The making of a lawman

by Edson, John Thomas

  While the centre man might be good, his companions came nowhere near his standard. Counting himself no better than fair. Derringer still outclassed them and he stood third on the law's side.

  Off balance and staggering, Waco partially repaid his error by beating Derringer and the remaining two men into action. Bringing out his right hand Colt, he cut loose and nailed the man at the left through the shoulder. As his victim spun around, Waco did no more than thmnb-cock the Colt and ignored the fact that the other still held a gun.

  Then the yoimgster learned his second lesson in a few seconds, although it had been one Dusty had failed to mention on the first evening outside the warehouse. Swinging his Colt, Dusty sent a shot into the woimded man as he hung against the hitching rail and tried to lift his gun. Dusty acted fast, without a moment's concern for the other's condition and was fully prepared to continue shooting tf the situation warranted it. However the impact of the second bullet made him open his fingers and the revolver fell to the groimd. For a moment the man hung on the rail, then slid downwards. Startled by the shots, the three horses bolted.

  An instant after Waco fired. Derringer brought up his own Colt. Having time to spare, even though it amounted to no more than a split second, he angled his shot to injure rather than kill. Letting out a screech as lead birnied into his shoulder, the third man jerked backwards. His feet struck the sidewalk and he sat down on it. Hinrt or not, he showed a remarkably quick grasp of the situation and threw his gun aside. Nor cMd he act a moment too soon, for Derringer knew the rule of a peace officer which Waco had yet to learn.

  'Don't shooti" the man yelled, clutching at his right shoulder with the left hand. "Don't shoot. I'm cfone."

  "Move in on them and watch them good," Dusty ordered and, as they advanced, went on, "Boy, never as long as you're wearing a lawman's badge call out to a man you don't know, or go towards him after you've stopped him, without being ready to draw your guns."

  *1 only—," Waco began.

  "I know what you aimed to do and don't blame you for doing it. But innocent as Lon looks, or guilty-looking as hell, don't make the mistake of not being ready to draw. And if you have to throw down on a man, keep shooting at him as long as he holds his gun no matter whether he's standing or

  lying."

  Cold-blooded it might seem, but the advice proved valuable to Waco in later years. The yoimgster had killed four men already, but each time in a plain shoot-out and never when working as a peace officer. So, despite Dusty's assimiption, he did not know the rule every successful western lawman followed.

  A crowd quickly gathered, bursting out of the Wooden Spoon or dashing along the street. Leaping from the sidewalk, some cowhands caught the fleeing horses and led them back towards the saloon. Ignoring the questions fired his way. Dusty told Waco and Derringer to gather up the trio's weapons. While that elementary precaution was being taken, he studied the trio. The first man lay dead, a hole between his eyes mute testimony to Dusty's deadly skill. Although hit twice, the second time in the chest, the next man might pull through if given medical attention soon enough. Due to Derringer's consideration, the third member of the party had no more than a minor wound. Though he would not be able to handle a gun for a spell, he would live. Something more than the wound seemed to be bothering the third man and he looked at Dusty.

  "How'd you know?" he whined and released his shoulder to point at the dead man. "Stayley there reckoned word couldn't've got here."

  While not sure what the man meant. Dusty decided it might be worthwhile trying a bluff to learn.

  "It arrived."

  *Trh—The money's in Stayley's saddle pouches. All of it. Just like when we took it out of the Wells Fargo box."

  'Where was that?" Dusty asked.

  "Six miles south of Newt—," the man began, then chopped oflF his words as he realised that Dusty ought to know the answer,

  "A Wells Fargo coach, huh?** Dusty said thoughtfully.

  "I've got nothing to say," the man replied.

  Guessing that he would learn no more at that moment, Dusty let the matter lapse. If it came to a point, he did not want the matter aired in public.

