‘I brought Mort Lewis in,’ agreed Dickson.
‘We’ve come for him, Jerome.’
‘There’ll be no lynching, Stewart,’ warned Dickson.
‘Lynching, sheriff?’ Dave Stewart replied, looking indignant for the benefit of the crowd. ‘We don’t aim to lynch him. We’re going to give him a trial.’
‘Without a judge, or counsel for his defence?’
‘Mr. Humboldt here’s a justice of the peace, he can take the trial,’ Stewart scoffed. ‘We’ll give the breed a fair trial, then hang him.’
‘Not so fast, David,’ the other man put in hastily. ‘We’ll see he gets a fair trial, Jerome. Even a half-breed gets fair treatment in our town.’
‘I’m holding Mort for questioning, pending inquiry into Dexter Chass’s killing,’ Dickson answered. ‘There’s not enough evidence yet, not to bring a murder charge against Mort Lewis!’
‘We’ll be the judge of that,’ Stewart growled. ‘Won’t we, boys?’
There was a low rumble of agreement from a section of the crowd. It was the starting rumble of a lynch mob but as yet not more than half of the men present would be willing to take the law into their own hands.
‘Mort’s held for questioning, nothing more. There’ll be no trial.’
Stewart smiled, his face hard and vicious. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of trying to stop us, would you, Jerome?’
‘If I have to.’
There was something in the way Dickson spoke which warned the men in the crowd that they would have to come openly against the sheriff if they wanted to take the prisoner. Many were willing to go along with the ‘trial’ thereby gaining spurious legality for the proceedings. This same faction were not willing to gain even the good will of Dave Stewart and take the prisoner by force. Then the affair would carry the taint of a lynch mob and be against the law.
Dave Stewart knew the way the crowd was thinking. He knew that some of the loafers and hardcases would follow him, but they were not the people he must have behind him. He needed the support of the solid and influential citizens before he could stir up any outright attack on the sheriff; the support of the men who could cover the incident up after it was done; for their reputations and their necks, they would be compelled to keep quiet. He must go slowly, move the crowd gradually up to the point where they would not back down.
‘Have it your way, Jerome,’ he said, knowing every man in the crowd was waiting on his words. ‘Folks feel bad about letting a half-breed kill a nice old man like Dexter Chass. Shoot him in the back and leave him out at his house like that. Why, old Dexter might have laid there for days, suffering, with that bullet in him and nobody’d have known. And you telling us that you’re not going to let justice be done?’
‘I’m telling you that I’m not satisfied that Mort’s guilty.’
‘What’d you want? Him to admit it?’ Stewart replied. ‘Let us talk to him for a spell, we’ll soon get the truth out of him.’
‘Mort stays where he is,’ Dickson answered.
‘You wouldn’t use that shotgun, not against your friends, Jerome,’ Stewart mocked. ‘You aren’t going to shoot down your good friends to save that—’
‘Any man who tries to take a prisoner from me’s no friend of mine,’ Dickson replied, ‘You’d best break it up and go to your homes.’
‘You’re only one man, Jerome,’ warned Stewart. ‘One man, a man the town appointed to defend them and their property from murderers like that half-breed. Now, one man’s not going to stop us seeing justice done. Is he, boys?’
Put that way it was a challenge to the citizens; they had to stand up for their rights as freeborn Texans. They were mumbling among themselves, the more restless spirits preparing to take action. The odds were very good, one man against a crowd. Then the mumbles died as the jail door opened. It suddenly became more plain that it was three against the crowd.
Dusty stepped out, moving to Dickson’s left side and stood with his hands resting at waist level, thumbs hooked in his belt. The Kid came out to the right side, looking meaner than hell. The old yellow boy held negligently in his right hand the buttplate resting on his hip and the muzzle pointing into the air. His right hand moved, flipping open the lever and closed it again, then he stood without a move. His voice was cold and sardonic as he spoke to the crowd.
‘Reckon you didn’t take the trail count close enough, mister. Try again.’
‘Who are they, Dickson?’ Stewart growled. He could feel his hardcase, saloon loafers fading away from him, weakening before the two handy-looking men who flanked the sheriff. With men like that to back him Dickson could inflict more than a little damage on the crowd.
‘Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid.’
‘Captain Fog,’ Stewart growled and the crowd repeated the names in a low rumble of sound. ‘You mean Dusty Fog?’
‘As ever there was,’ replied the Kid, his mocking eyes on the rancher. ‘You gents still fixing to take the prisoner?’
Before Stewart could reply, the fattish, pompous-looking man by his side moved forward holding out his hand to Dusty trying to raise a welcoming smile which looked sincere.
‘Captain Fog,’ he said, his unctuous voice full of respectful greeting. ‘My name is Humboldt. I believe your Uncle asked you to come and see me on his behalf?’
