by J. T. Edson
Humboldt rubbed his hands together. He was relieved that the Kid was to be away for a few days. He did not like the idea of that soft-drawling, mocking-eyed young man coming to his house. He was a wild cowhand and not the sort Humboldt would willingly invite. Being with Dusty Fog gave the Kid certain advantages but Humboldt was not sorry he was going. Now an offer to Captain Fog could be made; he could live at the Humboldt house instead of in the best room at the hotel as planned by Humboldt when he saw the Kid.
‘My home is at your disposal, Captain,’ he said.
‘Why, thanks, Mr. Humboldt. Trouble being I’m still working for the sheriff and I’ll be staying at the jail until the Kid comes back. We’ll be ready to move in for a few days when he gets back.’
That was not what Humboldt had meant at all, but he did not say so. Before he was able to say anything more he was too late. Dusty, the sheriff and the Ysabel Kid had escorted Mort Lewis from the saloon and along the street to the Jail. For a moment Humboldt stared at the swinging doors, then followed the others out, heading along the street.
Five hard-looking riders came into town, passing by the sheriff and throwing surprised glances at Mort Lewis. Dusty studied the men: they were not cowhands, even though they wore the clothes. Four looked experienced men in their late twenties and early thirties, but the other was a brash-looking youngster, who would need watching. They passed on towards the other saloon, further along the street. Stewart was about to enter the saloon but stopped and waited for the men, saying something which made them look at Dusty’s party with more interest.
‘Stewart’s bunch,’ Dickson remarked. ‘Calls them cowhands but I don’t reckon any of them’d know a bull from a yearling heifer.’
The Kid ran a hand along the neck of his white stallion. The horse snorted and swung its head to bite him. Grinning, the Kid gripped the saddle horn and swung afork his horse with a lithe bound. He looked down at the other three, then raised his hand in a mocking salute to Humboldt who was puffing along the street towards the jail.
‘I’ll see you in seven days at most, Dusty,’ he said. ‘Don’t take any wooden nickels while I’m gone.’
‘Will you put the prisoner away, sheriff?’ Dusty inquired. ‘I want to go out to the Chass place, happen you can find me a guide.’
‘Reckon Humboldt’d be more’n pleased to show you the way, only he doesn’t know it,’ Dickson replied, grinning broadly, looking at Humboldt, deep in conversation with one of his cronies. ‘He must think a tolerable piece about you, way he acted to the Kid.’
‘Could be our charm,’ drawled Dusty. ‘Or the fact he wants Uncle Devil to sink some money into an idea he’s got. One thing, though, the name’s Dusty.’
‘Best call me Jerome, though why my pappy wanted to tie me with a handle like that I’ll never know. Might be he was trying to get revenge on me for keeping him awake for the first three weeks I was born. I’d like to go out to the Chass place with you, but one of us had best stop in town and watch out for Mort.’
‘Be best,’ Dusty agreed.
A cowhand left the Long Glass saloon, mounted his horse and rode slowly along the street. From the dejected way he slouched in the saddle it was plain to both Dusty and Dickson what was wrong.
‘Howdy Wally,’ Dickson greeted. ‘You spent your pay already?’
‘Waal, not exactly,’ replied the cowhand. ‘Don’t you ever draw one card to an inside straight, Jerome. Or if you do, don’t bet on it when the other man stands pat. You cain’t win.’
It explained why Wally was heading back to his ranch. He’d lost his pay trying to fit a card into the centre of a running sequence at poker, a thing not advocated by the most skilled players.
‘Like to earn five dollars?’ Dusty asked.
‘Depends who I’ve got to kill,’ grinned Wally.
‘Nobody. I’ve got a herd of sheep outside town. Wants a man to care for them.’
‘Sheep!’ Wally bellowed. ‘Me, tending damned woolies?’
‘All right then,’ Dusty answered, showing nothing of the amusement he felt. ‘If you don’t want that chore, how about taking me out to the Chass place?’
‘Don’t know as how I wouldn’t herd sheep,’ grunted Wally. ‘All right, Cap’n, you hired yourself a man. Wally’s tours of the old West, see the sights of Holbrock County, smell the rare, sweet-scented Chass place. You want to go out to it right now?’
