Quiet Town

by J. T. Edson

  Mark walked along Lee Street towards Detard’s saloon. It lay on the edge of town, the last building on the street and was not one of the larger or better places. It was ideal for a man like Bert Calhoun for after killing one of the town law a rapid departure was needed.

  Mark walked through the streets at a leisurely pace. He was tense and alert for the possibility of a treacherous gun-trap was not to be discounted. He could see people watching him from the saloons and other places he passed. Stepping up on to the sidewalk on the side opposite Detard’s, Mark walked along until he faced the saloon. He did not waste time but went straight across the street and pushed open the batwing doors.

  The counter was deserted except for a scared-looking bartender and a big unshaven man in dirty clothes. A man with a wolf-savage face and mean, hard eyes. His clothes were more of the northern ranges, and his gunbelt supported two Army Colts. It did not take a crystal ball to know this man was Bert Calhoun. Not when one could see the scared face of the bartender and the way the customers crowded into the far end of the room, well out of possible danger.

  Mark was no fool, he’d learned the gunfighting trade well. He was not fool enough to walk into the lights of the saloon without taking some precaution. His deputy’s badge was out of sight, hidden by the side of his calfskin vest. He saw Calhoun tense as the door opened, then the outlaw relaxed.

  Bert Calhoun looked at the new arrival. He had heard how Dusty Fog was a short growed runt so this man could not be the marshal of Quiet Town. He also was not the sort to be recklessly challenged to provide proof of his identity. So Calhoun took up his glass of whisky and looked down moodily into it. Outside he heard the sound of hooves and wondered who was in such a hurry around town.

  “Where the hell’s that lawman?” he growled.

  “Right here!”

  Mark pushed his vest back, showing the badge pinned to his shirt and stepped from the bar. Calhoun looked at him, eyes wary, yet triumphant. The outlaw spoke, his voice harsh. “You ain’t Dusty Fog.”

  “I’m not. Dusty’s out of town. Being his first deputy I allowed to come here and save you from being disappointed.”

  “Did, huh?” Calhoun swung from the bar, hands lifting. “I wanted the marshal but I reckon you’ll have to do instead.”

  Down lashed Calhoun’s hands. At the same instant Mark saw a second big, unshaven man standing with hand on gun and knew he was in a trap. He saw it from the corner of his eye as his right hand dipped faster than Calhoun’s grabbing fingers. The bar lights flickered on the eight inch barrel of Mark’s Army Colt as it flowed from leather in that sight defying move of the true master. The web of his thumb was curled around and pulling back on the spur of the hammer even as the gun came up, his trigger finger pressing the trigger so that as soon as the gun was out and lining it was ready to fire.

  The Colt, held waist high, lined with that unerring instinct of the true master, then roared. Calhoun spun around under the impact of the bullet and the other man lunged forward, gun coming up.

  The batwing doors burst open, Happy Day came in fast, shouting, “Deke!”

  Mark’s second attacker hesitated, even as Bert Calhoun was dropping. He saw the buckskin-dressed young man and his face showed amazement. “Dayt— !” he began, trying to bring the gun round to line on this apparition.

  Happy Day’s draw was fast as he hurled himself to one side, the Army Colt roaring an answer to the bullet the man threw at him. The man jerked back on his heels, then hunched over his gun falling.

  Bert Calhoun was down but the wolf-savage breed like that died hard. His gun was still in his hand, and he fumbled to pull back the hammer. Mark acted as a trained lawman, his own gun roaring again. Calhoun jerked and the gun fell from his hand as the side of his head appeared to erupt.

  Smoke rolled from two gun barrels. Two bodies lay on the floor, lifeblood pumping into the sawdust. Mark’s gun was ready as he turned to face the room, he saw Dusty and the Kid coming through the doors and nodded to the young man whose timely arrival saved his life.

  “Thanks, friend,” he said, gratitude in his voice. “Sorry I couldn’t wait to let you oblige him, Dusty.”

  Happy Day holstered the gun and went forward. There was something hard and savage about the casual way he rolled the body of the second man over with his toe. He bent down to make sure the man was dead, then holstered his gun.