Dusty’s hands stayed where they were, he made no attempt to take the proffered hand. ‘That’s right. Uncle Devil sent me along to look into that idea of yours.’
Humboldt coughed modestly. ‘I’m sure you’ll find it most satisfactory—’
‘What’s all this about?’ Dusty cut through the gushing words with his cold drawl. ‘You’d best tell it.’
‘Mort Lewis killed his neighbour,’ Humboldt replied. ‘We merely wanted to see that justice—’
‘You sure he did it?’ asked the Kid.
‘— er — I—’ Humboldt began, then faltered. It did not look as if Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid approved of their actions, and they were two men he needed for the successful fulfilment of his plans.
‘Sure we’re sure,’ Stewart growled. ‘The breed’s been feuding with poor old Dexter for years.’
‘You know what these half-breeds are, Cap’n,’ Humboldt went on, smiling ingratiatingly at the Kid. The dark young man was only an employee of Ole Devil Hardin but he was also reputed to be one of captain Fog’s closest friends. The small Texan might resent any snobbish objections to his friend, so the Kid rated very civil treatment. ‘You can’t trust any man with Indian blood, can you?’
The mocking gleam in the Kid’s eyes grew more in evidence. ‘Was the
hombre
scalped as well as shot?’
‘Er — no. Not that I know of,’ replied Humboldt, clearly disappointed that he was unable to answer in the affirmative. ‘Why?’
‘
You
know what Injuns are,’ grunted the Kid. ‘Course, the
hombre’d
only be half scalped, seeing as Mort’s only half Injun.’
The crowd were watching the three men on the porch. The cowhands staring with admiring eyes at a master of their trade a man they hero-worshipped. No cowhand would willingly go against the wishes of Dusty Fog. The rest of the crowd knew that there was no chance of their getting the prisoner and any attempt at doing so would be dangerous.
Humboldt licked his lips. He wanted to make a good impression on Dusty and said, ‘My house is, of course, at your disposal. I hope both you and the Kid will consider yourselves my guests.’
‘Not until this business is settled,’ replied Dusty. ‘Have you held an inquest on the killing?’
‘Why no, we haven’t,’ replied Humboldt, brightening. Here was a way to settle this business without offending Captain Fog. Humboldt was sure that the young Texan would accept the evidence at its face value and there was much that was damaging to Mart Lewis. ‘I think we’d better do so, Sheriff.’
‘Yeah, it could do with a bit of airing,’ Dickson said dryly.
‘Tell Warren we’ll start in half, an hour. Down at the Long Glass, Captain,’ he went on for Dusty’s benefit.
Dusty nodded. There was nothing unusual in holding an inquest in a saloon. Often in a small town like Holbrock the saloon was the only place large enough for a court. The bar would be closed down and the inquest held in an air of sober respectability. Even ladies could enter the saloon at such a time, a thing never permitted under normal circumstances.
‘It would be best,’ Humboldt managed to get a boom of civic righteousness in his voice. ‘After all, none of us wish to take the law into our own hands.’
The other townsmen, the more sober citizens of the crowd, gave their enthusiastic agreement to the words. None of them wished to become involved in a lynching. The Texas Rangers nosed out such things, no matter how well they were concealed. Somebody always talked and word got out. Once the Texas Rangers got to hear of the lynching, even as a drunken rumour, they would investigate and probe deeper until they got at the truth. Money, social position, local standing meant nothing to the Rangers when a crime had been committed. No man connected with the lynching would be safe again. So most townsmen were pleased that there was no immediate danger of lynching.
Stewart’s face was hard, no longer smiling as he felt his support ebbing away. He wished he’d brought his ranch crew to town with him and wondered where Salar, Milton and Scanlan were. With them on hand he would chance facing the three men on the side-walk before the jail.
The wish was partly granted. The jail door opened and Milton staggered out supporting Scanlan. Stewart stared, he could hardly believe his eyes at the sight. Milton’s mouth was swollen and bruised, and there was a trickle of blood running from under his hat. He could barely stand, and the weight of Scanlan was making him stagger badly.
But Scanlan’s condition was worse. Stewart knew his foreman’s skill as a rough-house fighter and could hardly believe that he was seeing correctly. Scanlan’s face was never anything to be proud of, but it looked far worse now. His top lip was swollen to almost four times its usual size, split and bloody; his right eye was slit and the rest of his face was marked to almost the same extent. Whoever had handled Scanlan in such a manner must, if lone-handed, be a veritable giant, Stewart thought. He knew Dickson too well to think the sheriff had organized and helped in a mass attack on the two men.
‘What the hell?’ Stewart growled. ‘Who did that?’
‘I did,’ Dusty replied.
It was on the tip of Stewart’s tongue to snarl out a denial, but he saw that to do so would be tantamount to calling Dusty a liar. In Texas there was only one reply to such an accusation, a fast drawn Colt.
