by J. T. Edson
Dropping his gun as if it was redhot the Marshal looked at the bar mirror to see who this newcomer was. Anger flooded to his whiskery and dirty face as he saw the reflection. The batwing doors were pushed open and leaning his shoulder against the jamb was as fine a looking specimen of manhood the marshal had ever seen. Full three inches over six foot he stood. On his head a costly lowcrowned white Stetson with a silver concha decorated band. His hair was a rich, golden blond, his face almost classically handsome. Around his neck was a tight rolled, long red silk bandana, flowing down over the expensive tan shirt which was tailored to the great spread of his shoulders and slender waist. A wide, brown leather gunbelt was around his waist, in the low tied holsters a matched brace of ivory handled Colt Army revolvers. His hands held nothing more dangerous than a half smoked cigarette.
In sudden fury the marshal bent to grab up the Beals again, but the handsome blond giant moved forward to stand on the other flank of the man called Dusty.
“Leave her lie, hombre,” the newcomer ordered. “You don’t need her one lil bit.”
He moved forward slightly and kicked the gun to one side with a contemptuous foot, then fell back again to flank his friends once more. The marshal never made a move either to stop or interfere with the big cowhand.
It was the young dude who’d spoke up who made the next move, trying to prod the marshal into action. “Do your duty, marshal.”
The marshal gulped, looking at those three tanned and efficient men who stood before him. Unlike his backing party he knew the West and knew cowhands. Those three were as handy as men could be. His hand went up to rub his face as he gasped out, “I don’t feel any too good.”
The words were greeted by an angry rumble from the men at his back and their spokesman snapped, “You never do when there’s trouble. That’s why we’re living in this sort of town. We’ve got to stop these killers.”
“Then you stop them, Mr. Bigmouth Kennet,” the marshal replied as he removed his badge and hurled it on the floor. “I’m not getting killed. You take them!”
Kennet watched the marshal blunder past him, then glanced at the other fresh faced dudes. He turned and squared his shoulders back though he still did not lift his shotgun from under his arm. “All right. I’m making a citizen’s arrest. I’m taking you in on a charge of murder.”
“Hey, Doc!” Rusty Willis spoke up, taking everything in. “We ain’t going to stand here and watch them fierce ole Yankees abusing these poor defenceless lil ole Texas boys, now are we?”
“Ole Stone’d be right mortified with us if we did and the rest of the boys wouldn’t talk to us for a month,” Doc replied. “So with Cap’n Fog’s permission I reckon we’ll sit in with him.”
“Cap’n Fog?” Irish Pat and the rest of the City Council were watching and listening. It was the Irishman who spoke. “Holy mother of god, Matt. You’ve got to stop this or your banker boy’ll get hisself and his friends killed. I know who they are now. The tall blond boy’s Mark Counter, the dark one the Ysabel Kid.”
“Then you mean that small man’s Dusty Fog?” McTavish asked.
CHAPTER TWO
The Man Gillem Sent For
THE GROUP of twelve townsmen, their shot guns held under their arms, faced the five young Texans, not knowing who or what kind of men they were matched against. If they had known they might have thought twice before attempting their folly.
Dusty Fog, the small insignificant looking young man, was already a legend in his own lifetime. In the War between the States he had been a Cavalry Captain at seventeen and as a raider built a name equalled only by the old Dixie masters, Mosby and Turner Ashby. Dusty Fog was the man who after the War went into Mexico to bring back General Bushrod Sheldon in face of Maximillian’s French army.1 Since then Dusty was fast carving himself a name in the annals of border gunplay and as a cowhand par-excellence. He was no man for a bunch of shotgun armed dudes to fool with or try to arrest.
Mark Counter was also a name in his own right. His skill with any or all branches of cattlework was as high if not higher than Dusty’s. In the war he had been the Beau Brummel of Sheldon’s army, his sartorial taste much copied. Now he was a cow country fashion plate and cowhands from the Rio Grande to the Indian Nations copied Mark Counter’s dress style. Yet there was more than a dandy to Mark. He was a fist fighter of note with the strength of a giant combined with speed. His ability with his gun was not so well known even though reliable witnesses of such things ranked him among the five fastest men in Texas.
