The making of a lawman

by Edson, John Thomas

  When he emerged at the other side, he came out shooting. Not just shooting but getting off his shots in the fastest possible manner when using a single-action revolver. Although some firearms' manufacturers produced double-action weapons, allowing the hammer to be cocked by pressure on the trigger, the Colt company preferred the more rugged and less complicated single-action for the majority of their products. While this allowed the weapon to operate

  with a minimum of working parts, an advantage in an age when repairs must be carried out by a local gun-smith who owned few tools, it meant the hammer needed manually cocking before it fired.

  To overcome this slight disadvantage. Western gun-fighters had developed the art of fanning me hammer. True very few of them achieved success using such a method, but there was no quicker way of getting oflE shots from a single-action revolver. And in really skilled hands it could be surprisingly accurate at short range.

  Dusty possessed that kind of skill. As he came into view, his right elbow rammed tight against his side to help control the gun. Whipping across his left hand, he forced over the hammer with its heel. Already his right forefinger held back the trigger, so the hammer did not engage and slammed down upon the waiting percussion cap on being released.

  Still sliding forward. Dusty continued to fan the hammer as fast as he could circle his left hand aroimd and repeat the cycle of operation. He shot fast for a definite piupose, to save his own life. While Waco had given him a chance and his unexpected action kept him out of Haver's line of fire, he did not know how quickly the man would recover from the surprise and change the Remingtons aim. Black powder burned into a thick cloud of propellant gas and Dusty hoped to chimi enough of it out to make him an uncertain target even if the bullets missed.

  Only they did not miss. Tliree times in very quick succession lead ripped up into Haver's body and hurled him backwards. Nor did they strike a moment too soon. Already the wicked little hideout gun had started to slant down and fiame sparked from the upper of its superimposed twin barrels. Dusty heard a VhompI' at the side of his head as the Derringer s bullet churned into the floor alongside him. Then Haver toppled over backwards, crashing down some distance from where he had been standing.

  Dropping the cane as soon as it had served his needs, Waco bent and caught hold of his left hand Colt's butt. While he used his right hand and knew by the feel that it held the wrong gun, he wasted no time in changing. Instead he sent the holster flipping from the Colt and whirled in time to see Haver go down. Then the yoimgster swung towards Tarrick.

  Blood gushing from his mouth, the man himg against the front wall. He had dropped his gun on being hit and showed

  no signs of further resistance. Even as Waco moved forward, shock and pain slid Tarrick imconsdous to the floor. At the same moment Waco heard Dusty let out a pain-filled curse.

  "Did he get you?" the youngster asked in concern, swinging towards the small Texan.

  "No. I spiked a splinter into my butt-end as I slid through," Dusty replied and rose to his feet. 'Thanks, boy. You handled that just right."

  "I was scared as hell I'd not get away with it." "The day you're scared, Til vote Republican," Dusty said and rubbed his rump, then drew free the long splinter. "It was close, boy. If I never have a closer one, Til be happy." "And me."

  "You'd best get the doctor for that jasper you shot. Ill do what I can for him until you get back."

  Knowing that the need might arise for reaching some place in town faster than on foot. Dusty had arranged that one of the deputies kept his horse out back of the building while on watch. Collecting hi5 waiting paint, Waco rode out of town and headed for the sports area. There he found and notified the doctor who left immediately. Using his initiative, the youngster next located the sheriff and told what happened. Like the doctor, Bracker returned to the marshal's oflBce.

  TThere's not much chance for him. Captain Fog," the doctor stated after examining Tarrick. *The bullet's torn his tongue apart; even if I can stop the bleeding, he won t be able to eat."

  "That's what I figured," Dusty replied. "And that other man. Smith's companion, died late last night."

  "So you told us."

  "Doesn't it mean anything to you. Captain?" the doctor demanded.

  "If you mean, am I sorry, the answer's yes'," Dusty answered quietly. "But I'd do it again under the same conditions. This's a rough country, doctor. There's not much law in it. Maybe the time'll come when a man doesn't need to strap on a gun in a morning, but until it comes I'll do what I have to do."

