by J. T. Edson
Using the Colt’s muzzle-blast as his guide, Dusty triggered off three shots in a second and a half. The lead ripped by Turkey’s head, making that spine-chilling “splat!” sound as they shattered through the air. While posing as a big, hard man, and seeking the honored name of gun-fighting killer, Turkey had never been under fire before, nor heard the unnerving sound of close-passing lead. Never a pleasant sound, the passing bullets had a shocking impact when coupled with the spurts of flame which erupted from the darkness. Already half-blinded by the glare given out by burning powder from his own gun, Turkey could only stand and stare. Suddenly, shockingly, Turkey realized his precarious position. Standing out in the open, he was completely at the mercy of the unseen man with the deadly carbine. While the first three shots missed, they came close enough to him for him to realize that they were not intended to hit. Even if luck guided them by him, Turkey figured that his good fortune could not last against ten more bullets that the carbine most likely held. At that moment Turkey’s nerve snapped. Throwing aside his gun, he turned and fled as fast as he could go along the trail down which he rode so cheerily on his quest for loot and revenge.
On the ground, the three men managed to untangle themselves and roll apart. While shaken by their fall and the sudden blasting of shots, not one of the trio failed to grasp the full seriousness of their position.
“What the—” Gartree began, then, realizing he was in no position to make demands, moderated his tone. “Who are you?”
“Your hired men missed out in Bainesville, hombre,” replied a Texan drawl, chilling under its easy flow.
Raw fear bit into Gartree as he understood the implication of the words. He knew that Latter and Gruber between them failed to kill the young Texan and now he stood there in the darkness, most likely lining his carbine and starting to squeeze its trigger.
“Don’t shoot!” he screeched. “I never sent them after you.”
“Neither the hired gun nor the marshal?”
“If either of them said I did, they lied!”
“I killed your hired man, he went without talking, Mr. Gartree, and likely your tame marshal’s not stopped running yet.”
“D—Don’t shoot me!” Gartree moaned.
Fury welled up inside Coop as he saw the second of his heroes show feet of clay. Always he regarded Turkey as the bravest of the brave and only lacking a chance to prove himself—and given his opportunity, Turkey showed a yellow streak, threw aside his gun and fled. There had been a time also when Coop regarded Gartree as a hero, a gallant defender of the under-dog who dared stand up to lawmen and make them look small. Yet that same defiant hero now cringed and begged not to be hurt, after sending hired killers to do his dirty work.
Rage at his brother and Gartree drove Coop to rash wildness. He wanted to show the Texan that at least one man had the courage to stand against him.
“Damn it to hell!” Coop screeched, thrusting himself to his feet. “Come on out where we can see you and make your fight.”
Eight – Captain Fog Speeds Departing Guests
The last thing Dusty wanted to do was kill either Coop or Lanny. During his time as a lawman, iii Dusty had seen many young men like the pair on the trail. They were products of their times, living in a hard land, fed on stories of the escapades of the gun-fighting breed. Some instinct told Dusty that the two young men were more likely to follow than be leaders; and he could understand Coop’s feeling, so knew why the other made that reckless challenge.
“You can have it that way if you want,” the small Texan said calmly. “Just say the word and let loose your wolf.”
“No!” screamed Gartree, just as Dusty figured he would. “Don’t do it!”
Raw, unadulterated panic filled the politician’s voice and bit like a knife into Lanny. Less affected by the failure of Turkey than Coop had been, Lanny saw only the gravity of their situation and realized the futility of challenging a man armed with a Winchester—which he could obviously use with skill and precision—when carrying only a revolver. At that moment Lanny remembered the number of times both he and Coop missed their mark when shooting their guns. He doubted if the Texan lacked skill; in fact, seeing that the other came through a fight against a professional killer and a shotgun-armed marshal, had no doubts in the matter at all. True the Texan’s weapon sounded like a carbine, but that gave Lanny little or no comfort. While the carbine version of the “Old Yellowboy” carried only thirteen bullets in its magazine, plus one in the chamber, as opposed to the rifle’s sixteen, a skilled man could fire it at a rate of two shots a second. The Texan was skilled, and his carbine held enough bullets, even after disposing of Turkey, to make things mighty exciting should he come out in answer to Coop’s challenge.
“Don’t be crazy, Coop!” the youngster hissed. “We wouldn’t have a chance.”
“Best listen to him,” Dusty warned, staying in cover. “He’s speaking the best sense you’re ever likely to hear.”
Slowly the fighting madness ebbed out of Coop and sense returned. Not until then did he realize how foolish his challenge had been and see what Lanny already knew. Yet he felt reluctant to back down without making some token resistance.
“How about it?” asked Dusty, timing his words just right so that they came before Coop reached a second stage of defiance. “Do we make a fight?”
“No!” howled Gartree and Lanny echoed the words.
“That’s only two of you,” Dusty commented.
“I don’t want a fight,” admitted Coop bitterly.
“Then throw your gunbelts this way.”
“Like hell!” Coop snarled.
“It’s your choice. But I aim to have the gunbelts and if you give me fuss, I’ll take your pants—and boots too.”