  Talk welled up around the saloon and the watchers crowded forward. Dusty looked down at the bodies, then his eyes went to Happy Day. “Like to see you down at the jail, Happy. You all right, Mark?”

  “Why sure, don’t know how I’d been if this gent didn’t cut in.”

  “Dead, most likely,” Dusty said. “Bartender, where’s Detard?”

  A slender, dark-looking gambler rose and came forward. “That’s me.”

  Dusty’s face was far from friendly as he looked the man over. “Mark walked into a guntrap here. Did you know about it?”

  “No!” Detard’s reply was sure and his voice held a ring of truth. “Calhoun came in here alone. I couldn’t let my bouncers stack against a man as good with a gun as him. I didn’t know there was more than one of them.”

  The Ysabel Kid was looking the customers over, his eyes coming to rest on a familiar face. He crossed the room looking meaner than a tizwin drunk Apache, halting in front of Clint Fang, Bearcat Annie’s topgun and boss dealer.

  “You’re feeding off your home range, gambling man,” the Kid growled.

  Fang looked up where he sat alone at a table. There was an uneasiness in his eyes. “Sure, came here to see how the law stacks up against a dangerous man.”

  “And you saw. He didn’t do no better than you. At least he had the guts to push it through.”

  Fang pushed back his chair, coming to his feet in a lithe move. Then he stood very still. The Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife was out, the point lined on his stomach and ready for a belly ripping slash.

  The crowd drew back. They all knew Clint Fang was said to be very good with a gun. Fang himself thought so. Thought it very hard. Yet there was something in the red hazel eyes and the mocking Indian dark face that gave pause to him. Here was a killer, as near a Comanche Dog Soldier as a man needed to be to make him one. This was no fool kid dressed up and acting a part. He was the real thing and that bowie knife coppered the bet of any undrawn gun. Fang knew he was beaten from the start. Dusty Fog or Mark Counter would give him better than an even break but the Ysabel Kid did not have the same high-minded scruples.

  It hurt to back down, for Fang was proud of his reputation, he knew he would be branded as a man who boasted and could not back his boast. That was very bad but it was not as bad as being ripped wide open by that eleven and a half inch of razor-sharp knife.

  “Me, I didn’t want to push nothing.” The words were forced out, knowing every one would be repeated around the town. “I just happened to be in here.”

  “Well, just happen out again then.” The Kid’s knife went back as he spoke.

  For an instant Fang thought of drawing, but those eyes never left his face. He knew the Kid wanted him to draw. He also knew that in his present state he could not face a fight.

  Keeping his hand clear of his gun he pushed by the Ysabel Kid and walked from the room.

  Dusty watched all this without a word. It would do the law no harm for the town to know it was ready to back itself to the hilt against anyone. He gave his attention to Happy Day again as the buckskin-dressed young man spoke to Mark.

  “You’d best watch your back now, Mark. Ole Bronco’ll be looking for you and he won’t care how he gets even. Bert and Deke were the only two of his boys who meant anything to him.”

  Once more Happy Day spoke with complete conviction about the habits of Bronco Calhoun. Dusty noted this but the questions which welled up in his head were not to be asked or answered here. “Let’s go down to the jail, all of us.”

  Happy knew he was included and could guess what was going on in Dusty’s mind. Walkin
g to the door he wondered just how much trust he could expect from this soft talking, small man. He knew he was going to tell the truth and answer every question, after that it would be up to Dusty Fog to take whatever action he thought necessary.

  The four young men walked from the saloon and as they started towards the jail they heard the sound of hooves as one of Buzzard Grimwood’s hearses came from town towards them. They waited until it passed, then leading the horses walked back to the jail. The Ysabel Kid told Mark how they managed their timely arrival but Dusty did not speak. Nor did Happy Day.

  The jail office was quiet when they returned and entered. Rusty and Doc were both there, the latter having taken Roxie Delue first to Grimwood’s establishment, then to her home where her hired men took charge of the wagon and she went to get changed.

  “Lon, take Doc and Rusty, make the rounds,” Dusty ordered.

