by J. T. Edson
‘You’ll likely be joining the other high mucky-mucks in the backroom now, I reckon?’ Finnegan queried, after having presented the Texans with the beers they requested and drunk to the success of the spur-line.
‘Huh?’ Dusty inquired.
‘Mr. Sangster and the rest of the Pullman car crowd,’ the saloon-keeper elaborated, his tone giving only the slightest hint of his disapproval for the men to whom he was referring. ‘They wouldn’t be coming out front here with the work crews.’
‘Here’ll do us just fine,’ the small Texan declared and knew he had won a point in Finnegan’s estimation. ‘Fact being, I’m figuring on going around to get to know those of them I haven’t already met.’
‘Is there anything I can do for you first?’ the saloon-keeper inquired.
‘Tell me what you reckon’s making the work go so slow,’ Dusty requested, concluding this was part of the advice he was expected to seek and giving a signal his companions interpreted correctly as asking them to make sure the conversation was not overheard by the other occupants of the room. Waiting until they spread along the counter on either side of himself and the owner, he continued, ‘If it is going slow.’
‘It is,’ Finnegan confirmed, nodding his approval at Dusty’s caution and discrediting the rumor of his loud voice for once by holding his tone at a level which carried only to the small Texan. ‘But that’s not the fault of the work crews. They’re good men and hard working, most of ’em.’
‘Then who is to blame?’ Dusty inquired, making a mental note of the emphasis placed on the word, 'most,' and concluding the point would be elaborated if he asked.
‘It starts at the top,’ the saloon-keeper assessed. ‘Not with Harl Todhunter, though. He might be a lousy poker player and likes Scotch whisky—as them Scotch Jaspers call it—but he sure as hell knows how to get a railroad built. It’s that college-boy New Englander he’s put in charge. That one doesn’t know sic ’em about handling men and those he’s brought to help him’re no better at it.’
‘Brill and Reiser?’
‘Brill’s all right at his own line of work by all accounts and he doesn’t get underfoot too much while he’s checking the gauge, which’s all he does when he’s not surveying ahead.’
‘And Reiser?’
‘No matter what kind of surveyor he is—and he claims to have found a real good place to cross the Platte—Reiser doesn’t strike me’s being any use at all up at the railhead,’ Finnegan answered. ‘Tries real hard to be popular. He keeps on letting on he’s all for the ‘workers’, happen you know what I mean. Top of which, he plays favorites, from what I’ve heard, and that never goes down well with gandy dancers.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with showing a few favors to good men,’ Dusty commented, feeling sure such were not selected. ‘It helps make the others try harder.’
‘His favorites aren’t the good men and having anybody follow their lead wouldn’t help speed up the track-laying,’ the saloon-keeper replied, confirming the small Texan’s supposition. ‘It’s mostly those Russians over there watching us so careful. Happen you don’t reckon it’s too forward of me, Cap’n, I’d keep both eyes on ’em was I you. They’re a bad bunch. What I’ve seen of ’em and the way I’ve heard ’em talking after they been drinking that vodka stuff they’ve had me get ’special for ’em, I’d’ve thought they’d be off some place planning a revolution, ’stead of raising what bit of sweat they raise helping build the spur-line.’
‘Are they causing fuss?’ Dusty asked, looking at the men he had noticed drinking the colorless liquid.
‘Nothing more than belly-aching about the food and how everybody's expected to work too hard for too little pay.’
‘If it’s always like the meal we had tonight, I wouldn’t say there’s anything wrong with the food.’
‘It’s allus the same. Old Manny Bone’s a damned good cook and sees to that.’
‘And the work?’
‘It’s as well paid as any other railroad gives and, being on this sort of country instead of going up and down damned great hills like some do the work’s easier if anything. Leastwise, that’s how the gandy dancers’s matter see it.’
‘Meaning Shamus O’Sullivan, Frenchy Rastignac and Dutchy Voigt?’ Dusty guessed.
‘Them in particular,’ Finnegan confirmed. ‘And, what they say and do, the rest’re likely to listen and follow. I hear tell your trails have crossed down to Mulrooney?’