The Ysabel Kid was also a legend in his own lifetime and an exciting, eventful lifetime it had been. Down on the Rio Grande there would have been no such folly as this arrest attempt tried, for they knew the way of the Ysabel Kid down there. He was the product of a union between a wild Irish-Kentuckian fighting man and a French Creole-Comanche woman, each of the bloods giving some talent. From his father he got a love of fighting coupled with caution and wisdom while fighting. It gave him also the sighting eye of an eagle and an ability to handle his Winchester rifle with the skill of the legendary backwoodsmen. From his mother’s side the Comanche strain showed in his wolf-keen nerves and senses, in his ability to ride anything with hair. From the French Creole he got a love of cold steel as a fighting weapon and the inborn prowess with his Bowie knife that would not have shamed the men who designed the knife. Add to that a knowledge of six Indian languages, the ability to follow a track where a buck Apache would be beaten, the ability to move as silently as a ghost. That was the Ysabel Kid. These dudes with their shotguns held awkwardly were going to try the Ysabel Kid and his friends, put them under arrest.
Even the other men were out of place in this company. Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy worked as trail hands for Stone Hart’s Wedge, an outfit of contract drivers. The Wedge took cattle north from Texas to whatever market they could find, handling cattle for the small ranchers who could not afford to make up their own herds. It was Stone Hart’s Wedge which smashed the stranglehold of Jethro Kliddoe, an ex-Union Army officer who was stopping the trail drives and taking head tax on the cattle. To work for the Wedge a man needed to be a tophand with cattle, and he was also likely to be good with a gun.
These then were the five men the dudes, full of their Eastern ideals, were going to match against with shotguns. They did not know that the Ysabel Kid, who did not account himself fast with a gun, could draw and shoot in about one second. At least two of the men facing the dudes could draw and shoot in half that time and guarantee putting a .44 ball where it would do most good at the end of the half second.
Kennet glanced back at his friends again, making what could have been a fatal mistake. In the time Kennet was looking away, Dusty and his friends could have laid at least half of them dead on the floor. Kennet and his friends were all well educated, fresh out of Eastern colleges and full of theories on life, conduct and morals. They were banded together here in an attempt to clean up Quiet Town as they had banded together back East in their colleges when they believed something needed altering. By prodding the marshal they had hoped to make a start at cleaning up the town; now they had no marshal and were led by a man who had no conception of just how fast and deadly a topgun like Dusty Fog or Mark Counter was. They were in far more danger than they had ever faced.
“Look, friend,” the miner spoke up; he knew the danger all too well. “You got this all wrong. There was nothing unfair in the shooting.”
“We’d expect you to say that,” Kennet replied. “You were in the game.”
Dusty was getting tired of the dudes’ foolishness. He knew he could rely on Mark and the Kid not to do anything rash or foolish. He was almost sure Rusty and Doc were also reliable and would not go off halfcocked. All too well Dusty knew the danger of the situation. If shooting started he would down at least two of the men before they could even think of killing, the other Texans would also be in action before the dudes knew what they were doing.
“Look, if you want to hold a coroner’s jury we’ll all come an
d testify,” he suggested, giving the dudes a chance to get out without loss of face.
Kennet shook his head. “We intend to try you for murder.”
Dusty shrugged. He had offered the olive branch and the dudes refused it. Now it was on their heads for he would never give up his guns to any man. The dudes must stand or fall on their own decision.
“You’ll have to take him first,” Mark warned.
“Hold hard there, all of you!” Mat Gillem was on his feet and crossing the room. “Stan boy, you stop this foolishness afore you get yourself and your friends killed off.”
Kennet turned to Gillem, surprise showing on his face. Since coming to act as manager of Gillem’s bank he had grown used to the old man’s good sense and to respect his judgment. Gillem’s attitude came as a surprise to him for the banker wanted Quiet Town cleaning up too.
“We have to make a stand, sir,” he objected. “These killings can’t be allowed to go unpunished.”
