by J. T. Edson
Barry Vent waited until his brother had been evicted, then looked round at the crowd.
“Boys,” he called, “we’ve got a chance to get us a lawman here at last. How about our asking Dusty if he’ll take on the chore for us.”
“Now wait a minute,” Pop Howard put in. “Dusty ain’t fixing to stay for but a few days. He don’t—”
“Sure I’ll take on,” the Texan put in. “I need a riding chore, and this’ll let me stay on here for a few days.”
“All right then. That all fair with you boys?” Barry Vent yelled.
There was a shout of approval from the crowd, none of whom doubted any longer that this was Dusty Fog.
“Right, belly up to the bar then—drinks on the house!” Vent yelled.
In the crush to get the free drinks, the Texan found himself separated from Pop Howard. Barry Vent stood at his side. The gambler twisted round and looked at the small Texan, then in a low voice said: “Listen to me good, cowhand. I don’t know who you are, only that you’re not Dusty Fog. I run this town, and what I say goes. You forget that and I’ll show you how the other Marshal died.”
The young Texan looked down at Vent’s gloved hands, then up at his face. “I remember real good, Mr. Vent. Real good.”
Benjy Vent slammed into the chair by his brother’s bed and snarled: “Why the hell did you do it? Taking that kid on as town badge.”
Barry Vent looked up. He could read much the same question in the other faces, so decided to explain:
“We aim to pull a job right near this town. I don’t want anybody here who might queer it. There’s been talk of sending for John Poe, or Garrett, to handle the law here. Poe might do it, he’s a friend of old Pop Howard. We don’t want them in here.”
“And with them thinking Dusty Fog is the law, they won’t bother to come,” Benjy put in.
“He’s starting to think—I never knew he could,” Barry scoffed. “We are only pulling off one more job, then we’ll split up.”
“Yeah, leave this one hoss town and head for the big cities,” Benjy agreed. “But, before we go, I’m going to get Sinclair and that short-growed Texan both.”
“Yeah, you do just that,” Slingo Witch sneered. He knew that, whoever the small man was, even if he wasn’t Dusty Fog, he was a good man with a gun. Slingo Witch could read the signs as well as any man; he knew that the small Texan was in a far better class than Benjy Vent—and, if Benjy went against him, there would be a better share out of loot for the rest of the Vent men.
“All right,” Benjy sneered, looking round. “Comes time for us to go. I’ll get them both.”
Another person was showing interest in the small Texan. Jean Mollison looked at the star on his shirt as they walked along behind the houses making for the post office where she worked—trying to bring some kind of solvency to a business which was owned by a man with a thirst and a sadly wrong belief that there was better than the 11-8 chance of filling an inside straight on the draw.
“You’re loco, Texas, that’s what you are,” she said, refusing to be fooled into calling him Dusty Fog, even if the rest of the town had fallen for it. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Sure, took on a chore that’ll bring me some money in.”
“But they made you marshal because they think you’re Dusty Fog. They won’t like it when they find out—” she paused, not knowing quite how to go on.
“That I’m not Dusty Fog?” he finished for her. “Don’t you think I am?”
The girl did not speak for a few moments; they were coming near to the old cottonwood tree. She sighed and shook her head. “You’re a nice boy. But aren’t you taking this thing too far?”
“Maybe.”
“When Barry Vent guesses you aren’t Dusty Fog, he’ll send one of his men after you,” she warned.
“He just might at that. But, when he does, I’ll get real worried.”
“That he doesn’t think you’re Dusty Fog?”
“That he isn’t sure if I am,” the Texan answered. “See, he already told me he knows I’m not.”
Jean halted and faced the young man, hardly knowing what to make of his soft-drawled words. They were under the spreading branches of the tree. She shuddered slightly, then said: “You may not know it, but this is where my father died.”
“Sure—killed by Barry Vent.”
Something in the way he said the words made her look hard at him, but she was unable to read a thing from his face. “By Barry Vent—and you may be next.”
“Who saw the shooting?”
“No one I know of. Gramps was out back, but all he heard was the shot. When he turned, it was all over.”
The Texan was looking at the tree. He turned and looked at the gap between the two houses and the building across the street. He turned back to the girl once again.
“Was it a fair fight?”
“They must have drawn against each other, and Dad got off one shot.” Jean fought down rising grief, guessing that the young man was not just making small talk, nor satisfying idle curiosity.
“Where was your pappy stood, under the tree, with Vent across there, back to the alley?” The girl nodded, and he went on: “And how tall was your pappy?”
“Six foot odd.”
The Texan turned his attention to the tree again. He took out a knife and opened the blade, then started to cut into the bark of the tree. He worked carefully, gouging into the trunk. Finally, he dug out a battered piece of lead, which he juggled up and down in his palm.
“No witnesses; nobody real near. Only one shot, or sounded like that.”
Jean stared at the young man for a moment before the meaning of the words hit her. “How did you know the shots were so close together that they sounded like one?”
“Just guessed. See, I know a man called Sam Bass and he told me about some gambler called Vent.”
“Sam Bass—you mean the outlaw?”
