The making of a lawman

by Edson, John Thomas

  **What'd you suggest we do?" Dusty asked.

  "Stop him," the youngster answered blimtly.

  ''How?" Dusty said.

  **How'd you mean, liow?" Waco demanded. ''Just ride out there and tell him to quit is how."

  'There's no law against selling whiskey," Dusty reminded him.

  "Except to Injuns," the Kid went on.

  "Yeah," agreed Dusty, eyeing the Kid in a calculating manner. "Except to Indians."

  "Now just what've you got in that tricky Rio Hondo mind, Dusty?" the Kid inquired, knowing his small companion pretty well.

  "Just a Idnd of fool notion," Dusty replied. "Let's go see if there's any answer to that telegraph message I sent oflE this morning, shall we?"

  On arrival at the Wells Fargo office they found that an answer had just arrived.

  "I was fixing to send it on to you," the agent told Dusty, handing over a buflF-coloinred official message form.

  "Thanks," Dusty answered, then read it.

  "Just like back home," drawled the Kid, accepting and studying the paper. "Only I can't see how it helps us."

  "It's like you said, Lon," Dusty answered, retrieving the paper and placing it in his vest pocket. "Selling liquor to Indians's plumb illegal. Let's go?"

  "Maybe somebody'Il tell me what in hell's going onl" Waco yelped as they left the Wells Fargo office.

  "I'd surely do it, boy," the Kid replied. "Only I'm damned if I know myself."

  PREVENTION LICKS TRYING TO FIND A CURE

  From behind a rim some three miles outside Muhooney's city limits, Dusty and Waoo watched the Kid preparing to make a purchase. Leaving his huge white stallion well clear of the light two-horse wagon, he walked over and began to talk with the two men. Finding the pedlar who had sold Tack's party the snakehead whiskey had not proved difficult and Waco waited to see what happened next. When sure that the Ead had transacted business with the men. Dusty nodded in satisfaction.

  "Let's go, boy," he said.

  T hope this works," the yoimgster remarked as they walked to where a pair of big, well-made paint stalUons stood groimd-hitched and waiting.

  "And me," Dusty replied. "Prevention licks trying to find a cure any day."

  If Abel Hockley had any idea what brought the two lawmen out on a visit to his wagon, he failed to show it. Pocketing the Kid's money, he darted a glance at the burly, buckskin-clad, unclean man seated on the wagon box. Then he twirled the stout walking cane in his right hand before resting the tip of its ferrule on the toe of his right boot.

  Tall, slender, in his late middle-age, with a lean face that sported a moustache, goatee beard and rat-trap mouth, Hockley dressed in elegant city fashion. Coining closer, Waco

  Studied the man and concluded that the elegance had run to seed. The fancy shirt's cuflfs were frayed, the collar dirty, the hat showing much use and boots patched. Thrusting out prominently to catch the eye, the butt of an Adams Navy revolver showed beneath his jacket.

  "Howdy," Hockley greeted, watching the two Texans swing from their saddles. "Anything I can do for you?*'

  "Sure," Dusty replied, letting his paint's reins fall free and walking forward. "Start up that wagon and get the hell away from here."

  "How's that?" the pedlar spat out.

  "You heard. Take your wagon and go."

  "You asking official-like?"

  "You could say that."

  Hockley's eyes flickered down to the badge on Dusty's vest. Shield-shaped, it bore the words 'CITY MARSHAL, MULROONEY, KANSAS' inscribed on its siuface and differed from the star badge used by the sheriff's office. From Dusty, Hockley turned his gaze on Waco. The youngster also wore a shield, but his stated he was a deputy marshal of the same town.

  "Don't see any sign of a town hereabouts," the pedlar finally commented.

  A town marshal's jurisdiction ended at the city limits. Once past them, he possessed no more authority than any other citizen. Which partly accounted for Hockley's lack of concern at seeing the Texans ride up. Except in the larger cities no licence was required to sell intoxicating liquor. Even if the saloonkeepers in Mulrooney had learned of his activities and objected to losing trade, they had no legal way of stopping him; and if they had, their town marshal could not be used to enforce the ban.