  "Those two men died—," the doctor began. "It was their own choosing," Dusty pointed out. "If that feller with Smith hadn't been stopped, he'd've killed one of

  US. Those two here might have just left Waco and me in a cell when they took Smith and pulled out; but it was a chance I couldn't take."

  "Captain Fog did what he had to do, doctor," Bracker put in. "Sure he had to do some killing, but this territory's a mite safer for honest folks because of it."

  "Let's get this feller into a cell," Dusty suggested, wanting the discussion over. "It'll be easier for him than lying on the floor."

  The doctor nodded. While he might be new to the West, he had heard of other trail-end towns. Suddenly he realised that the one reason Mulrooney did not see the wild times of the other towns was because of Dusty's handling. So he chopped off his intention of continuing to raise the moral issues of the affair and supervised the removal of the woimded man.

  **Now what happened. Dusty?*' asked the sheriff once Tarrick was lying on a bunk in one of the cells.

  "It's like we figured, Tom. Tricky Dick doesn't know where the money is."

  "How'd you know that?" Waco inquired.

  **Why else would he send two of his men here to get Smith out?" Dusty asked.

  "But Smith didn't know the money'd gone," the youngster objected.

  "He didn't," Dusty agreed.

  *Then how'd he be able to find it?"

  'That's a right smart question," Bracker put in.

  "He's an idea where Stayley could have hid it," Dusty replied.

  "Look, Dusty," Waco said slowly. "I might be hell with the gals—."

  "You sure are," grinned Dusty.

  **But I'm not smart like you," the youngster continued, ignoring the interruption. "So just sort of explain things real slow, easy and in itty-bitty words that dumb lil ole me can imderstand."

  "It's easy enough. Stayley couldn't say to the others *Wait here while I sneak off secret-like and hide the money.' And there's a limit to how many times he could find excuses to leave them before they got suspicious. I'd say three or four at the outside. Smith laiows those places and .a search aroimd them'd likely turn up the money."

  'TTiat figures," Bracker admitted. "Only why doesn't Tricky Dick just follow their line instead of trying to pry Smith loose?"

  "It's near on fifty miles to Newton, by the line those three'd take and none of it easy trailing country, or they don't know their business," Dusty guessed. "Also there'll be posses out hunting for them. Nope, Tricky Dick's best bet is to get Smith out, learn where Stayley could've hid the money and then pick it up."

  **Maybe one of them pair's Tricky Dick," Waco suggested.

  "Not if the description I've got's anywhere near right," Bracker answered. "He's a middle-sized jasper, looks lUce a swish, but he's tougher than any no-biillfighter when the chips go down."

  "He'd have to be to handle fellers like Stayley and those two," Dusty commented. **Thing now is, will he send some more of his boys, or try himself the next time?"

  **You reckon he'll make another go at freeing Smith?" Bracker asked.

  "Likely," Dusty rephed. **He's taken so much trouble that he'll have to go through with it to show the rest of his bimch he's still the big man."

  "Could be they'll fight shy of trying and expect him to do it," Bracker said. **Which means Tricky Dick'll be handling the next try hisseK."

  "Let's hope he does," Dusty answered. "Maybe we can nail his hide t
o the wall with Smith for the bait."

  **Wells Fargo're going to want Smith pretty bad," Bracker pointed out.

  "Could be," Dusty admitted. "Only I reckon we'll have something to say about that"

  JUST A HALFSMART LIL TEXAS BOY

  There was a heated scene in the marshal's ofiBce when the two real Wells Fargo special investigators finally reached Mulrooney. Once again the Cansole gang had cut the telegraph wires to prevent word of their exploits being passed ahead of them. Even after the investigators had been foimd in the men s room at the whistle-stop and freed, a considerable delay had ensued before contact could be made with the outside world. Travelling up by a special train sent out for them, the two men arrived at Mulrooney expecting the worst to have happened.