“Ain’t more than one of them, I reckon,” he replied, a grin playing on his lips. “I know Sam—not in the line of duty, as you might say, but well enough. Met him up to Bent’s Ford last time and we got to talking about this and that. He told me about a man called Barry Vent.”
Her eyes were on his face; there was far more to this small man than first met the eye. “What do you mean about Barry Vent?”
“Who owns a set of gold scales in town?” He ignored her last question.
“We have a set of gold scales up at the store. Come along and Mr. Ogilby will let you use them.”
They walked on to the post office and entered together. Ogilby looked up, his pallid face working nervously. He came forward, laying aside his broom when he saw the Texan. '
“Howdy, Marshal. What can I do for you?”
“Like to use your gold scales, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.” Ogilby waved a hand to the glass-covered, delicately-balanced scales on the counter before him. “Bought them when I thought I’d light out for the Black Hills, but I never got a chance. Only time they get used now is when some old prospector comes in with some dust.”
The Texan removed the glass cover and bent over the scales. Jean watched him for a moment, then went behind the counter to start work. If she had stayed, the young man’s actions might have given her cause to worry about his welfare even more.
First, he put the battered piece of lead on the scales. Then, taking a .45 bullet from his belt-loops, he pried the head off and dropped it on the other scale. He touched the lever and the battered piece of lead sank down. He nodded and removed the .45, then asked: “Do you sell either Winchester .45, .75, or Sharps .50 shells?”
“Only Sharps, never get no call for them new model Winchester bullets yet,” Ogilby replied.
“I’d like one Sharps bullet.”
“Only one?”
“Figger that’d be enough.”
Ogilby crossed the room and, from an open box, took a single, long Sharps rifle bullet. He handed this to the Texan, who removed the hea
d as he had with the .45 then set it on the scales. He took the battered piece of lead off the other pan, replacing it with the .45. The Sharps bullet head dragged the scales down as had the other. He removed the .45 bullet head and replaced it with the piece of lead. This time the balance was made, the scales remaining level.
“Like an envelope,” the Texan said.
Jean brought him the envelope. He put the three pieces of lead into it, sealed the flap then asked them both to sign their names over the seal. Both did as they were asked, seething with questions; but something in his face stopped them from asking.
“Who owns a Sharps round here?”
“Johnny Sinclair, Pop Howard, several of the ranchers, Slingo Witch, a few more,” Ogilby replied.
The Texan pushed the envelope into his pocket, then looked them over; somehow, he looked older now. “I’d take it kind if neither of you said anything about what I’ve been doing.”
The door swung closed behind the Texan. The man and the girl looked at each other. It was some seconds before either spoke. Ogilby licked his lips, then asked: “What do you make of that?”
“I don’t know, but that boy is going to get himself in bad trouble before he’s through here.”
Ogilby shook his head, he kept his thoughts to himself. They, like Jean’s, were on the small man, but they were very different.
The Texan walked along the street. He was about to go into the jail when he saw a woman coming from the house which faced the cottonwood. He crossed the street and met her, removing his hat.
“Howdy ma’am. Do you let out your rooms?”
She stopped, looking him over for a moment, then shook her head. “I do, but I don’t have any to spare now. Mr. Vent took them all. I’m working out all day, and they take care of themselves.”
“Thank you ma’am. I’ll just stay on with the Howards for a spell. You say you’re away from home all day?”
“Yes, every day-down at the Eating House.”
The Texan turned back and crossed to the jail. He opened the door and looked at the office. It was still as when Jack Mollison left it, the table dusty and the report-book still lying open on the desk. He crossed the room, checking on the two cells at the back, then opened the safe with the keys Pop Howard had turned over to him that morning. He tossed the envelope inside and was about to close the door when he saw the wig. Taking it out, he turned it over in his hands, then tossed it back and went to sit at the desk, glancing down at the report-book. He read the open page, rose and went to the safe again, taking out the wig and looked it over once more. Finally, he tossed it back into the safe and locked the door again.
Returning to the desk, he read through the report on the Shotgun Gang more carefully. He was still reading when the door of the office was thrown open and a man looked in. He’d been running, and gasped: “Marshal, Benjy Vent and three of his brother’s men are beating Johnny Sinclair up.”
The Texan’s chair slid back and he left the office fast, heading for the blacksmith’s shop at a dead run. The other man came at a more leisurely pace, wanting to see if this lawman would dare to tangle with Barry Vent’s men. There had been some sober thought about the small man since the previous night, and few of the men who’d seen the Texan now really believed that he was Dusty Fog at all.
The Texan turned the corner and went round to the forge. He saw the man was speaking the truth. Johnny Sinclair had put up quite a fight and all the Vent men were marked by his hard fists. Haines was leaning against the wall, holding his jaw, Brandon and Wheeler were holding the blacksmith; and Benjy Vent picked up a hammer, coming forward.
“I’m going to fix you real good, big man,” he snarled.
He swung up the hammer and, at the same moment, Brandon yelled a warning. A hand gripped Benjy’s shoulder, spinning him round. He saw the small Texan in front of him. Then a fist smashed into his stomach, doubling him in agony. The Texan sent another punch on the tail of the first, catching Benjy’s jaw as it came down. For one so small, the Texan could hit. Benjy Vent looked as if he were trying to go two ways at once. The hammer fell from his hand, and he went down hard on to his back.