  One did not need to be a genius to guess what had happened. After robbing a Wells Fargo stagecoach close to the town of Newton, the trio had come to Mubooney. From the condition of their horses, they had made a fast ride. Probably their intention had been to mingle with the other visitors until after the hunt for them died down. If they had kept their heads when Waco called to them, the plan would have stood a better than fair chance of working. No word of any hold-up had reached Muhooney and, despite noticing the way in which they had left their horses. Dusty had no cause to suspect them of breaking the law.

  MAYBE YOU DIDN'T ASK HIM RIGHT

  Coming up at a run, the Ysabel Kid saw there would be no need for his intervention. Before he could return to continue sampling Sarah Bimbaum's cooking, he foimd himself actively involved. Dusty told him to see to the removal of the body, guard the doctor while the two wounded men received attention and to make sure that the trio's horses went into the civic pound for disposal.

  "Would that be all, Cap'n Fog, sir?" he asked, seeing chances of further culinary pleasures disappear.

  **It'll do for starters,'* Dusty replied. 'Waco, fetch their saddlepouches with you while we go over the Wooden Spoon's games. Then we'll see what that jasper was talking about."

  While Dusty felt certain there would be no cause for complaint, he insisted that the examination of the saloon's gambling equipment be carried out. Later, when other places opened, he wanted proof that he had dealt in the same manner with everybody. He wanted to learn more about the stage hold-up, but could not make a start imtil after the men's wounds had been treated. So he might just as well fill in the time usefully. However, to prevent accusations at a later date, he took the precaution of fastening and sealing the saddle pouches in the presence of the saloon's owner—a

  62 THE MAKING OF A LAWMAN

  member of the town council—and did not trouble to look into them before doing so.

  After the check, which proved negative but gave Waco a chance of learning something of crooked gambling, Dusty left the saloon ready to investigate the activities of the trio before they came to Mulrooney. However, Mark brought news that sent them to look in on a private card game at die hotel. The game proved dishonest and the ensuing formalities further delayed Dusty's plans. In addition the Kid had not yet returned from the doctor's oflBce with either of the woimded men. So Dusty locked the saddle pouches in the safe and sent the old jailer to telegraph the authorities at Newton, requesting information about the hold-up.

  Although it was Waco's night off watch, and ignoring the fact that he had a date to take Babsy for a buggyride, he remained at the oflBce to watch Derringer demonstrate the operation of various crooked gambling devices found at the hotel. So engrossed did the youngster become that he arrived late at the rendezvous, sparking off a quarrel with the pert little blonde that later proved to have most beneficial results.

  It seemed that the fates conspired to prevent Dusty satisfying his curiosity. The doctor, new from the East, young and very keen to aid suffering humanity, put both wounded men under such heavy opiates that even the lighter injured of the pair would not be able to speak before morning. Realising that the doctor had acted as he thought for the best. Dusty withheld the blistering comments which rose at the news. All he could do was telegraph Sheriff Bracker at the coimty seat and ask for information on a man called Stayley.

  As things turned out, the doctor's actions did not delay the investigation. A Texas rancher noted for his rivalry with Colonel Goodnight arrived with his herd and paid off his trail drive crew. Only unceasing vigilance by Dusty and all the available deputies prevented trouble breaking out between the two groups of celebrating cowhands. So there would have been no chance of interviewing the men, even if either could have talked.

  Next morning, leaving Derringer and the tall, lean, leather-toug
h old jailer known as Pickle-Barrel to deal with the ordinary overnight prisoners. Dusty prepared to interrogate the man wounded by the gambler-deputy. Brought from the doctor s house while still imconscious, the man had been held

  in one of the three single-bunk cells reserved for dangerous prisoners. When the Kid fetched him into the office and seated him before Dusty's desk, he looked pale but in reasonably good condition apart from his wounded shoulder.

  Studying the lean face, with its hooked nose, rat-trap mouth and weak chin. Dusty could not place it with any outlaw of his acquaintance. Not that he felt too surprised at the failure. While he possessed a fair knowledge of Texas law-breakers, he had not previously found the need to familiarise himself with the Kansas crop. Nor did the office possess anything that might help make the identification. In a well-established town, a new marshal might expect to find a collection of wanted posters gathered by his predecessors. Mulrooney had not been built long enough to accumulate such aids.

