‘We don’t know Mort here did it,’ Dickson snapped. ‘I only wanted to ask him where he’d been—’
‘Why the hell did he run if he didn’t kill old Dexter?’ Scanlan growled.
‘Lon could have called it right,’ Dusty replied, never taking his eyes from Scanlan’s face. ‘The feller might have known that he’d never get a chance to say anything, way you’re acting.’
‘That’s been said too often,’ growled Scanlan.
‘Mister, happen you don’t like it I’ll say it again,’ the Ysabel Kid growled, sounding mean as a starving cougar. ‘Any time you reckon you can stop me just say the word and let her go.’
Scanlan gave this some thought for a few seconds. He’d built up a reputation around Holbrock as being bad medicine and a fast man with a gun, but he made no move to take up the challenge. He tried to tell himself that he refused because the Kid’s rifle was out, resting on his right shoulder, but he knew it was a lie. A fast man with a gun stood a good chance of being able to drop his hand and lift up his colt before the Kid could swing the rifle down and into line. Scanlan knew that, knew it and did not mean to gamble his luck on it, not even when backed by two other good men. There was a reason. The Ysabel Kid was also backed, if only by one man. That man was Dusty Fog and he could copper any bets made by Salar and Milton, then call ‘keno’ at the finish.
Sheriff Dickson could hardly believe his ears. The two young men were willing to side with him against the lynch-minded crowd. There were two more men in the posse who would not take part in any lynching and would side him. That made five against nine. Good odds. Odds that the men who made up the nine, would not face down.
‘We’ll take you back, and hold a hearing,’ Dickson said, taking the chance he was right about the two cowhands. ‘Will you two gents be riding into town with us?’
‘We’re headed for Holbrock,’ agreed Dusty. ‘We’ll ride with you. This is Ysabel Kid, I’m Dusty Fog.’
For a moment Dickson suspected a joke but there was no hint of amusement on the faces of the two young men. They were who they claimed to be. That was why Mort Lewis was still alive. Dickson smiled. He’d always suspected Scanlan of being a big-mouthed show-off who would dog it if faced by a good man. Now there was proof and confirmation of the suspicion.
‘Be pleased to have you along, Cap’n Fog,’ he said and he meant it.
Dusty went to look at the dun horse. It was unhurt by the fall and would be able to carry the man back to the town, not more than four or five miles away. Turning he walked back to Mort and removed the rope.
‘You’re coming back, friend,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you my word that you’ll get a fair hearing. If you try and run, the Kid’ll cut down your horse. If you didn’t kill the man you’ll have nothing to fear.’
‘Won’t I?’ Mort answered. ‘I’m a half-breed, Cap’n—.’
‘So?’ Dusty drawled. ‘I thought the question was whether you killed a man, not who your mammy and pappy were.’
‘I’ll go with you, Cap’n,’ said Mort, knowing that Dusty did not care whether he was a half-breed or not, and would see fair play. ‘I won’t try to run for it again.’
Dickson nodded in approval: Mort Lewis was a man of his word. If he said he would ride in then he would do just that and there would be no more attempt at flight. The sheriff bent, picked up Most’s revolver and turned it over in his hands. The loading lever under the barrel was badly buckled and the walnut grips broken but the gun was still in working condition. There’d been some close called shooting on the weapon, Dickson saw, and thanked his stars that it was Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid who had met up with Mort. There were many men who would have shot to kill in the circumstances, not waiting to see what was wrong. Almost any of the posse would have done so, cutting Mort down just to boast they’d done it. His eyes went to the sullen faced posse as he thrust the revolver into his waistband. The men looked uncomfortable at the scorn in the sheriff’s eyes.
‘Mount up, all of you,’ Dickson said.
The Kid, his rifle still resting on his shoulder, eyed the posse with cold distaste. His voice was cutting and menacing as he addressed them:
‘You bunch ride a piece in front of us,’ he ordered. ‘I don’t want you to think I don’t trust you — but I don’t.’
Scanlan’s scowl deepened, but he found himself lacking the courage to go against the Kid. His idea had been to get alongside Mort’s horse; a quick kick in the dun’s side would cause it to leap forward, then Mort could be shot down. A volley would bring him down, there would be no proof that any one man fired the fatal shot and less about how Mort came to try and escape. The Kid’s order would cancel any chance of doing the kicking or shooting.