‘We come ’round to seeing things eye to eye,’ the small Texan admitted with a grin, having no doubt the trio had told of their experiences and feeling just as sure he had come out of the descriptions in a satisfactory fashion. ‘I locked horns with a couple more of ’em the last time they were in.’
‘The Molloy boys?’ the saloon-keeper named, glancing to where the brothers were sharing a table with the trio just mentioned. ‘I don’t reckon you’ll have no more trouble with them. Fact being, all Bob and Stewart’s been asking is, “How the hell did we figure Cap’n Fog was little?”. That and saying they don’t intend to get that drunk again when you’re around.’ He paused before going on with a grin, ‘Anyways, you’ll soon know how they feel about things. They’re coming over here and I don’t reckon it’s just to buy drinks for themselves ’cause they’re too tight-fisted to call in a round.’
‘Howdy, Cap’n Fog,’ the older brother greeted in an amiable fashion. ‘Can’t bring to mind much about it myself, but Shamus tells us’s how we met you in the Driven Spike.’
‘I believe we had that honour,’ Dusty admitted, also smiling. ‘Then I hopes’s how there’s no ill feelings,’ Stewart said and his sibling nodded concurrence.
‘Not on my part, any more than on yours,’ the small Texan confirmed.
‘Would you be coming over and joining us for a spell, Cap’n?’ Bob suggested.
‘It’ll be my pleasure,’ Dusty assented and looked at the saloon-keeper. ‘Happen you’ll excuse me, Mr. Finnegan?’
‘I reckon we’ll go over and see happen we can win some at blackjack, Dusty,’ Mark said, after the burly owner had signified agreement. ‘We feel lucky and this could be our night to howl.’
‘Bueno,’ the small Texan drawled, knowing why the comment was made. His companions were aware, as had been the case at the Driven Spike Saloon, that he wished to avoid any suggestion that he was depending upon them for backing. ‘Don’t win too much.’
‘Was I one of them heathen Scotch jaspers’s don’t know the proper way to spell “whiskey” with an “e”, like it should be,’ Finnegan put in cheerfully. ‘I’d say, “Don’t win at all”. But as I’m not, good luck to you.’
‘Just look who is here, comrades,’ requested the Slavic-looking man who had been tightening the nuts on the fishplates, speaking in a carrying tone, as Dusty was walking with the brothers back to their table. He was seated with his legs clear of the table, but had his hands hidden underneath. ‘It’s the hired killer who Sangster has brought to drive us to work with his guns.’
‘There’s no call for that, Krushchev!’ Bob Molloy declared coldly, starting to move forward.
‘Easy,’ Dusty commanded, catching the Irishman by the right arm and bringing him to a halt before he could complete the first step. ‘This’s between me and him.’ Then, looking at the burly and hard faced Russian, he continued in a soft voice which held the chill and menace of a Texan blue norther storm’s first whisper. ‘You’ve got something on your mind, hombre, so get it said.’
‘I don’t like hired gun hands being brought to force honest men to work like slaves,’ Ivan Krushchev stated, his words slurred as if he was well on the way to being drunk, still keeping his hands concealed beneath the level of the table. ‘That is what’s on my mind!’
‘These guns of mine seem to worry you,’ the small Texan drawled and his hands crossed in a close to sight-defying-blur to fetch the Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers from their holsters. There was a concerted gasp from the onlookers and an expression of alarm cam
e to the Russian’s unprepossessing face. However, instead of the hammers being cocked, they were twirled and offered butt first to the older brother. ‘Would you hold these for me, amigo, so’s I can see what kind of a difference they make?’
‘S—Sure, Cap’n Fog,’ Bob assented, accepting the weapons. ‘There you are, loud mouth,’ Dusty said, moving clear of the brothers and spreading his hands well clear of his sides. ‘I don’t have my guns anymore!’
