t got your hired guns at your back.’
‘Sounds like a fair offer,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Want the loan of my old Dragoon, Mort?’
‘Cut it, Lon,’ barked Dusty. ‘Let this gent have his say, then we’ll hear what Mort’s got in answer to it. I haven’t seen anything which makes me think that Mort did the killing.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you why,’ Stewart replied. ‘I went across Lewis’ land on the eleventh, looking for him. I saw about a dozen head of Chass’ stuff over the Lewis line. I never saw a sign of Lewis but one of my boys reckoned he saw the breed skulking around the Chass place.’
‘One of your men?’ Dusty put in. ‘How many did you have along?’
‘Just a couple or so. Thought we might find some of my stock up there and be able to bring them down. It was Scanlan who thought he saw the breed.’
‘Did he see him?’
‘Shem allowed he did,’ Stewart replied. ‘He could have come down after we’d gone and cut old Dex down.’
‘Who could have?’ inquired Dusty mildly.
‘Lewis. Who’d you think?’
‘Way you said it, I’d have thought your man came back,’ Dusty drawled. ‘So you allowed that Mort must have done the killing. How about the body?’
‘Brought it in with us, left it down at Doc Harvey’s place for burial.’
Dusty nodded. He turned in his chair and looked at Mort Lewis. ‘It looks like you’d best tell us where you were on the eleventh, Mort.’
The young man frowned, then he looked relieved. ‘I wasn’t anywhere near to Holbrock. I’ve been away for near three weeks.’
‘Where were you?’ Dusty asked again.
‘Took an Eastern newspaper woman and her artist out to Long Walker’s camp.’
‘That sounds real likely!’ Stewart yelled.
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Mort answered. ‘I’m part Comanche and don’t mind who knows it. Least, they never hold white blood against me. I took the young woman and this feller who done the drawings for her; they offered good money and I can always use that. Five days back I brought her out and down to Fort Worth, so’s she could get a stage East with her story. When we got to Fort Worth she found that she’d left a book in the Comanche camp, one she used to write what happened each day in. Wanted me to go back for it, said she’d make it worth my while. I was going to head out when she said she’d heard from her paper; they wanted her to go some place and get another story. She paid me and told me to get the book, make it a package and mail it to the New York Tribune.’
‘And did you?’ Humboldt asked, sounding as if he did not believe a word of what Mort had said.
‘Came home first. I aimed to go out to my place, then make for Long Walker’s village again.’
‘How about the woman?’ Dusty put in. ‘What was her name?’
‘Clover, Miss Anthea Clover, got it all down on a piece of paper in my warbag out to the spread.’
‘When did you get back?’
‘Late afternoon, yesterday, Cap’n. I came into town this morning.’
‘Why’d you light out and run when the sheriff started to ask you about the killing?’ Dusty went on.
‘I saw Stewart and his boys watching. I didn’t figure that anybody who counted would listen to me, or believe me. I didn’t even figure I’d get a trial.’
‘Nonsense!’ Humboldt barked. ‘I don’t hold any man’s blood against him. If the case came up—.’
‘I lit out as fast as I could, Cap’n,’ Mort interrupted. ‘You saw what happened when they caught up with me.’
‘I saw,’ agreed Dusty, then looked at Stewart. ‘Your men wanted to lynch Mort as soon as they caught up with him.’
‘Dex Chass was a real popular man.’
‘Was he?’ Dusty drawled, his eyes on the rancher. ‘That still doesn’t mean Mort killed him,’
‘Dex didn’t have no enemies,’ growled Stewart.
‘Knowed a real friendly man, one time,’ the Kid said. ‘Allus inviting folks into the house, feeding ‘em and acting kind. Man he took in one night killed him for the bit of money he’d got.’
‘It’s possible a stranger did the killing here,’ Humboldt put in, brightening slightly at the chance of getting Mort Lewis out of trouble without antagonizing Dave Stewart.
‘Sure, there’s no evidence that Mort did the killing. Only thing we know for sure is that he and Dex didn’t get along,’ Dickson remarked. ‘And the same could be said about Dex and near on everybody he came in contact with.’
‘I daresay a good half of the town didn’t really care for Dex at that,’ Humboldt said thoughtfully. ‘An unpleasant man, I always found.’
The Ysabel Kid gave a laugh entirely without mirth. ‘Sounds like Mr. Chass wasn’t so all-fired popular as we was led to believe. Half the town didn’t cotton to him and he didn’t have no enemies.’
There was a guffaw of laughter from the cowhands. The Ysabel Kid had a reputation amongst them as a disrespecter of persons who would thumb his nose at the devil if he felt so inclined. Dusty Fog and Mark Counter might be regarded as tophands, and leaders of the cowland society, but the Kid was a wild heller with no respect for pomp and dignity. He was proving it here for Stewart was a bad man to cross and should be accorded every respect.