  The Ysabel Kid nodded. “Sure. I’ll put my hoss in the corral first.”

  Dusty and Mark remained in the office, they sat at the desk and Dusty waved Happy Day into a chair. “You’d better tell it, Happy. You sound like you know a tolerable amount about Bronco Calhoun.”

  “Yeah!” Happy’s voice was harsh and bitter. “I know a tolerable amount about Bronco Calhoun. I should know. My name’s not Day. I’m Dayton Calhoun. I was with ole Bronco for—!”

  The door of the office was slightly open and a gasp sounded from it. The door was pushed open and Roxie Delue stood there. The Navy Colt was in her hand, lined on Happy Day, a look of hate on her face as she pulled back the hammer.

  “Calhoun!” she gasped. “You’re one of those Calhouns. Bronco’s son.”

  The men sat without a move. The gun was lined rock steady on Happy’s chest, the hammer drawn back and the girl’s finger pressing the trigger. No matter how fast any of them moved they could not save Happy. The instant Roxie’s thumb relaxed its hold of the hammer it would fall, strike and explode the percussion cap which would send its spark of flame into the powder in the chamber and hurl the .36 ball into Happy’s body.

  “Go ahead!” Happy’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “That’ll be three dead Calhouns for you.”

  “Three?” Roxie had heard the shooting and guessed some of what happened. “But Mark only went to find one.”

  “That’s right,” Happy’s eyes were on the girl, pleading, not for his life but for her to believe and trust him. “Mark killed Bert. I killcd Deke.”

  The gun wavered, the hammer lowering, although she did not holster the gun. “You killed your own brother?”

  “Bronco wasn’t my father, even though I lived with him for years. My mother and I were on a stage he robbed. He killed the rest and took us because our name was the same as his. I was eight and for seven years we lived with him. He tried to make me like the others but I wouldn’t. Reckon I’m just stubborn. I was fifteen when Bronco’s gang raided a bank and got drove off. Him and his boys got clear although they left five dead men behind. Bronco was mean drunk when he got back to the hideout. He blamed maw for the raid failing and shot her. Would have shot me too but his gun was empty. He pistol whipped me and left me there. Reckon he thought I was dead. I should have been. Two days later a couple of Sioux bucks found me. They were fixing to kill me but a man called Alvin Travis saved my life. He was a scout for the Army and couldn’t have been kinder if he’d been my own father. He buried maw and took me with him. Told folks we were a nester family the Injuns got and that way they didn’t get curious about me. I swore I’d get Bronco and every other member of that family. Alvin did all he could to help me. We rode together and he taught me how to drive a wagon team, and ride scout. He was killed a year back and I started out to look for Bronco. I know the way Bronco and his boys work so when I got word they were down here I came looking.”

  The room was silent when Happy Day finished his story, none of the others saying a word. Roxie’s face was a flickering whirl of emotions as she looked at the young man she had meant to kill. The gun hung at her side unheeded until she remembered it and shoved it back into the holster. There was pity and shame at her own actions, on her face. She saw Happy looking at her and knew that bad as he wanted the Texans to believe him he wanted her trust far more. She felt something wet on her cheeks and reached up a hand angrily to brush the tears which welled in her eyes.

  “Dang Texas tobacco!” she snapped angrily although neither Dusty nor Mark were smoking. “Those Tejanoes smoke the leavings of the trail herds.”

  “Sure,” Happy answered with a grin at the girl, knowing he had gained her respect. “Those Johnny Rebs allus do some fool—ow!” The words were stopped by her stepping forward and kicking him hard across the leg. “What did you do that for, boss lady—ow!”

  Roxie stepped back again from giving the second kick. “First time was for insulting us noble Confederates. The second was for calling me a lady.”

  “Sure Happy,” Dusty agreed. “There ain’t no ladies’ ever comes from Arkansas.”

  “How about Annie Breen?” she asked, mentioning the heroine of a folk ballad.

  “Way the Kid sings it she came from ole Kentucky,” Mark put in.