Brandon released Sinclair’s arm and hurled at the small Texan. The lanky man appeared to knock the other clean off his feet, but there was a slight difference. The Texan was going over backwards, even before Brandon reached him. Two hands gripped Brandon’s vest, pulling him forward. A foot rammed into his stomach and, the next instant, the world seemed to spin round. He smashed down on to the ground, flat on his back.
Haines came back from the wall, his foot lashing back into the Texan’s ribs. He rolled over and, as Haines came in for another kick, got a foot behind the man’s ankle, put his other on the knee—and shoved. With one foot off the ground, Haines was thrown clean off-balance and joined his pard in the dirt. The Texan came up in a lithe bound and watched Johnny Sinclair throw Wheeler from him. The man hit the wall and came off again. Sinclair’s fist shot out, smashing into his face. Wheeler went over backwards, his head crashed into the wall and he went down to lay still. Then Johnny yelled a warning, for Haines was pulling a knife as he came at the Texan.
The small young man moved faster than Sinclair had ever seen: he weaved under a slash of the knife and came up with his hand lashing round. He struck in a way which was new to the blacksmith. Instead of clenching his whole fist he only closed his second, third and fourth fingers, holding the forefinger and thumb bent slightly crooked. His arm drove out, the finger and thumb catching Haines in the throat on either side of the Adam’s apple. He gave a croaking cry and his face turned a shade of grayish green as he stumbled backwards. The Texan’s other hand came round, this time with the fingers rigid and the thumb bent. The base of the hand caught the other man at the side of the neck. He went down, flopping like a back-broke rabbit.
Brandon caught up a pitchfork, gripping it in his hands as he came at the small man. The Texan went forward, one arm going up to cover his head as he dived over, rolling right under the fork and into Brandon’s feet. The man yelled as he went over, crashing into the wall. He came up and saw the Texan was already on his feet. Brandon howled in fury and charged wildly forward. The Texan avoided the wild and clumsy blows. His fist drove out this time, the forefinger bent and extended ahead of the others. Brandon’s head jerked. The blow landed just under his bottom lip and, with red, roaring pain filling him, he went down.
It was then that Benjy Vent tried to take a hand. He started to sit up and his right hand dropped towards the gun in his belt. Sinclair yelled in fury and leapt on the dandy, crushing him to the ground. Two huge hands closed on Benjy’s throat, squeezing hard, lifting his head to smash it on to the ground.
The Texan looked around; quite a crowd was gathered staring at the three men laying on the ground. Then he saw Slingo Witch, Smith and Barry Vent coming towards the forge. He gave his attention to the blacksmith—who was still on top of Benjy Vent, choking him until his face was turning purple and he was croaking in agony.
“Loose off, Johnny!’ he snapped. “Let loose—before you kill him.”
Sinclair did not let loose; he was in that slow-burning, yet deadly, rage which comes when an even-tempered man is pushed too far. The Texan knew that, unless Johnny Sinclair had let loose by the time Vent arrived, he would die. Stepping forward, the Texan swung his hand again, the fingers extended. The edge of the hand drove into Sinclair’s arm, sending agony knifing through it and causing it to loose its grip.
“What the hell?” he asked, staring dazedly up at the Texan.
“I had to stop you before you finished him off,” was the reply. “Get up.”
Sinclair got to his feet, rubbing his numb arm and trying to work his fingers to get use back into them. “How did you do it, and where did you learn to hit like that?”
“I’ll tell you some time,” the Texan answered, picking up the guns which had fallen from his holsters. He checked them over and slipped them back to leather again.
Barry V
ent came through the crowd, his two men flanking him. They all halted, and looked down at the forms on the ground. Barry Vent’s eyes went from one of his men to the others and halted on his brother. Then he looked at Johnny Sinclair, who was standing up near to the anvil. Finally, he turned his gaze to the small Texan, and asked:
“What’s all this about?”
“Your boys got themselves all tuckered out.”
Vent scowled at the small man, detecting the hidden mockery in the tones. “That’s my brother. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing to what he and your men were fixing in to do to Johnny there,” the Texan replied. “Mister, they were ganged up four against one—and I don’t stand for that, any time.”
Vent stiffened. Slingo Witch watched the Texan with fresh interest. Smith wondered if they were making a mistake and selling this small, insignificant-looking man short.
“I don’t like what you’ve done here!” Vent began.
“Mister, I don’t care. Like Sam Bass once told me—”
“Sam Bass?” Vent lost his poker face for a moment. “Do you know Sam Bass?”
“Some, heard him sing baritone in a quartet with one of my amigos, Chris Madsen and Bent from Bent’s Ford,” the Texan answered.
For a moment Vent was silent; he’d heard the Texas outlaw, Sam Bass, talk of singing in a quartet with U.S. Marshal Chris Madsen and two other men. This Texan must know Bass well—and any man who knew Bass was a serious danger to Barry Vent’s safety.