‘Just one call to make,’ replied Dusty.
Dickson took Mort to the cells and placed him in one, not bothering to lock the door; then returned to Dusty. He looked at the small Texan and asked:
‘Do you believe Mort’s story?’
‘Sure. It’d have to be true. A man lying’d make up a better story than that.’
With this Dusty turned and with Wally by his side rode slowly along the street. At the Bella Union saloon he halted his horse. This was the second of Holbrock’s saloons and Stewart was inside. Dusty left his horse at the sidewalk and with Wally on his heels went inside.
Stewart looked up as Dusty entered. The rest of his men were seated at the table and all flashed looks at the youngest member of their group. The youngster grinned back and dropped his hand to loosen his gun. He’d been laughing at Salar for failing to take Dusty Fog and boasting what he would do if given the chance. Now it would appear his chance was on hand. He was primed for trouble, egged on by the rancher and the other men.
Halting at the table Dusty looked at the rancher and spoke, his voice carrying to every man in the saloon.
‘Mr. Stewart, I’m riding out of town for a spell. When I come back I’ll expect to find Mort Lewis alive and well.’
‘And what if he isn’t?’
‘I’ll kill you on sight.’
The words were spoken with complete assurance. Stewart’s face lost some colour and he tried to keep his voice hard as he growled:
‘I wouldn’t want to think you’re threatening me.’
‘Why not?’ replied Dusty. ‘That’s just what I’m doing.’
‘Hold i—!’ began the young gunman, starting to his feet. Then he stopped, halfway up, his chair scraping back behind him. He looked as if he’d turn to stone. Dusty’s hands had crossed, made a sight-defying flicker of movement and both matched guns were out, lined, the hammers drawn back to set lead flying. It took him barely half a second from the start of the move to reach his position of readiness.
‘Sit down!’ Dusty’s drawl cut like a knife, sending the youngster back to his seat. The matched guns seemed to be picking out every man at the table, choosing each one as the first mark. ‘What I said goes, Stewart,’ Dusty went on. ‘Remember it. And the next time don’t have a green button to do your fighting for you.’
With that the guns went back to leather and Dusty turned contemptuously out of the saloon. Wally stood with his mouth hanging open, not knowing what to make of the scene, then followed Dusty out. Not a man at Stewart’s table made a move: they hardly appeared to breathe until the doors swung closed on Dusty. Then Stewart let out his breath in a long sigh and looked at the others. His face was pale under the tan.
‘What now, boss?’ asked the biggest of the men, a hard case called Smith.
‘Leave Lewis alone. Dusty Fog’s got friends. They’d be here if anything was to happen to that short runt. We’ll wait for the trial, there’ll be enough on the breed to convict him. I’ll send to Lawyer Rollinson from Dallas to come and prosecute. He’ll get Lewis tried and convicted for us.’
‘I don’t know, boss,’ Smith replied. ‘You told us about that diary. Mort Lewis would’ve made a better story’n that if it warn’t true.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Stewart, looking thoughtfully at the others. ‘Do you reckon the Ysabel Kid could find that Comanche camp?’
There was no reply for a moment, then Salar spoke: ‘I’ve seen the way the Kid walks, way he rides a hoss, way he talks, way he looks at a man. He’s Indian enough to find it.’
‘Then get after him!’ Stewart snapped. �
�All of you. Get him, Salar.’
‘How do you want him, senor?’
‘Dead! If you get him near the Comanche lands make it look as if they killed him. But get him one way or another.’
Dusty and the young cowhand made good time to the Chass place. It was a small, untidy, badly cared for building, the windows covered with dirty sacks. The moment Dusty came near enough he could see why Wally did not care for the place. There was a stench of dirt and decay about it, rotting food and filth pervaded the air and almost masked the sickly smell of death.
The house was just as dirty as Dusty had expected from outside appearances. It was just a one-room building and was filthy beyond belief. The furnishings were poor and rickety, the table lay on one side and a chair broken in a corner. Dusty went in, his face wrinkling with distaste. He struck a match and looked around; there was no need to search the man’s belongings. Dusty was looking for more than clothing or gear, something he could not explain. He’d a hunch about this business; something said at the trial had caught his attention and he wanted to check his theory.