Letting out a profanity in his native tongue, Krushchev thrust himself from his chair with a speed which implied the apparent drunkenness was only a pretence. While not the largest of his party, he still had a considerable advantage in height and weight over the small Texan. However, he was not intending to rely upon this for the attack he was launching. Instead, he was grasping a broken glass beer mug by its handle and thrust its jagged edges at Dusty’s face.
Thirteen – We’ll Be Doing Things My Way
Exclamations of alarm, some registering anger arose from almost everybody in the bar-room, the loudest of the latter coming from its owner. However, even as Patrick Finnegan moved forward and the men who had been drinking with the Molloy brothers came to their feet, the need for intervention was brought to an end.
Alert for whatever kind of attack might be launched, Dusty Fog’s mind reacted at lightning speed to come up with the defense best suited to his needs. Responding with the speed he had displayed when drawing his Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers a few seconds earlier, his right hand swung towards his attacker. The two forearms met mid-way between their bodies to deflect the jagged edges of the glass off target and opening Ivan Krushchev’s guard for what came next. As had happened when dealing with the Molloy brothers in Mulrooney, the blow struck by the small Texan was not delivered in what his audience would have considered to be a conventional fashion. Coming up behind a stiff, locked wrist, his unclenched left hand traveled at most two feet before making contact. However, arriving with fingers spread slightly to offer rigidity, the heel of his palm caught the Russian’s chin with considerable force. Lifted on to his tiptoes, the broken beer mug slipping from his suddenly inoperative grasp, he staggered backwards a couple of paces like a pole-axed steer before sprawling supine on the floor.
For a moment, a number silence dropped over the entire room. With the exception of the other Texans, nobody—not even those gandy dancers who had seen the small Texan in bare-handed action at Mulrooney on various occasions— could imagine exactly what had happened. Then an excited chatter welled up as the spectators tried to work out exactly how Krushchev had been dropped like a log before his attack could be completed. However, no such discussion was carried out by his five companions. Instead, they started to rise so quickly that a couple of them overturned their chairs.
‘If any more’n just one of you Ruskie spalpeens tries to take it up for Krushechev!’ Shamus O’Sullivan thundered, his voice carrying above every other sound, as he strode forward swiftly and in a menacing fashion. ‘It’s me you’ll be up again’ as well’s Cap’n Fog!’
The burly Irish gandy dancer did not advance alone!
‘And me too, m’sieurs?’ Louis ‘Frenchy’ Rastignac supplemented from O’Sullivan’s right side.
‘You can count me in on it with Shamus and Frenchie!’ asserted Fritz “Dutchy” Voigt, at the Irishman’s left.
Glancing around, knowing the trio’s ability in a roughhouse brawl individually or as a team, all but one of the Russians stood still. However, the exception was the largest of them. Black bearded and massive, Rudolph Gorbachov’s looks and, at that moment, demeanor explained his nickname, ‘the Bear’. Snarling words which were practically incoherent to even his companions, he lurched towards the small Texan. Except that, as others had discovered under similar circumstances, he suddenly found Dusty no longer appeared small. Rather Gorbachov had the sensation of being confronted by a man whose bulk and height exceeded his own. Being dull witted and superstitious, such a phenomenon produced an unnerving effect. However, it did not cause him to halt his advance or lower his outstretched huge hands. Which proved unfortunate.
Although Dusty had dealt with his first attacker barehanded, he was disinclined to employ such tactics against the much larger second, who he felt sure did not share his predecessor’s belief that he would be taken unawares. Not that he gave a thought to retrieving his guns from Bob Molloy. He carried a more primitive and simple weapon readily available and was confident it would fill his needs just as effectively under the circumstances. In fact, despite the move having gone unnoticed by anybody apart from the other three members of the OD Connected’s floating outfit—who were watching without moving closer—he was already bringing it from the right back pocket of his Levi’s pants. What was more, when removed, it was so small that it remained unobserved.