Once more Scanlan thought of trying to call the Kid’s hand, If he could make the first move, others of the bunch at his back would join in. Nine to five — Scanlan knew two of the men would not back him — was good odds. The sheriff and the others could be cut down by sheer force of numbers. There was only one thing wrong: Scanlan knew he would not be alive to see it. He would be the first target for the Ysabel Kid and for Dusty Fog.
His eyes met the Kid’s, reading the mocking challenge and the supreme confidence in them. More than ever he knew the Kid would welcome any attempt to start something and was ready, willing, and more able to finish whatever was started.
The rest of the posse watched Scanlan, knowing everything hinged on him. The men who did not work for Stewart were thinking things over; Salar and Milton just waited for their friend to call the play. Scanlan knew it, knew the others expected him to do something. It hurt to know he dare not make a move. With an angry growl he turned and mounted his horse, wrenching cruelly at its jaw as he rode through the other men.
It was a silent and sullen posse which headed towards the town. There was no talking by anyone; the men in the posse watching Scanlan, the leader who had failed to come through, and wondering what made them think he was tough. The sheriff was watching Mort Lewis and the two Texans. There was relief on Dickson’s face as he glanced at the small Texan; with Dusty Fog at his back he could conduct a proper inquiry into the killing of old Dexter Chass. There was not much to go on so far. The only hard fact against Mort was his running away, and even that could be explained as Dusty had already explained it. There was much circumstantial evidence against Mort, but it could be blasted easily enough.
The town of Holbrock was small, sleepy-looking and peaceful. It was the sort of town which existed in hundreds through the cattle country of Texas; a small place which never received the publicity of Fort Worth, Dallas or other cowland hot-spots. It was doubtful if Holbrock was known beyond the county line; nothing much ever happened there and the town went along its peaceful way.
The scattering of houses backed off the main street, an untidy straggling double line of stores, a couple of saloons, a dance and gambling hall and the county offices, a large building, the most expensive building in the town, containing the county office, sheriff’s office, jail and town marshal’s office. The latter was never used as the town found they could not afford to hire a full time marshal after paying for the splendid building. The leading citizen, Brenton Humboldt, boasted that his project, a vaguely defined idea, would bring money pouring into Holbrock, making the town boom; this building would then be of great use to the county seat.
The return of the posse attracted interest and there was a rapid gathering of men at the Long Glass saloon, a small, undistinguished, clapboard building with one of the big side windows smashed and glassless. Most of the posse carried on riding towards the saloon, but Scanlan and his two friends halted their horses in front of the county offices and dismounted. They swung up on to the side-walk and watched Dickson’s group dismount at the hitching rail.
‘Mind if we come in with you, Jerome?’ Scanlan asked. ‘Just to make sure the breed don’t cut rough.’
Dickson did not argue. He could hardly stop the three men entering his office after they’d ridden on the posse. He led the way through the double doors into the office of the County Sheriff. The office was a large room with a desk in the centre and a few chairs as furnishings. There was a stove in one corner and a big iron safe in another. The back of the office opened to the cells, but was separated from them by a set of folding doors which were open as the party entered. On one wall was a big cupboard and on the other side, facing it, a rack of rifles and shotguns. It was no different from any other sheriff’s office, Dusty thought, looking around: the same worn desk, the same wanted posters. It might easily have been his father’s office back in Polveroso City.
‘I’ll take the gunbelt, Mort,’ Dickson said. ‘Best hold you in the cell, too. Call it resisting arrest and damage to property.’
‘Sure, Jerome,’ Mort agreed, knowing the sheriff was only doing his duty.
Taking the gunbelt Dickson put it and the broken revolver into the cupboard and took Mort into the cells, locking him inside the nearest. The other men waited in the office, none of them talking. The Ysabel Kid watched Scanlan, a mocking smile on his face, his yellow boy in his hands.
A big dog came through the door at the rear of the jail. A lean, gaunt and shaggy animal which looked to have more than its fair share of buffalo-wolf blood. With its long tail wagging it started forward towards the cells and Mort Lewis came to the door, grinning. The dog brushed against Scanlan’s legs, barely touching them, but the man snarled and drew bask his foot. Instantly, the dog leapt around snarling low in its throat. Scanlan’s hand dropped. He brought the gun out and fired, the heavy bullet smashing into the dog’s head.
The dog yelped once and went down. Dickson gave an angry shout and started forward as Mort Lewis flung himself at the bars of the cell. Dickson went at Scanlan but fast as he moved, Dusty was faster.