  The tension was gone now, the men relaxed. Happy smiling as he watched the girl. Dusty and Mark rolled smokes and got them going although the smoke did not appear to hurt Roxie’s eyes any more. Happy broke the silence. “Was I staying on here I’d need a riding chore.”

  “Could maybe take on another deputy,” Dusty suggested, winking at Mark.

  “And maybe you couldn’t!” Roxie was bristling like an alley cat faced with a dog. “Happy don’t want to associate too close with you Texas hellers. Besides,” her face was flushed. “He don’t want no deputy’s chore when he can work for me.”

  “That’s right,” Happy agreed. “I’ll take on with you, boss lady. If only to save you from these Texans.”

  “One thing, Happy,” Dusty remarked, holding out his hand. “You’re still Happy Day to us and the rest of the town. It might be better that way, folks wouldn’t take kindly to having a Calhoun around.”

  “Yeah,” Roxie gave her agreement. “What with one thing and another they’d be some riled I reckon. Specially with the way the gang’s been hitting at the miners and the freight outfits. Come on down to the office, Happy. I can fix you up in with the other boys.”

  “Reckon we’d best start in to earning our pay, too,” Dusty told Mark. “Let’s go out.”

  They were making for the door when the Ysabel Kid, Doc and Rusty came in with a couple of prisoners. The men were pushed into the cells without ceremony and the Ysabel Kid told Dusty why they were being incarcerated. The men had been rolling a drunk and the Ysabel Kid left it to Rusty and Doc to take them. The Kid was quite satisfied with what he had seen and told Dusty about it.

  “They’re all right. Handled as neat as I’ve seen. Got their guns on those pair of rollers, leaned ‘em against the wall and searched them. Give ‘em a couple of days or so and they’ll be set to work themselves.”

  Doc and Rusty returned from the cells after bedding down their prisoners and settling them in the cells. They looked at Dusty and he grinned as Rusty went to sit down at the desk.

  “Mark, you and Rusty take a walk around the back, out towards Chinese Street. Lon, stay on as jailer and I’ll take Doc.”

  The walk around the town was without event until they were walking back towards the town centre. Doc and Dusty came along the sidewalk, stopping to glance at the poster in front of the Beaumain Theatre. Then from across the square, at Bearcat Annie’s they heard two shots, one light and the other heavy, the lighter coming first. A window broke on the first floor of the saloon as a bullet broke through it.

  “Let’s go!” Dusty snapped.

  They crossed the street and pushed open the batwings, entering the saloon. All attention was shared between the two young Texans and Bearcat Annie who lounged by the bar. She came forward as Dusty and Doc crossed the room.

  “Something for you?” she
asked.

  “Those shots up the stairs, ma’am. What happened?”

  She smiled mockingly, jerking her hand towards the stairs leading to the first floor. A big, heavily built bouncer stood blocking the way up, another at the top, both looking down.

  “Why don’t you go and see?” Bearcat Annie asked.

  oooOooo

  * Doc’s connection with Brambile is explained in: THE TOWN TAMERS.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Bringing In The Law

  DUSTY WALKED forward towards the stairs, conscious that every eye was on him. The customers at the bar and the tables, those standing on the verandah, looking down, all wondered how the small Texan would handle things. The bouncer at the foot of the stairs grinned as he measured the distance with his eye.

  “Move!” Dusty snapped. “I’m going up there.”

  The bouncer moved aside with surprising mildness but as Dusty passed swung his fist. It was a good blow, struck with all his weight behind it, the fist ripping at Dusty’s temple with enough force to fell an ox. It would have knocked Dusty unconscious, if it landed. Dusty’s head went down, under the blow and the bouncer was thrown off balance. Coming up inside the man’s reach Dusty brought up his hand, the heel smashing under the bouncer’s top lip, crushing it. Never in a life full of being hit had the bouncer known such pain. His eyes were filled with tears of pure agony and he stumbled into a sitting position on the stairs. Dusty struck again, the fingers straight and tight together, the thumb across his palm to hold the hand rigid in the tegatana, the hand-sword of karate. Like a knife the edge of the hand s’ashed into the man’s throat. The bouncer’s head rocked back, and he was unable to breathe.