‘Hold the door open, Wally,’ Dusty said, ripping the sacks from the window as he spoke to let more light into the room. ‘I want to look at the floor.’
Dusty examined the floor, there was a shape marked out in the dust and dirt; the shape of a human body. It was blurred and indistinct but told him all he wanted to know.
Turning, he walked to the door. Wally stood outside. ‘Back to town now, Cap’n?’ he asked.
‘I’d like to see the Lewis place first.’ Dusty replied. ‘Would we have time afore nightfall?
‘Be dark afore we get back to town,’ Wally replied.
‘See you get double time after midnight,’ grinned Dusty. ‘It’s a funny thing about the blood, Wally.’
‘I didn’t see no blood.’
‘Yeah. That’s what’s funny about it.’
They rode on across country, forded a shallow stream and reached the Lewis place as the sun was setting. Mort’s house was no bigger, although better cared for, than the other cabin. As they rode up, Dusty noticed that there was only one set of tracks but he could not tell anything about them. He was not skilled at reading tracks and wished he’d got the Kid along. To the Ysabel Kid they would have told a complete story. It was the same at the other place; there was a sign, but Dusty could not tell if it was recently made or not.
The inside of the house was fairly clean. A warbag was lying on the bed and Dusty took it up. He opened the neck and tipped the contents out. The first thing he saw was a slip of paper. He opened it and read Miss Anthea Clover’s name and address, written in a neat feminine-looking hand: that proved part of Mort’s story and should be enough to clear him, for they could find the woman and get her evidence. There was Mort’s spare clothing in the bag and a powder flask, bullet-bag and bullet mould. Dusty picked up the bullet mould and examined it. It was the same as the one Dusty used and looked like a nutcracker except the crushing end was solid in two pieces, with two small holes in the centre. The two holes allowed the molten lead for the bullets to be poured into the moulds inside the metal end. Dusty opened it and noticed something straight away. The two moulds allowed a man to make either round ball or the conical, elongated bullets which were used as a load for the Colt 1860 Army revolver. But with this one, only round balls could be made; the elongated mould was broken through at the pointed end and would be no use.
Putting the rest of the gear into the warbag, Dusty shoved the mould into his pocket and went to the door. Wally stretched and yawned showily, then grinned and mounted his horse. Dusty swung afork the paint and they rode away from the cabin, heading for town.
The clock was touching ten when Dusty rode up to the corral which formed the civic pound and the sheriff’s stable, It was empty, so Dusty turned his horse in through the gate. He cared for the big stallion, paid off Wally and then went to the jail. Mort Lewis and Dickson were playing checkers in the office when Dusty came in.
‘See all you wanted to, Dusty?’ Dickson asked.
‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty, going to the cupboard and taking Mort’s revolver out. He looked down the chamber front, seeing the rounded heads of the .44 balls used for the load. Taking the mould from his pocket he went on. ‘How long’s the conical shaper been broken, Mort?’
‘Shucks, six month or more. I dropped the damned thing and a piece broke out of it. Would have writ and complained to Colonel Colt but I never used the shaped bullets anyway.’
‘You’re like the Kid — pour a load in raw and stick a round ball on top?’
‘Sure. I tried the combustible cartridges one time but the charge in them’s too light.’
Dusty replaced the gun, his face showing nothing of the interest he felt. He came to the table and moved one of Dickson’s men to, another square, allowing Mort to clear the board in a series of jumps.
‘Whyn’t you go out and look up Mr. Humboldt?’ Dickson growled. ‘He’s been here about every ten minutes, wanting to know if you’re back.’
‘I’ll likely do just that,’ replied Dusty. ‘Who’s your coroner?’
‘Doc Harvey. Doctor and undertaker both. He gets them coming and going.’
‘Let’s go see him,’ suggested Dusty. ‘Shut your cell door as you go in, Mort.’
The sheriff rose and followed Dusty from the office. Mort rose, cleaned the checkers, cigarette butts, burnt matches and coffee cups from the table. Then he turned and went back to his cell, closing the door behind him and lying on the hard bunk.