“Son, there was nothing wrong in Cap’n Fog killing that gambler. Baker was cheating and tried to gun Dusty after Moose made a try at knocking Dusty off balance. You go ahead, with this citizen’s arrest foolishness and they’ll be burying at least half of you. There was no murder. Baker died of a case of slow.”
All too often Kennet had heard that expressive range term. A case of slow. It meant exactly what it said. One of the participants in a corpse-and-cartridge affair was not as fast as the other and paid the penalty for lack of speed.
The other men with Kennet looked at each other. It was suddenly dawning on them that here it was different from the pampered East with its police to protect them from the consequences of their actions. Back East they had often campaigned against things, and with the fervour of the college students they had so recently been they started to campaign in Quiet Town. One thing they forgot was that although they had been allowed to campaign, in the West a man could do pretty well as he pleased, they could only rely on themselves to carry their campaigns through. In the West a man who wanted to change things was at liberty to do so, just as long as he could back up his play with a fast handled Colt.
“There is nothing to stop them coming in for a trial then,” Kennet answered. He was still not sure what to make of Gillem’s attitude in squashing this try at taming Quiet Town.
“Son, this ain’t the East. If you try to take Captain Fog and he wants he can down four of you before you even get your scatters off your arms. The other boys are near as fast and good. You let it drop.”
Dusty and the other Texans relaxed now. They could guess there would be no more trouble. The old timer appeared to have things well in hand, and was holding the dudes in check.
“We can’t go on allowing every man who wears a gun to scare us,” Kennet objected. “Or we’ll—.”
“Son, these aren’t just any men. You start to lift your shotgun off your arm ready to shoot and see.”
Kennet started to swing his shotgun from his arm, then he froze. The Ysabel Kid twisted the palm of his hand out, bringing the old Dragoon from leather and lining it cocked ready. “Mister,” his voice sardonic as he lowered the hammer between the safety notches of the cylinder and holstered the gun again, “I’m the slowest of us five.”
With that he turned and followed his friends to the bar where the bardog who’d arrived greeted them with a grin.
“Like I say,” Gillem looked at the scared faces. “They aren’t just any men. And don’t think the Ysabel Kid was joshing you. He is the slowest of them.”
The batwing doors swung open to let a tall, thin, cadaverous man enter. On his head was a black high hat with a black crepe band around it. His thin face looked like it was mummified and held an expression of mournful piety. His white shirt and sober black tie, his Prince Albert coat, trousers and shoes all looked expensive. His face never changed expression as he crossed the room and looked down at the two bodies. Bending over he pulled Baker’s wallet out and looked inside.
“Two of them,” his voice was harsh and cracked. “When will it all end?”
“There was enough to pay for the burying of both of them?” Gilem was practical.
“This one can pay his way, the other is broke and will be charged to the town.”
“You’re a cold blooded swine, Grimwood,” Kennet snapped, not hiding his dislike for the other man. “You earn the name of Buzzard.”
The sallow face never changed expression and the voice showed no feeling yet there was a hard glint in the black eyes. “It is well I abhor violence, young man, or I could take offence at that remark.”
“You abhor violence, but you rob the dead in the streets,” Kennet snorted.
Grimwood ignored the young man as if he was not there. He went to the door and called in his assistants, told them to remove the bodies and went out. Kennet watched him go with disgust plain on his face, then turned to sit at the table with the Town Council.
At the bar Dusty watched the departure of the undertaker, then turned to the others. “If I die here don’t you let him get his cotton-picking claws on me.”
“You’re safe,” Mark answered. “Only the good die young.”
“Sure,” Rusty Willis agreed. “It surely surprises me that I’ve lasted this long. Say, I’m Rusty Willis and this’s Doc Leroy. We ride for the—.”
“Wedge,” Dusty finished for him. “We came into Abilene with a herd from the OD Connected a couple of months after you boys rode over Kliddoe.”
“Yeah.” The Kid’s voice was soft but there was a hard look on his face and a Comanche meanness in his eyes. “It was a pity. I wanted to see ole Yellerdawg real bad.”
“Friend of your’n?” Doc inquired, knowing no deep south boy would willingly go out of his way to see a man like Kliddoe.