  "How's the shoulder?" Dusty asked.

  "It hurts like hell. Are you turning me loose?*'

  "Nope."

  *Why re you holding me?"

  "Don't you know?" asked Mark, standing at the man's right side while the Kid hovered at his left.

  **What's your name?" demanded Dusty before the man could reply, sitting on the edge of the desk in front of him.

  'Tom Smith."

  "I met one of your Idnfolks," drawled the Kid. "Only you don't feature him."

  "Not enough to be real close kin," agreed Dusty. **Would Smith just be your summer name?"

  "Simimer and winter both," the man replied, gaining confidence as he took in the youthful appearance of the trio. "What'd you fellers start shooting at us for yesterday?"

  *Tro stop you throwing down on xasJ' Dusty replied. 'Why'd you do it?"

  "Maybe he figm*ed you'd recognised him from his picture on a wanted dodger. Dusty," Mark suggested.

  "You ain't seed no picture of me on a dodger," Smith stated, with such confidence that the Texans believed him.

  "Not even for that stage hold-up six miles south of Newton?" Dusty asked.

  "How'd you mean, marshal? I don't know about no holdup any place."

  "Did Stayley?"

  "I only met him on the trail into town. When you three

  fellers jumped us, I figured you must be some feUers looking for evens with him.**

  **Then why'd you draw?^ Mark said.

  ^Wouldn't you? Hell, those three fellers'd seen me ride in with Stayley. They'd not wait to ask who I was afore shooting."

  Clearly the delay had given Smith a chance to think up excuses for his actions. Dusty had feared that it might, but had hoped the opiates would keep the man imconscious long enough to prevent him examining his position. However Dusty felt that he ought to be able to learn enough by careful manipulation of the man.

  **Lefs take a look at those saddle-pouches, Mark,** the small Texan ordered. "Lon, go ask Dongelon to come over and check the seals before we break them."

  After the owner of the Wooden Spoon arrived and made sure that the seals placed on in his presence still remained intact. Dusty opened the first of the pouches. A low curse broke from SmMi and he started to rise as Dusty tipped the contents on to the desk. Nor did the man alone show surprise, for nothing more important than a heap of newspapers slid into view. Only for a moment did the shock crease Smith's face, then a calculating glint replaced it and he sank back into the chair.

  **Where is it?" Dusty demanded, after the other pouches and the trio's bed-roUs had failed to yield anything incriminating.

  '^Where's what?" Smith countered innocently.

  ''You expected the money to be in there," Dusty said,

  "Me? I didn't expect a thing."

  'TThen why did you tell us that Stayley had it in his saddle pouch?"

  *T must've been out of my head with pain. Getting shot makes me that way."

  "Do you get shot often?" Mark wanted to know.

  "Nawl miy should I?"

  *T^ow me, drawled the Kid. *! alius shoot owDioots."

  **! ain't no owlhootl" Smith yelled and a foxy grin creased his face. **Say, if there was money in Stayley's pouches, maybe you bimch took it."

  "Now you don't mean that like it sounds, do you?" asked the Kid, his bowie knife sUding from leather.

  "I was only joking," gulped Smith, turning his eyes from a

  face that no longer looked young to an eleven-and-a-half inch long, two-and-a-half inch deep, razor-edged blade.

  "Don t joke with usr Dusty barked. '"We don t joke with thieves.'*

  "Could be he's innocent. Dusty,** Mark suggested.

  "I've been telling you that I am!" Smith wailed.

  "I beheve you, like I believe in Santa Klaus and fairies,** stated the Kid.

  "You'll let me go then?"

  "Well no, I can't say that I will,** Dusty replied. ^'See, you nearly shot a deputy out there. So I'm holding you for attempted murder."

  "I never got off a shot!" Smitii squealed.

  "Can you prove it?" drawled the small Texan. . Smith gulped down something that appeared to be block-ag his throat as he realised mat he could not. Only his 3mpanions, neither of whom could testify, and the peace oflBcers knew exactly what happened outside the Wooden Spoon. If the marshal and his deputies claimed that Smith had fired at the young one, a jury of town folk would believe it.