Probably the last threat, more than any other, decided the issue. Hearing the cold, deadly purpose underlying the easy drawl and knowing the Texan possessed the means to enforce his demands—not one of the trio doubted that Dusty intended to carry out his words. Faced with the consequences of refusal, either shooting it out with the Texan or walking barefoot to town, only one course remained open.
“This’s robbery ” Gartree began in a wavering voice, starting to unbuckle his belt.
“And I’m getting mighty shy on patience,” Dusty replied. “Which is it to be?”
“Don’t shoot!” Gartree repeated in a panic-filled screech. “I’m doing what you want!”
With that, he unhitched his belt and threw it into the blackness, relief oozing through him as he heard it thud against the oak’s trunk. Lanny peeled off his belt and followed Gartree’s example, guessing that the Texan would not shoot down an unarmed man. That left Coop; and Dusty knew of the trio the young man was most likely to try something.
Still smarting under the humiliation of failure, Coop reached for and unbuckled his gunbelt. Before obeying Dusty’s order, he slipped the Colt from its holder and kept it in his hand as he flung the belt into the blackness.
“Now toss the gun after it,” Dusty said, for the belt’s arrival did not have the correct, solid sound.
“What g—?” began Coop.
A bullet tore into the ground within a couple of inches of Coop’s right foot, and caused him to make a rapid leap to the rear.
“Don’t play games with me,” Dusty ordered, working the carbine’s lever.
“What if Injuns jump us?” Coop yelped, not wanting to give in and wishing he could summon up the courage to use his gun.
“It’s been many a long year since the last hostiles came this far east,” Dusty pointed out.
“There’s bears and cougar ”
“Toss it over and leave them tend to their own affairs.”
Despite the light note, Coop detected a subtle change in Dusty’s voice and knew that he had pushed the Texan as far as was safe. Going beyond that point invited disaster and if he took the business further, must take it to the bitter end. Knowing what the end would most likely be, Coop growled out a low, bitter curse and hurled h
is gun forward. He heard metal strike wood and clatter to the ground. The sound carried all the bitter finality of defeat.
A low sigh of relief left Gartree at the sound. The politician felt much safer once all his party’s weapons had been discarded. Like Lanny, Gartree knew the Texan was not likely to open fire on unarmed men.
“I don’t know what your reason is for this outrage,” Gartree stated, putting on a tone of injured innocence which had served him well at other times when his veracity or motives had been called into question. “What do you want with us?”
“What’re you wanting, mister?” countered Dusty.
“Can’t a man take a ride along a trail without being suspect?”
“Why sure. As long as he isn’t suspect.”
“I had to ride south on business.”
“Important business?” asked Dusty.
“Real important,” agreed Gartree. “To do with the affairs of the State Legislature.”
“Now that is important,” said Dusty, sounding suitably impressed.
“It is.”
“I admire a man who’d leave his sick son to ride on his voters’ business. Only I don’t believe a word of it. What’d you aim to do when you caught up with those pilgrims?”
“Pilgrims?”
“The three camped in the clearing,” Dusty explained.
“Camped in the clearing?” repeated Gartree, trying to retain his innocence. “Which clear—”
“You know what I mean. The camp you aimed to jump because you blame the folks in it for your son getting hurt.”
“We didn’t aim to do anything to them,” Lanny put in. “We didn’t even know it was them—”
“I’m asking Mr. Gartree,” Dusty interrupted.
“We saw the fire and decided to go in for a meal and spend the night by the stream,” Gartree declared.
“Only that?” asked Dusty.
“Nothing more.”
“Mister,” Dusty drawled, irony plain in his voice. “Happen you lie like that all the time, you’ll make Congress for sure.”
“I don’t know —” Gartree began.
“I do,” Dusty told him. “I know why you came down here, what you figured on doing to those folks—and can guess what you meant to do to those three fellers who came with you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Coop sullenly.
“Do you figure that he aimed to let you get away with letting his son be crippled—especially after what you planned to do tonight?”
“You’re way ahead of me, mister,” Coop said, showing enough interest for Dusty to carry on.
“Look at how he tried to handle everybody else involved. He sent his killer after me, and the marshal. Then he brought you along to fix those pilgrims. Do you think he aimed to forget that you three didn’t stop me jumping his boy?”
A slight pause followed Dusty’s words, pregnant with thought for the two young men and filled with anxiety for Gartree.
“You reckon that he ” began Lanny, then trailed off as he could not think of how Gartree might take revenge on him after accompanying the trio on their revenge mission.
“Look at it this way,” Dusty drawled. “You three would know about his share in this business with the pilgrims. That way, he’d never be safe. One day you’d get talking drunk and let out enough to interest people and there’d be plenty willing to listen. Even without you standing by and letting his son get crippled that’s enough for him to want you dead.”
“It’s lies!” Gartree screeched. “All of it’s lies!”
“You sent your hired gun after me,” Dusty answered. “And your tame marshal to down him after he dropped me.”
“Why—why should I do a thing like that?” croaked the politician, his voice showing that Dusty guessed the truth.