‘Reckon Dave gave us the wrong impression — unintentionally of course,’ the sheriff remarked, grinning broadly. ‘Ole Dex was a cantankerous, mean old cuss at best. He wouldn’t get shot by anybody he took in for a meal, because he wouldn’t offer to take them in in the first place. I don’t reckon you could have found three people to give him a good word — afore he was killed.’
‘Got to be tolerable popular after he was dead,’ grunted the Kid. ‘But I still haven’t seen anything to prove Mort did it.’
‘He ran away!’ Stewart snapped.
‘Sure, and he just told us why,’ Dusty replied evenly. ‘You and your crew would have been reaching for a rope before Mort could open his mouth and tell where he’d been.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ve been acting all-fired eager to get Mort blamed and hung ever since he was brought in,’ Dusty said, without raising his voice. ‘Why’re you so eager?’ He paused, then went on. ‘It wouldn’t be because there’d be a chance of buying up two ranches, instead of one?’
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Stewart snarled.
‘Neither do I.’
Stewart’s eyes locked with Dusty’s, but it was the rancher who looked away first. He was faced down and did not like the feeling, for he was the biggest rancher around Holbrock. He’d also built up a reputation as a fast gun hardcase but knew he didn’t stack knee-high against that small, insignificant cowhand called Dusty Fog. Stewart’s ranch might seem big to Eastern eyes, but the OD Connected, the spread where Dusty was foreman, would swallow three ranches as big as Stewart’s. Stewart’s outfit boasted they were tough, hard and never curried below the knees, but the OD Connected did not boast. They were acknowledged as being without peer for salty toughness and Dusty Fog was the toughest of them all. Scanlan’s face was mute testimony to that fact.
‘All right,’ Stewart said finally. ‘I suppose you’re taking the breed at his word about not being around here?’
‘No, we’re not,’ Dusty replied. ‘Where’d you stay at Fort Worth, Mort?’
‘Outside, sagehenning most all the time,’ Mort answered. ‘I took Miss Clover in to the Bull’s Head Hotel, then moved out. Used to meet her on the edge of town each day and show her what she wanted to see, while she was waiting for the stage.’
‘She works for the New York Tribune,’ the sheriff remarked. ‘Could they get word to her?’
‘Sure, I reckon they might. She tells me she’s been to other Injun villages. This new chore was to one out in the Dakota country. They might be able to get word to her.’
‘Which leaves that diary at Long Walker’s camp,’ Dusty said thoughtfully. ‘That’d prove you’d been there, if it could be found.’
‘It’s in my tipi,’ Mort replied.
‘Which same means it’ll still be there,’ the Kid went on. ‘It’ll prove that you was there, I reckon.’
‘Who you got in mind to go and fetch it back?’ Stewart growled, ‘Lewis? A white rnan’d be plumb loco to go in there.’
‘Sure would, Cap’n,’ a grizzled old-timer agreed. ‘Long Walker don’t cotton none to white men going into his land.’
‘It’s all right for young Mort there, he knows them.’
Dusty smiled, then turned to the Ysabel Kid. ‘How about it.’
‘Dusty,’ replied the Kid, ‘you’re looking at a real plumb loco man.’
‘There’s n
o need for that, Captain,’ Humboldt spoke up. ‘We’ll take Lewis’ word for—’
‘No, you won’t,’ Dusty barked. ‘Not just to keep on the right side of me. We aim to clear Mort, or find he’s been lying.’
Stewart grunted, coming to his feet. ‘So you aim to go and try to find Long Walker’s camp, Kid?’ he asked. ‘Hell, there ain’t a white man in the State could do that.’
‘Waal, I’ll surely give her a try,’ replied the Kid. ‘I’ll be back by noon, seven days from now, Dusty.’
‘If you come back,’ Stewart sneered.
‘I’ll try, mister. I’ll surely make a try.’
‘Then it’s settled, gentlemen,’ Humboldt said, pleased that the inquest was over and hoping to get Dusty to talk business. ‘This inquest is postponed for seven days and will meet again at noon on the thirtieth to hear the evidence of the Ysabel Kid.’
The bartender reached under the bar and brought out a bottle of whisky as a sign that the official business was over. The crowd made either for the door or the bar. Humboldt turned to Dusty, beaming with satisfaction.
‘Would you care for that drink now, Captain?’ he asked.
‘Later, thanks. I’m acting as deputy for the sheriff and I’ve got to take the prisoner back to the jail.’
‘I thought you was so sure he was innocent,’ Stewart sneered. He’d come up and was near enough to have heard what Dusty had said.
‘What difference does that make?’ replied Dusty, and looked at Mort. ‘The sheriff’s holding him on a charge of damage to property and he can’t afford to pay either for the damage or his fine. Can you, Mort?’
‘Sure can’t, Cp’n,’ Mort answered. He did not know what Dusty was getting at but was willing to go along with it. ‘I’ll just have to stop in jail until I can work it off.’
Stewart did not reply. He could see what Dusty was doing. With Mort Lewis out of jail there was a chance of stirring up trouble, of pushing him into some foolish move. He turned and left the saloon, slamming through the batwing doors in a cold rage.