  "I reckon you can read," Dusty said, taking the telegraph form from his vest pocket and handing it to the pedlar.

  "Sure I can," Hodcley growled.

  **Then read that out aloud, so's your amigo there can hear and understand."

  Looking just a touch puzzled, Hockley glanced down at the paper, then stared again and his scowl deepened.

  "Marshal Fog, Muhooney," he read. "Accept your offer. You and all your deputies appointed deputy sneriffs. Letter confirming follows. Bracker, sheriff, Edwards County." Slowly he raised his eyes to Dusty. "So?"

  While Hockley understood the message's meaning, he could not see how it affected him. According to what he read, Hockley was facing two men appointed as deputy sheriffs of Edwards County. That meant they could handle law enforcement anywhere within the coimty*s boundaries instead of being confined to Mulrooney's dty limits. However he knew his rights and that, imless he broke the law in some way, even members of the coimty sheriff's oflBce could not order him to move.

  Being well aware of the distinctions between coimty and municipal powers. Dusty had taken steps, on being asked to become Mulrooney's marshal, to ensure he possessed both. That morning he had telegraphed Sheriff Bracker and offered to serve as impaid deputy sheriff. Clearly Bracker saw the wisdom of such an arrangement and accepted the offer.

  "So Tm telling you again to move and keep going," Dusty answered flatly.

  If Hockley felt like casting doubts on the message's validity, he restrained himself admirably. To do so would be tantamoimt to calling Dusty a liar—to which charge a Texan knew only one answer. Instead the pedlar put on an expression of injured innocence and righteous indignation.

  "Since when's selling whiskey been against the law?" he demanded.

  "Well now, that depends on who you sell it to," Dusty replied.

  "How's that?" Hockley growled, tapping the tip of his cane against the boot.

  "Like when you sell it to an Indian for one thing," Dusty told him.

  "I know that," Hockley stated, confident that—^for once—^ he did not contravene the law in such a manner.

  Then an imeasy feeling gripped the pedlar; the kind of sensation one got at poker when beginning to realise that what had been taken for a bluff was really a power-packed genuine hand. Noticing the emphasis Dusty placed on the word 'Indian', he turned his attention to his most recent customer.

  "My grandpappy's Chief Long Walker of the Pehnane Comanche, mister," drawled the Kid.

  "And that means you've sold liquor to an Indian," Dusty went on.

  ''He's no Injun, he's a half-br—I" Hockley began hotly, then clamped his mouth shut so quickly that he almost bit oflF the end of his tongue.

  That tall, dark cuss might look as innocent as a church pew full of choir-boys singing for the bishop, but Hockley was not fooled. Any adverse comments upon his mixed blood would come bouncing back on the speaker's head, followed by something real painful.

  '*You sold the whiskey to my Injun half," the Kid told him.

  Anybody who knew the effect white man's whiskey had upon the red brothers agreed to the wisdom of trying to prevent its sale to them. However the rule hardly appUed in the Kid's case. Racial discrimination as such only rarely reared its head on the Western frontier. Cowhands in particular accepted a man for what he was worth, not because of accidents of birth, blood or social standing. If a man of mixed blood lived up to the code of the land, he was regarded as having 'made a hand' and was accepted.

  The Ysabel Kjd had never been considered as other than a worthy member of rangeland society. That applied even in his border-smuggling days, the running of contraband being regarded in most circles as no more than a protest against an imfair imposition foisted on the public
by pohticians in far-off Washington. At no time in his hectic yoimg Me had he gained a reputation for being dangerous when wet down by fire-water.

  Although Hockley did not recognise the Kid, his instincts warned of a trap. Pure coincidence could not have brought the other two Texans along just after he sold the whiskey to the dark youngster. Nor did it seem likely that the two peace officers had guessed, vdthout prior knowledge, at the customer's mixed blood.

  Further evidence of complicity flashed to Hockley's mind. In the background, well clear of any lead that might start flying, the peace officers' horses stood range-tied by their hanging reins near to the dark yoimgster's mount. Yet that huge, magnificent white stallion looked meaner than a bull wapiti bugling for mates in the rutting season. Such a horse would not tamely accept having other stallions so close unless it knew them pretty well.