“Net yet. I got me a present for him when we do meet.”2 Before any, of the others could make comment on this remarkable statement the bardog interrupted, pointing to the City Fathers at their table. “The gents want to have a word with you, Cap’n Fog.”
Dusty walked away and Mark gave his attention to Doc and Rusty. “Say, are all the stories I’ve heard about Peaceful Gunn true?”
Rusty and Doc grinned; their friend and fellow driver Peaceful Gunn was something of a character. “If they don’t cover cowardice, letting down his amigos and all other nefarious practices,” Doc replied.
“What’s these here nef—nerfar—whatever you said?” the Kid inquired.
“Don’t you pay ole Doc no never mind, Kid,” Rusty warned. “He got that way when our cook fed him on letter biscuits.”
Dusty went to the table and Gillem came to his feet holding out his hand in a warm greeting. “Howdy, Cap’n Fog. See Ole Devil got my letter. Gents, this here’s the man I sent for.”
Dusty looked puzzled. “I don’t follow you. I brought a herd north for Uncle Devil. What letter are you talking about?”
“Ole Devil didn’t send you here then?” There was a disappointment in Gillem’s voice.
“Nope. The gambler killed one of my kin in Newton. Cut a rusty on him. Dan Troop told me what happened and I trailed him up here. Did you write to Uncle Devil for help?”
“Yeah. Thought that was why you’d come. We need us some law in this town.”
“I don’t see how I can help. Could recommend Hickok, Matt Dillon or maybe Dan Troop. His contract with Newton expires at the end of the month and I reckon he wouldn’t object to a change of scenery.”
“It’s only the second of the month now, Cap’n Fog. I’ll write for Troop to come along but we still have all this month and no law. We reckon you’re just what we want.”
Dusty looked around the table, his eyes flinty and hard. “I don’t sell my guns, mister.”
“Dangnab it to hell, boy, none of us reckon you do,” Gillem answered. “We need law here and the man who takes the badge’ll have to be more than just a fast gun. If all we wanted was a fast gun there’s a dozen in town we could take. Sure you’re fast with a gun, so’s Hickok, Troop or Dillo
n. A lawman needs to be fast. Your pappy’s no slouch either. We saw how you can handle a gun just now. We saw you could hold back from handling it, too. Hickok would have cut Stan here down without thinking twice about it. You didn’t, that makes me sure you’re the man we want.”
Looking mollified at the apology Dusty went on, “I’m no lawman. I’ve helped pappy out as a deputy, sure, but I’m a cowhand, not a john law.”
“You handled that business in Mexico real well,” Barsen put in, “and it wasn’t a cattle chore either.”
‘That was different. It wasn’t handling the law in a boom-town like this.”
“It’d take a man with the heart of a lion to tame this town down, Captain darlin’,” Irish Pat’s rich brogue cut in. “He’ll have to handle as rough a crowd as ever took gold from the ground. It’ll take a man like you.”
“We’ve got to clean the town up, Captain Fog,” Bradgate went on. “The gold strike brought in a whole lot of bad characters and the town’s wide open. Look out of any window and what do you see? Saloons, dancehalls, gaming houses, brothels. Some of them are honest but many aren’t. We don’t want to improve our morals, most all of us have used those places in our lives and look to use them again. But we want a standard kept. There’s too much crime here, too many killings, fights. We want it stopped.”
“Aye laddie,” McTavish’s deep Scottish burr joined in, “That we do. The miners want protecting. It’s getting so bad that we hardly dare let the men come in with money in their pockets for fear they’ll wind up laying in an alley with a stove-in head and pockets emptied out.”
“We need law here, not that dirty, cowardly sheep who you saw either.” Gillem finished for the others. “How about it?”
A tall man came into the saloon before Dusty could answer, walking across the room arrogantly and halting at the table to look around with disdainful gaze. He pushed back his white Stetson, his handsome face mocking. From his frilly shirt, black cutaway jacket and tight legged grey trousers he could be told as a frontier gambler. The shining gunbelt with the lowtied, silver decorated Navy Colt was supposed to indicate he was a good man with a gun also.