  Smarting imder the indignity at having been tricked into entering the room at the whistle-stop, cluDDed insensible then left bound and gagged, they showed relief on learning that the rescue bid had failed. Their pleasiure ended when Dusty flatly refused to turn Smith into their tender care. All he would do was allow them to interrogate the prisoner in his presence and he used the myth of 3ie Kansas City Intelligencer reporter's presence to damp down any tendencies to take revenge for their mishaps.

  "Damn it, marshall" one of the investigators growled, when Smith continued to pretend innocence. "We re getting nowhere with him. If I can just—."

  "Not in my jail^" Dusty interrupted firmly.

  **Then turn him over to us I"

  "I reckon he'd be safer here—and if it comes to a point, youVe nothing to prove he was mixed up in the hold-up. So I'm holding him for the attempted murder of a deputy marshal."

  Anger glowed in the investigator's eyes, but a suggestion of another reason for Dusty's refusal died imsaid. Small he might be, but Dusty Fog stood in no man's shadow when it came to salty toughness. He would take the strongest objection to a suggestion that he might be holding Smitib in the hope of laying hands on the hold-up money for his own use.

  "J-B. Hume won't like this when he hears, marshal," the investigator contented himself with saying.

  "Tell him to take it up with me," Bracker put in, having stayed at the office to v^tness the interview. "I'm backing Cap'n Fog all the way."

  In the face of such opposition the Wells Fargo men realised they could do nothing. So they stamped indignantly from the office and headed for their Mulrooney depot to telegraph James B. Hume, the company's able chief of detectives. An answer came back promptly, but as a complete surprise. Hmne ordered his men to give the local law every co-operation and to leave Smith in the marshal's hands. Grudgingly the pair returned to tell Dusty the news, little guessing that he had communicated his plans for using Smith as bait to Hume before they arrived.

  With that matter attended to. Dusty started to plan for foihng further eflForts by Cansole to rescue the prisoner. Even should no attempt be made. Dusty felt that Smith might respond to hints of being double-crossed by helping the law find the hold-up loot.

  So, on Monday morning. Smith went before the local judge who ordered he be held in custody for a week to allow a full investigation into the attempted murder of a deputy town marshal. That decision came about as a result of a consultation with Dusty. While it might not be in accordance with the strict letter of the law, both the small Texan and the judge felt it would be worthwhile. So Smith found himself faced with another seven days in the Mulrooney jail. During that time both he and Dusty hoped that Cansole would try again.

  Preparing for the attempt, should it come. Dusty warned his staff to remain constantly alert for tricks and to watch everybody who tried to make contact with Smith. Not that

  F

  THE MAKING OF A LAWMAN 83

  Dusty thought Smith would be stupid enough to part with his information before being rescued. The outlaw had sense enough to know that once Cansole learned where to look for the money, he need no longer waste time, or risk losing more men, in further rescue bids.

  Despite the threat of other jail-breaking attempts, the normal routine of the oflBce had to go on. Towards noon on Monday the man who had bought Buffalo Kate's Brownton saloon arrived in Mulrooney, backed by several hard-cases, to take revenge on her for what he regarded as trickery. Only the arrival of Dusty and shotgun-armed deputies saved Kate. Being challenged by the vengeance-seeker, Dusty fought and killed him with duelling swords, the man making the mistake of believing such weapons offered him the best chance when dealing with a known gunfighter.

  Nothing fiuther of note happened on Monday, except that the smouldering feud between Freddie Woods and Buffalo Kate received further fuel when the latter used information given by the former to hire a top-grade attraction to appear at the Buffalo Saloon and stole the majority of the trade.

  Much as Dusty wanted to remain on hand around the jail, circumstances on Tuesday prevented him from doing so. Various civic dignitaries organised a banquet for the cattle-buyers, trail bosses and other important visitors. As segundo and trail boss of the great OD Connected, Dusty received an invitation to attend. So did Mark Counter, going along to represent his father's R Over C spread and other Texas Big Bend interests.