  Which meant Hockley had fallen into a neatly laid trap. If, as he suspected, the saloonkeepers in Mulrooney had sent their law to move him on, he had presented that cold-eyed

  big marshal with an excuse to do so. Should he refuse and be arrested, a jury of Mulrooney citizens could be relied upon to find him guilty. Or so he believed, basing the assumption on how he himself would act in their place.

  Anger filled Hockley at the thought of how he had let himself be tricked. The wagon held all the whiskey his bank roll could buy, and which he hoped would realise an enormous profit. On learning of the incident in Brownton which had caused Dusty to leave the town, Hockley had guessed what might happen. Concluding that Mulrooney now stood the best diance of grabbing the trail-herd trade, he established himself in a position where passing customers might easily find him. To be driven oflF by the law, or arrested for selling liquor to an Indian, would ruin his chances and see him broke. While that would not be an untried sensation, he saw no reason to repeat it. Not when there was an easy way out.

  **We can't—talk—about this, now can we, marshal?'* he asked.

  "How much?" Dusty answered.

  "Hell, I don't make much out here—,** Hockley began.

  "This hombre sure lives dangerous," drawled the Kid. "Selling hquor to us poor heathen savages and bribing peace oflScers."

  "I bet he even spits on the sidewalks in Kansas City," Waco went on.

  Seeing that bribery stood no chance of succeeding, Hockley decided to make another attempt at straightening out his affairs. In his anger at the possible loss of a good business opportimity, he clean forgot the name he had read on the telegraph form. Or maybe he failed to connect the name Tog' with that small, insignificant Texas cowhand.

  "Now looky here, young feller—," he said indignantly, raising the walking cane as if intending to make a gesture of pointing it at Dusty. On the wagon box, the burly man tensed slightly.

  Springing forward, Dusty lashed out and slapped the cane aside with his left hand. To Waco's amazement, there came the crack of a shot and flame sparked from the bottom of the cane's ferrule. Dusty whipped his right hand upwards, lashing the back of it across Hockley's face. The blow caused the man to stagger and Dusty followed it with a left handed punch to the jaw. Dropping the smoking cane, Hockley

  sprawled backwards and crashed into the near-side team horse.

  At the first movement by Dusty, the man on the box started to rise and draw his gmi. Despite being taken by smprise, Waco responded instantly. Down flashed his right hand, fingers closing around the staghom handle of the off side Army Colt. With the effortless-seeming, but incredibly swift way of a true master, the yoimgster brought out his Colt, cocked it and fired all in one flowing movement. Before the man's gun could line on any of the Texans, Waco's bullet ripped into his shoulder and knocked him backwards off the box. In falling, he released his hold on the gun. While not as fast as Waco, the man had followed much the same procedure in making the draw, oocldng the hammer as the gun cleared leather and squeezed the trigger ready for use. Freed of restraint, the hanmier fell before the trigger could return and hold it. So the gun barked and, although the bullet missed, the muzzle-blast*s flame burned the off-side horse's rump.

  Following his normal type of trading, Hockley often found need for rapid changes of location. So he invariably used a light wagon and selected fast, spirited horses to haul it. Even on what amounted to legitimate trading he and his assistant followed certain precautionary rules. Trail bosses often objected to their men being distracted and sold hquor before the herd was safely penned; and most of them were tough enough to back up their objections. So while Hockley served the customers, the other man remained on the box to control the team while the brake remained open.

  At almost the same moment both horses received an unprovoked attack. Hockley's collision with the one at the left caused it to rear, while the sudden bum and soimd of the shot set the other plunging forward. Free from impediment by the brake, the wagon lurched into movement and the horses started off across the range at a gallop.

  "Stop it, LonI" Dusty ordered, drawing and lining his left hand Colt as Hockley reached towards the Adams.

  "SmokyI" yelled the Kid and his horse started towards him on the run.

  One look at Dusty warned Hockley not to continue with his attempt to take revenge. Such speed on the draw only very rarely was achieved without a corresponding ability to shoot accurately and he stood much too close to the odier

  f

  to take chances. So he moved his hand and glanced to where his assistant sprawled unmoving on the ground. Not caring greatly whether the man be alive or dead, Hockley swung his attention to how the Kid was carrying out Dusty's command.