  "If you aim to railroad me, I'm in no shape to stop you," Smith said.

  "I'm right pleased you know it," Dusty replied. *TPut him back in his cell."

  Watching the man led away. Dusty felt puzzled. The discovery that the pouches held no money had come as a surprise to Smith. Yet, after one brief show of emotion, he had settled down and seemed almost content with his position.

  *What do you make of that. Dusty?" Mark inquired, returning from locking Smith in the cell.

  "Something stinks about it. He almost looked happy when he saw the money'd gone. Why in hell doesn't Wefis Fargo in Newton answer our telegraph message?"

  If the men in question had heard Dusty's words, they could not have answered any more prompdy. The office door opened and a youngster entered carrying an envelope.

  **This message just come in, Cap'n," he said. **The agent told me to get it over here as fast as I could."

  Taking me message form, Dusty learned why Newton had delayed in answering his request for information. A stage-coadi carrying ten thousand dollars had left Newton heading

  south. Attempts to contact the way station at which it would halt for the night had failed due to the telegraph wire being down. Alarmed by the message Dusty sent, a posse rode out along the stage trail. They found the telegraph wires had been cut and, re-establishing contact with the way station, learned the coach had not arrived. By that time a careful search could not be made, but men went along the trail. Pure luck led them to where the coach had been driven into a dry wash, its dead driver and guard being inside and the horses taken away. Finally the Newton agent requested that Dusty hold Smith imtil their special investigators could come to Mulrooney and interrogate him.

  "And that's just what we'll do," Dusty told Mark.

  At which Waco made a belated appearance and told the others that one of the vacant saloons was being taken over by its new owner.

  "We'd best go look them over," Dusty said. 'THey, PicklesI"

  *ToI" replied the jailer entering the oflBce.

  "Be real careful v^dth that jasper in the solo cell. He's likely mixed up in a stage robbery and double killing."

  "I'll watch him with both eyes," Pickle-Barrel promised.

  Although he had been employed in the menial task of swamper at the Fair Lady, the old timer had proved to Dusty's satisfaction that he possessed the required attributes for a jailer. Actually Pickle-Barrel had only taken work as swamper until his present position became available. He had scouted for the Army imtil rheumatism slowed him down to a point where further work of that nature would be suicidal. However h
e could still take care of himself in a tight comer and knew all the safety precautions to take when dealing with dangerous prisoners.

  After introducing himself to the newly arrived saloonkeeper, a big, buxom woman called Buffalo Kate Gilgore— whom he had last seen operating a place in Brownton— Dusty watched her meeting with Freddie Woods and sensed rivalry in the air. However, he guessed Kate could be relied upon to keep a straight place and did not foresee the extra work the rivalry between the two women would give him.

  A meeting with the various trail bosses and town's leading citizens followed, to arrange for means of entertaining the cowhands on Sunday without opening the saloons. Between them Dusty and Freddie had akeady formed a plan. While the term rodeo' was not yet in use, they used many of the

  contests such aflFairs would later offer as a means of letting the cowhands show various skills and find work to occupy otherwise idle and mischievous hands.

  On his return to the ofiBce, Dusty foimd a big, bluff-looldng man waiting. Dressed in a town suit and boots, although the tie had been removed and a Stetson himg on the peg by the door, the newcomer gave the impression of spending much time out of doors. A Remington Army revolver rode a crossdraw holster at his left hip and a coimty sheriff's badge glinted from his vest.

  **Cap*n Fog?*' the man asked, a faint hint of siuprise in his voice. "I m Tom Bracker.''

  **Howdy, sheriff,'* Dusty replied, shaking hands. '"Hope I haven't kept you waiting for too long."

  "Pickles's been showing me over the place. It's a right good lay-out. Whoever planned it knew what they was at."

  'That was Mayor Woods."

  *lt figures. That's one smart lady—and a real looker too."