  It was Frank Derringer's night off watch. Although he offered to help out. Dusty felt the need would not arise. Called to deal with a disturbance at the Fair Lady—a gandy-dancer claimed his pocket was picked while he watched a game of strip-poker between Babsy and three other girls— the Kid and Big Sarah left Waco in charge of the office. On their retmn, Waco decided to make the rounds. From the start, the yoimgster had showed such an affinity for peace officer work that the Kid did not hesitate to let him go alone.

  Although considerable noise was coming from the Fair Lady, the rest of the town seemed peaceful enough. Then Waco heard the crack of a shot and a crash of breaking glass. Halting for a moment, he decided the soimd came

  from the Buffalo Saloon and headed in that direction on the run.

  While he might be conscious that he was handling his first lone-hand work since becoming a deputy, Waco did not forget the lessons Dusty had taught him. Instead of dashing straight into the saloon, he halted on the sidewalk and looked through one of the big front windows. A hold-up might be in progress, or a shoot-out between two enemies, either of which offered considerable danger to a peace officer who biurst in unprepared to deal with diem.

  Nothing so dramatic met his gaze, although what he saw did not fill him with joy. The strip-poker game at the Fair Lady had sucked in most of the trade, as Freddie hoped when she organised it, but the Buffalo had managed to draw some custom. Not that much drinking, gambling or other business was being done, for employees and customers alike sat and stood in attitudes of strained immobility staring at the two men who monopolized the front of the long bar.

  Waco sucked in a deep breath as he looked at the men. Each equalled his height, one lean, the other heavier. From their smoke-blackened and blood-stiff buckskin clothing, the sheathed knives at their belts and moccasin-covered feet, he took them to be buffalo-hunters. Unshaven, long-haired and dirty, they most likely were just back from a hunt. Probably they had sold their hides and started a celebration before taking a bath, hair-cut, shave and change of clothes. By all appearances, they carried enough whiskey internally to feel festive—and, like cowhands, they found their fun by shooting off guns.

  Even as Waco watched, the heavier of the pair cut loose with a revolver shot that burst a bottle on the table before a scared-looking town dweller. Not to be out-done, the second hunter shattered a beer schooner. Buffalo Kate, looking angry and concerned, stood on the stairs leading to the first floor rooms. Unless the youngster missed his guess, she aimed to try to stop the men. Only he could not see them taking orders from a woman.

  In any case, it was his duty as a deputy town marshal to go in and keep the peace. So he must enter and do something; the problem being what to do. Maybe the pair did not intend to hurt anybody, and cold sober could shoot accurately enough, but they had drunk sufficient to become unsteady. At any moment one o
f them might waver in his aim, putting

  the bullet into human flesh, not an inanimate object. Even if it did not happen, the reckless shooting had to be stopped. Let word once go aroimd that buffalo-hunters had shot up a saloon imchecked and some cowhand was certain sure to try to uphold the honour of his profession by out-doing them. Sooner or later somebody would be hurt.

  Darting a glance towards the marshal's oflSce, Waco could see no sign of the Kid. While not afraid for his own sake, the youngster wished he had a more experienced man along to guide him. Knowing how easily the carefully built reputation Dusty had created might be spoiled, he did not wish to do the wrong thing. A glaring error of judgement on his part might easily ruin all Dusty's good work. Yet, on the final analysis, he felt that Dusty would rather have him do something and be wrong rather than nothing, permitting a breach of the peace.

  "Now was I a real smart Kansas lawman, Td quick enough let windows in their bellies from the street and dien go in to tell 'em to quit," Waco mused as he walked towards the batwing doors. 'Trouble being Im just a half-smart lil Texas boy. So I'll have to do it the hard way."

  'Tfahool" whooped the heavier man as Waco reached the doors. "I'm as tough as a hickory log. I can dive deeper and come up dryer than any man on the Great Plains."

  Sucking in a deep breath, Waco pushed open the doors and stepped through. Every eye in the room tiuned his way and a slight air of expectancy ran through all but the two trouble-makers. They sv^velled whiskey-wild faces in his direction, taking in his empty hands and the badge on his vest.

  "You wanting something, boy?" demanded the lean jasper, twirling his Colt in a manner which showed liquor had not fumbled his reflexes to any great extent.