  Darting towards the approaching horse, the Kid went into its saddle with a flying bound. Comanche trained, the white would stand indefinitely without being fastened to anything and did not even need its reins left hanging as an inducement to staying put. Clamping his legs about me saddle, the Kid uncoiled the reins from the horn and steered his mount in the direction of the departing wagon.

  That enormous stallion could nm like a greyhound and foimd no diflBculty in catching up on two harness horses encumbered by even a light wagon. Aware of his moimt's potential, the Kid studied the situation and gave thought to obeying Dusty's order. Already the wagon was rolling down a gentle slope, but some distance ahead the ground fell away more steeply. Going down the steep section would be easy enough for a skilled driver in control of his team, yet dangerous when they ran uncontrolled. Anything he aimed to do must be done before they hit that steeper slope.

  A signal told the white what its master needed and it lengthened its stride. To the watching men it seemed that the wagon was going at no more than a walking pace, the way the white closed up on it. Drawing alongside the box, the Kid prepared to board it. He took his outer foot from the stirrup, bent his leg imder him on the saddle, freed the other boot and hurled himself across the gap separating him from the wagon. Once on the box, he slid the reins from around the brake handle, but made no attempt to operate the lever as an aid to stopping the wagon.

  All too well the Kid knew the effect liquor of the kind Hockley sold had upon the drinker. No armchair moralist, he still hated men like the pedlar for what they did to the Indians by selling their poisonous brew. WhUe the man had so far only dealt with cowhands, the Kid did not doubt that he would just as willingly sell his wares to Indians. So the dark yoimgster aimed to see that the chance did not arise.

  Gripping the reins in his left hand, he leaned forward over the box and took hold of the pin coupling the single-tree to the wagon bed. At first he could not draw the pin out and hung in a precarious position as the wagon bounced over

  the rough ground. Lurching over a rock, the wagon shot forward enough for the pin to come loose and the Kid plucked it out of its hole.

  With the team freed, the Kid straightened up again. Flinging the reins and pin from him, he cut loose with a Comanche war whoop loud and wild enough to scare a dead Osage scout white-haired. The yell acted as a spin: to send the team horses boimding forward at a better pace. Freed from the wei
ght of the wagon, they drew ahead of it although it continued to roll forward. Already the incline was growing steeper and the wagon s impetus kept it on the move.

  Unguided or not, the team horses possessed sufficient instinct for self-preservation to turn away from the more severe incline ahead of them. Finding no reins-inspired compulsion to continue downwards, they swung oflF to one side. Without the pull of the horses, the wagon went on its inanimate way guided by the force of gravity.

  Coming to his feet, the Kid bounded from the box. He lit down with an almost cat-Hke agility while the wagon trundled on at an ever-increasing pace. Whistling up the white stallion, the Kid mounted and followed the departing team horses. Behind him the wagon careered on downwards accompanied by the jangling clash of breaking glass. Then its near front wheel struck a bigger, firmer rock and shattered imder the impact. Tilting crazily, the inoperative remains of the wheel spiked into the ground beyond the rock. Unable to halt so abruptly, the wagon started to somersault over. A hideous cacophony of shattering bottles and splintering timbers rose into the air, making music to the Kid's ears as he caught up to and halted the pair of harness horses.

  Curses rose in a wild, almost insane flood from Hockley as he watched the wreddng of his property. However, still covered by Dusty's Colt, he made no move.

  "Got the bosses, Dusty," drawled the Kid amiably, coming up to the men. "But dog-my-cats if the wagon didn't sneak away from under me."

  *Tou done it on purposel" Hockley snarled.

  *T)id I?" asked the Kid with a mildness of tone that did not match the cold glint in his eyes.

  'T)amn it, I'll see the sher—I" Hockley began.

  "No you won tl" Dusty put in. "Because if you don t pull right out of this neck of the woods, I'll jail you the next time we meet."

  ^ilmer

  ^That's what I said.**

  TDo you reckon you can make that selling likker to an Injun charge stick?" the pedlar demanded.