The doctor was annoyed at being called into his office at half past ten. He was a thin, miserable-looking man wearing a sober black suit, a white shirt without a collar and slippers. His pleasure was even less as he listened to the reason for the visit.
‘Sure, I shoved old Dexter under as fast as I could get the hole dug,’ he grunted. ‘Did it as fast as I could.’
‘You examine the body, doctor?’ asked Dusty.
‘Nope. He’d been dead at least eleven days. It wouldn’t have been a pleasant chore.’
‘It won’t get any better either,’ Dusty replied gently. ‘Sheriff wants him out and the bullet dug out before morning.’
‘What?’ Harvey howled like a stuck goat at the words. ‘I can’t rightly do that. I buried him—’
‘And you’re going to have to dig him up again,’ Dickson replied. ‘You’re County Coroner, Doe, and get paid for handling things like this. There’s been some talk around the County Commissioners’ about stopping paying you as there’s not been any work for you to do.’
‘He’s buried proper. I don’t reckon I could dig him up without an order from the Justice of the Peace.’
‘All right, Doe,’ Dickson answered mildly. ‘I’ll go see Mr. Humboldt now. He was asking me if I’d found out where that fifty dollar consignment of coroner’s gear had gone. Saw Big Maisie down to the Flats yesterday. She’s got a necklace that looks like it cost all of fifty dollars.’
Harvey’s sallow face looked even paler. He shot a nervous glance at the door which led to his living room. ‘Hold your voice down, Jerome,’ he ordered quickly. ‘You know there ain’t nothing in that story. It’s just that the wife wouldn’t understand and I hates to see her worried, When do you want that bullet?’
‘We’ll lend you a hand,’ Dickson replied.
‘Doc,’ Dusty remarked as the men left the room, heading for the graveyard. ‘It’s right you can tell which way a body was lying by where the body blood’s settled down, isn’t it?’
‘I heard something about it,’ Harvey growled back. ‘See, Jerome, the blood clots down. If he’s been lying on his stomach it settles in the front or vice versa.’
Dickson nodded. He knew how blood settled and wondered if the doctor had made any of the tests he was supposed to do as Coroner. It was understandable if he had not, Dickson decided, as they uncovered the coffin, raised it to the surface and opened the lid. Harvey, muttering miserably, pulled a bandana over his face and went to w
ork.
Dusty and Dickson drew back, allowing him to work, and stood in silence. Then they replaced the body and reburied it in the shallow grave. Harvey licked his lips nervously and held out his hand with a piece of lead in it.
‘Here you are, Jerome,’ he said ‘This’s the bullet. He’d been lying on his back, from all the signs.’
Dickson struck a match and looked at the bullet. It was elongated, the tip just a little bushed by the impact with flesh. Dusty took the bullet and nodded as if he’d been expecting it.
‘Thanks, Doc,’ Dickson said.
‘That’s all right,’ Harvey answered. ‘Er — Jerome — about that fifty dollar consignment that was lost!’
‘I don’t know a thing about it, Doc,’ the sheriff drawled. ‘Send me a written report of what you found.’
The doctor went his way, leaving Dusty and Dickson to go towards the jail. The sheriff watched Dusty, then remembered something that was bothering him.
‘Stewart’s men left town soon after you did.’
‘So?’
‘They were headed out the same way as the Kid,’
‘Likely. I thought they might. Keep them out of our way,’ drawled Dusty.
‘What’d you find out at the Chass place?’
‘Nothing much. Only that Chass wasn’t killed in the house at all.’
Dickson stopped, his worries about the Ysabel Kid fading as he faced Dusty. ‘What did you say?’
‘Chass wasn’t killed in the house. He was lying on his back, according to the doctor and Stewart. But there was no blood on the cabin floor. The bullet was still inside, too.’
‘So what?’
‘Chass lived in a small cabin. Had he been shot across the width of it, the bullet would have gone clear through him. He was lying in the centre of the room, so the bullet should have gone through. It didn’t.’
‘You know something?’ Dickson growled.
‘Nope, Suspect a mite but I’m not talking about it, yet.’
They walked on together and at the jail Dickson stopped. ‘Dusty! There’s six men after the Kid. Stewart’s boys must be looking for him.’