“Could be the hired gun had a hold on you,” Dusty explained. “He’d become an expensive nuisance. And it wouldn’t do for folks to see a peace-loving jasper like you with that sort of regular company. So you told the marshal to kill him.”
“Gruber’d never have the guts,” Lanny commented.
“What risk was there?” countered Dusty. “The other feller would be busy watching and killing me. And the marshal stood well back with a scattergun. If the stakes were high enough, even he’d’ve got up enough nerve to chance that.”
“How about us?” growled Lanny, wanting information on the part of the affair which interested him the most.
“Try thinking, hombre,” Dusty advised. “You know what would happen to you, especially yahoos like you three, if word got out in town that you’d mishandled and killed a woman.”
Once started thinking, Lanny and Coop needed no further aid to see their fate. After the way they had behaved in Bainesville for weeks, the citizens would need little stirring to paint for war; and the knowledge of the heinous crime the trio committed was more than enough to bring it about.
“But he’d be involved in it up to his slimy neck,” Coop pointed out.
“Only who could prove it?” Dusty demanded.
“We could!”
“Sure you could—if you had the chance to talk and anybody believed you. Only you’d not get the chance. Gartree and his tame marshall’d see to that. It’d be Hickok-style, ‘bang! bang! bang!’ then call to you to halt when he was good and sure you couldn’t do anything else but obey.”
While the two young men felt some pride in the achievements of Wild Bill Hickok, they reluctantly admitted that he did tend to shoot before challenging; and knew exactly what Dusty meant.
“Don’t listen to him!” Gartree shrieked. “He can’t prove a word he says.”
“I don’t aim to try,” Dusty answered. “All I’m going to do is make sure that you don’t bother either me or them folks ahead anymore.”
“Wh—what do you mean?”
“That white shirt makes a mighty handy mark. I figure that if I aim, just about in the middle …”
“No!” Gartree screamed. “No—”
Turning, the politician flung himself wildly along the trail, running and swerving desperately. At any moment he expected to hear the carbine crack and feel lead rip into his body. Not even when he might have known himself out of any possible line of fire did he halt, but ran on through the night as if death stalked his flying feet.
“Looks like his important business could keep a mite longer,” Dusty drawled.
“You never aimed to shoot him,” Coop stated wonderingly.
“He thought that I did.”
“Who are you, mister?” Lanny inquired.
“The name is Dusty Fog.”
“Dusty Fog!”
Two young voices echoed the words. Interest and understanding showed in Coop and Lanny’s voices as they realized how they came to meet defeat at the hands of such a small, insignificant-appearing man. Neither of them doubted Dusty’s claim. In a way, it made them feel better to know the small Texan’s identity. Nobody could blame them for losing out at the hands of the Rio Hondo gun wizard.
“What do you aim to do with us, Cap’n Fog?” asked Coop.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” repeated two relieved voices.
“I figured you’ve learned some sense by now. Come ahead and collect your gear, then drift.”
“Gee thanks, Cap’n,” Lanny said.
“You reckon that Gartree meant to have us killed?” Coop asked as they came towards the tree.
“I reckon he did,” Dusty replied.
“When we catch up with him, we ought to—”
“Leave him be,” Dusty warned. “He’s not worth it. Only, was I you, I’d not stick around Bainesville. He won’t forget tonight and he’s as mean as a teased diamondback.”
“Know something,” Lanny remarked, rasping a match on his pants’ seat. “Ole Gartree allus kept telling us he’s all for the working folk. After tonight, I reckon if he’s for them, I’m sure happy that I never worked.”
“Sure,” agreed Coop. “Gavin was a snive
ling, spineless rat most times, but alongside his pappy, he wasn’t too bad.”
Watching the young men locate and strap on their gunbelts, Dusty knew that he had done what he intended. Lanny and Coop had seen Gartree in his true colors and been given food for thought. It was highly unlikely that either would want to take further action against the travelers. Nor did Dusty expect trouble from the politician. Unless he misjudged Gartree’s character, the man would keep on going and might even leave Bainesville for a safer location.
“I’m sorry about your horses,” he told Lanny and Coop.
“Reckon a walk’ll do us both good, Cap’n,” Lanny replied. “And we sure as hell deserve it.”
With that the two young men walked off down the trail. Dusty waited until the sound of their feet died away, then returned to his waiting paint. There was nothing to prevent him visiting the travelers’ camp now.
Nine – The Travelers
Dusty kept his horse off the hard surface of the trail as he rode towards the clearing and its hooves made little sound on the springy turf under foot. For all that, he expected at least one of the strangers to have heard his approach. Folks travelling in the west tended to be alert and quick to catch even slight sounds at night. More so when having recently heard shooting.
Even when he rounded the final turn and came into plain sight of the clearing, the travelers gave no sign of being aware of his presence. They sat around a small wooden table, apparently at the end of a meal. To Dusty it seemed that the trio held a cheerful and interesting conversation, their whole attitude giving that impression, but their lips never moved and he heard no words.
While not a man easily swayed by impressions, Dusty felt just a touch perturbed by the silence of the trio. Even as Dusty watched, the young man looked at the girl like he was requesting something and, although no word passed, she handed him the sugar bowl.