Dusty hurled forward like a living projectile, his right fist smashing into Scanlan’s bristle covered jaw. For a small man Dusty was packed solid with steel hard muscles. He hit with every ounce of weight and strength he’d got. Scanlan, taken by surprise both by the speed of the attack and Dusty’s unexpected strength, was knocked staggering. He crashed in a sitting position under the cupboard. Dusty came after him not letting the other man get to his feet before attacking again.
Up drove Dusty’s right hand in a brutal backhand slam, the second knuckle catching Scanlan’s top lip, crushing and splitting it and sending waves of agony welling through him, Dusty’s hand swung up with the force of the blow, then smashed down, driving into the side of the man’s face, snapping his head over. Scanlan was unable to defend himself against the fury of the attack. He was no mean hand in a roughhouse brawl but this time was taken completely by surprise.
With an angry snarl Milton jumped forward, in an attempt to help his friend. The lean man came fast, with a wild rush which was calculated to take Dusty unawares. Dusty’s left hand shot up, jerked open the cupboard and sent it smashing into the gunman’s face. Milton met it head on, the wooden edge of the door smashing his nose. Before Milton could get up, and even as his hand fell gunwards and tears of pain half blinded him, Dusty’s right foot lashed up, kicking with the grace of a French
savate
fighter. Caught in the middle of his stomach by the high heel of a riding boot Milton doubled over, his head narrowly missing the open cupboard door on the way down. Dusty’s fist whipped up, driving with all his strength. The knuckles caught Milton’s face as he bent over, jerking him erect. His head smashed into the bottom edge of the door, splintering the wood and tearing it from the hinges. The man went limp and slumped to the floor, a passive look on his face and a trickle of blood from his Stetson brim.
Salar let his hand fall to his side. No gentleman of noble Spanish blood would sink to such a barbarous practice as fist fighting. His hand was curling around the ornate butt of his gun when he felt something resting lightly on his wrist. All ideas of drawing the gun ended. Resting on the wrist, just where the fancy white cuffs of the shirt showed from the jacket sleeve, was the eleven-and-a-half inch long, two-and-a half wide blade of the Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife, razor edge ready to rip home. Slowly Salar looked up at the mocking red-hazel eyes of the Ysabel Kid.
‘I don’t do no fist fighting, neither, Salar,’ warned the Kid in a gentle tone which did not fool the Mexican. ‘So leave her lie, afore I spoils them nice lace cuffs.’
Salar removed his hand. He was proud of the lace cuffs and did not want them torn, nor his wrist cut to the bone.
Scanlan forced himself upwards against the savage, battering fists, bracing himself against the wall and snarling threats through his bloody lips. He forgot his gun, forgot everything to get at this small Texan who was smashing blows at him, rocking his head from side to side. He got one foot into Dusty’s stomach and pushed hard, hurling him across the office. Dusty slammed into the wall and bounced forward as, with a roar of rage, Scanlan charged, meaning to smash Dusty by brute strength.
For an instant Dickson thought he should help Dusty. Standing transfixed, amazed by the strength of the small Texan and the fury of Dusty’s attack, he saw the huge man charge and expected to see the small Texan smashed to the ground by sheer weight.
Dusty went straight forward, as if to meet the rush. At the last moment he swerved, caught Scanlan’s wrist in his hands, and threw him at the wall. He was out of all control and crashed hard enough to jar the reward posters from their hook. Scanlan staggered back dazed but Dusty was on him again, turning him and sinking a fist almost wrist deep into his stomach. Scanlan croaked in pain and bent forward to meet the other punch Dusty was throwing, a beautiful left uppercut, timed to perfection to meet the downswinging jaw. The huge man was lifted erect, his arms flailing wildly as he went over and landed flat on his back.
Still Dusty had not finished. The sight of the dead dog, wantonly and needlessly killed, filled him with a cold and murderous rage. The Kid watched, he had never seen his friend so angry and hoped Dusty would remember that the deadly ju-jitsu and karate techniques, taught to him by Ole Devil Hardin’s Japanese servant, could easily kill when used with full strength.
Gripping the front of Scanlan’s shirt Dusty dragged the man into a sitting position and slammed home another punch, smashing his bead to the floor. The big gunman was limp and unconscious but Dusty hardly noticed. He pulled the man half erect once more and his fist smashed home. He took hold of the shirt for another blow but Dickson decided it was time to intervene.