The device appeared to be nothing more dangerous than a piece of a broom’s handle about six inches in length. However, it was made of Osage orange—the bois d’arc tree regarded by Indian bow makers as being the finest, hardest and most durable of woods—and, in addition to the ends being rounded, there were half a dozen grooves encircling its center to serve as a hand-grip. Although Dusty’s amigos were more knowledgeable, he doubted whether anybody else in the bar-room would have identified it as a yawara stick such as was first developed and used on the Pacific island of Okinawa. Nor were they aware that he had learned how to wield it from the man who taught him the unusual, yet most efficacious, bare-hand fighting techniques he had employed.
Instead of taking what most of the people present considered to be the advisable precaution of backing away from ‘the Bear’, Dusty lunged to meet him. Already startled by the metamorphosis which seemed to have come over his proposed victim, Gorbachov’s never nimble wits failed to cope with the latest and most unexpected development. He had grown accustomed to antagonists showing more discretion when faced by his charge and could not think quickly enough to decide how to deal with one who failed to do so. Nor was he granted any opportunity to decide upon a line of action. Before he realized fully what was happening, the big Texan was passing between his reaching hands. Not that he was permitted to clamp them home as he had intended.
Driven forward with all Dusty’s strength and skill, the rounded end of the yawara stick emerging from between his right thumb and forefinger struck the inverted ‘U’ shaped cavity below the center of the huge Russian’s rib cage. Never had he known such pain. It numbed his whole body, even automotive functions like breathing being affected. Not only was his advance brought to an immediate halt and all the air expelled from his lungs, the agony caused him to retreat. However, the response was involuntary. Losing consciousness before he had taken two steps, his legs became entangled and he crashed backwards on to the table he and his companions had been using. Breaking under his weight, sending glasses and the half empty bottle to shatter and spray their contents over the hard packed dirt floor, it deposited him supine and helpless amongst wreckage.
‘Does anybody else of you-all want some?’ the small Texan inquired of the remaining Russians, still speaking in a soft and yet chilling fashion. He was standing in the half crouching posture which his uncle, General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin’s Japanese valet, Tommy Okasi, had taught him was most suited for using either the yawara stick or the ju-jitsu and karate techniques he had often found just as efficacious. However, because of the strength of his personality, it did not make him look any smaller to the obviously startled men he was addressing. ‘If so, come ahead and we’ll get her done!’
As had been the case with the two men lying on the floor, the other four Russians had a decided advantage in size and weight over Dusty. However, affected by the sense of potency he exuded, they were mutually disinclined to take up the challenge of the big Texan who had felled their companions with such apparent ease.
‘Ivan is always troublesome when he’s been drinking,’ the smallest of the quartet claimed and, having been watching him for guidance, his companions muttered conc
urrence. While no cleaner or prepossessing than the rest, he spoke in the manner of one who had had a good education. ‘And Rudolph is his friend, so must have felt he must be avenged.’
‘Like I said, how do you-all feel on it?’ Dusty demanded, without relaxing his vigilance or mentioning certain points about the attack which were puzzling him and, he felt, required investigation.
‘Things were said which should not have been,’ Pavel Gorki answered quietly and in a tone lacking conviction, continuing to act as spokesman for the group.
‘Your amigo talked louder than that,’ Dusty said pointedly and gestured around him. ‘And I reckon, seeing’s you’ve got up, everybody who heard him would like to know how the rest of you feel about me being here.’
‘Rudolph should not have said what he did,’ Gorki announced in a more carrying—albeit disgruntled and grudging—voice and, under the impulsion of the big Texan’s cold gaze, his companions made similar declarations.
‘Then it’s over and done with,’ Dusty stated, returning the yawara stick to his back pocket without any of the railroad workers or the saloon’s employees having noticed it. Accepting the Colts from Bob Molloy and replacing them in their holsters, he gestured towards the motionless figures and continued, ‘You’d best get your amigos to their beds and have Doctor Farnsworth take a look at them.’
‘And don’t any of you be coming back this night,’ Patrick Finnegan added, having strode up bristling with anger. ‘’Tis knowing you should be that I’ll not be having trouble caused in my place.’
‘When’ll you be taking over as gang boss, Cap’n Fog, sir?’ O’Sullivan asked, strolling over with his two companions while the four Russians were starting to carry out Dusty’s order.