‘Easy, Cap’n Fog,’ he said worriedly. ‘You’ll kill him if you keep hitting him like that.’
Slowly the anger left Dusty’s eyes, the cold rage seeping out of him. He let go of Scanlan’s shirt and the man flopped back limply to the ground. Then Dusty straightened up, his hands were clenched but he opened them, moving the fingers to get them working again. He was breathing heavily as he stepped clear of Scanlan and looked at the dog. Then his eyes went to Salar and there was cold, bitter hate in the gaze.
‘Whose dog was it?’ he asked.
‘Mine,’ replied Mort Lewis, there was deep grief in his voice. ‘I’ve had him for years. He was about the only friend I ever had. If I get half a chance I’ll kill Scanlan for doing that.’
‘He’s not far from being dead now,’ Dickson put in grimly. ‘And, by gawd, he asked for it.’
Dusty swung to face Salar. ‘Pick the dog up,’ he ordered.
‘It is beneath the dignity of a—’
‘Mister,’ Dusty’s voice dropped to hardly more than a whisper. ‘You pick up that dog and carry it out of the door.’
‘And if I don’t?’ replied Salar.
The Ysabel Kid knew these race-proud Spanish Mexicans, they would rather die than submit to something beneath their dignity. Salar would willingly face Dusty with a gun, even if he knew he would die, rather than submit to an indignity. The knife point moved, dropping and before Salar realized had slit the holster from top to bottom. Before the Mexican could move his gun was gone, held by the Ysabel Kid. The Kid nodded to Dusty, knowing his friend could handle things.
‘You’ll either pick him up or I’ll give you worse than I gave the other two.’
For an instant Salar stood immobile. He could face death without flinching, risk his life for his perverted sense of honour. But he could not risk being beaten into a bloody, marked hulk like Scanlan. Salar was proud of his good looks, he would not risk having them battered by the hard fists of the small
Tejano
. There was hate and worse on the man’s face as he walked forward and lifted the dog. He carried the dog out through the rear door of the jail and found there was worse to come.
‘Get a shovel,’ Dusty ordered. ‘I want a grave digging.’
Before Salar could decide if even a savage beating was worth the final and highest blow to his dignity there was an interruption. He was saved from making the choice by the Kid, looking out of the door.
‘We’ve got us some trouble, Dusty,’ said the Kid. ‘Regular deputation for the sheriff. All righteous, upright and soberly solid citizens.’
Dusty turned and walked back into the jail. Salar looked down at the dog, then at the loosened dog hairs which marked his elegant black coat. His hate for Dusty Fog grew by the minute, swelling to an almost maniacal rage. Then sense returned to him. He felt the slashed edges of the holster and knew his revenge would be delayed until he could get a new holster and make practice with it. He was fast with a gun, but only when drawn from a holster. He’d always used one and knew that any attempt at drawing from his waistband would be fatal for him. He must wait, have a new holster made, learn its hang and ways, and then take this accursed pair of
Tejanos
who had humiliated him.
The office was quiet as Dusty and the Kid went back. The Kid picked his rifle up, ignoring the two men who were just beginning to move. He glanced at the cell and gave Mort a reassuring nod, then joined Dusty at the side of the door, listening to what was going on outside.
The men out front were a mixed looking bunch, a fair cross-section of the town and county population. There were solid citizens wearing expensive or near expensive broadcloth jackets and the latest town-style trousers. There were cowhands from the local spreads; cheery, happy-go-lucky young men who were along to see what was happening. There were the saloon loafers who’d made up the posse and others of their kind. The rest were poor business men, trying to scratch a living in the town, a couple of poorly dressed professional gamblers and an odd assortment of less definable men, men who wore the cowhand dress, but were not cowhands, or Dusty did not know the signs.
The leaders of the deputation appeared to be a tall, handsome young man wearing expensive range clothes; a range-land dandy, arrogant, successful and used to having his own way, and a shorter, thick-set townsman, the best dressed of the townsmen in the crowd. He was a pompous-looking, well-padded man, his side-whiskers and heavy moustache outward and visual proofs, as was his suit and the heavy gold watch chain across his vest, of his success and affluence.
The handsome man watched Dickson step from the office glanced at the shotgun resting across the sheriff’s arm and dropped his hand to fondle the butt of the pearl handled Army Colt in his holster.
‘You brought the half-breed in?’ he asked, his voice tough, the voice of an important man dealing with an unimportant official.