‘That’s the living truth,’ Dickson went on. ‘Scanlan killed Mort’s old Pete dog in there and Cap’n Fog took exception to it.’
There sounded an angry, savage growl from the listening cowhands. Amongst the riders who worked around Holbrock the big dog was a firm favourite. It could outfight any other dog within miles and could run down a coyote which no other dog could do. There’d been considerable money won betting on the dog in both capacities and the cowhands were riled by the wanton killing. If Mort Lewis himself had been killed by the posse the cowhands would not have worried. He was one of them, friendly with them, but that was all. There would have been no demonstrations either for or against the man who had done the shooting. The dog was different and Stewart knew he’d lost the support of the cowhands for Scanlan was his man.
‘You stood by and let him do that to one of my men?’ Stewart snarled at the sheriff.
‘That’s right, I did,’ agreed Dickson evenly. ‘I’d have done it myself but Cap’n Fog licked me to it. You’d best get them to the doctor. Dave, happen you want to be on hand to give evidence.’
Stewart took the hint. He turned on his heel and a couple of the loafers helped his men to the doctor’s house. The rest of the crowd began to move away. There was nothing more to be done now, except wait for the result of the inquest.
Humboldt and a couple of his partners moved forward. There was an air about all of them which amused the sheriff who knew them to be snobs of the first water. He knew that none of them would have thought of speaking to an insignificant looking cowhand like Dusty Fog unless there was something in it. They would have been even less friendly to the Kid under other circumstances, for there was a dangerous and most disrespectful air about him which would not go down with men like Humboldt.
‘I hope that you’ll find our little proposition quite to your satisfaction, Captain Fog,’ Humboldt gushed. ‘I’ll expect you and your friend to dinner tonight, unless he’d rather I arranged alternative entertainment for him.’
The Kid grinned. He knew that Humboldt would never think of inviting him to visit the house wider normal circumstances and would have been only too keen to avoid the sort of dinner Humboldt would give. This time he intended to go along with Dusty, just for laughs.
‘We’ll see about it, after the hearing,’ Dusty replied. ‘I want to know what’s happening hereabouts before I make any decisions.’
‘It’s simple really,’ Humboldt said. ‘Mort Lewis is a half-breed. He’s supposed to run a small cattle spread in the hills but he spends a lot of time away from it. He acts as guide for hunting parties and things like that. His neighbour, old Dexter Chass, and he don’t — didn’t get on well together—’
‘We’d best get to the Long Glass,’ Dickson put in. ‘Will you and the Kid act as special deputies, Cap’n?’
‘Sure will,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Go fetch that gent along, Lon.’
The Long Glass saloon was quiet, soberly quiet. The bar and tables were cleared of glasses, bottles and decks of cards, and there was an air of expectancy among the all-male crowd, a silent awareness of dramatic happenings.
‘If you’d care for a drink, to refresh yourself after your long ride, I think it could be arranged, Captain,’ Humboldt said in a confidential whisper.
‘No thanks,’ Dusty replied, watching the door of the saloon. He saw the Kid approaching with Mort Lewis and glanced at Stewart who was sitting at a table at the side of the room.
Dickson took a seat at the same table as Dusty and Humboldt, in the centre of the room. The Kid, still carrying his rifle, followed Mort to the bar just behind the table. Humboldt looked down at Mort, then gulped for he was not fastened in any way. He was about to raise the matter when Dusty spoke:
‘Start from the beginning, sheriff. What’s this all about?’
‘Are you setting up as judge, or something?’ Stewart asked.
‘Nope, just wanting to hear why you want this man hung for a murder. Do you object, mister?’
Stewart’s snort could have meant anything but he made no reply, nor did he offer to take up the challenge. He sat up straighter in his chair, his lips tight and unsmiling as he watched what was happening. Before the arrival of the small Texan he would have been at that centre table, running things. Now he was shoved back and the men who would have supported him were siding with Dusty Fog.
‘First off, Captain,’ Dickson replied, speaking so that his words carried to the listening men. ‘Like you were told, Mort and Chass were neighbours. It’s not good grazing up there in the hills and Mort allowed Chass was driving his stock on to the Lewis land. Got to hard words over it and Mort threatened to shoot any more of Chass’ stock he found over the land.’
‘We all heard Lewis threaten old Dexter,’ Stewart yelled. ‘Right in this saloon he said he’d gun down any more of Dexter’s cattle he found over the line. And shooting a man’s cattle’s a sure way to get him riled up and shooting back.’
‘Only there wasn’t any shooting back, way you told it,’ Dusty answered, ‘What happened next, sheriff?’
‘Couple of days back, Dave there came in asking if anybody’d seen Dex Chass around. Nobody had, they’d not given it no thought, he didn’t often come into town. So yesterday Dave went to see Chass and found him dead.’
‘That’s right,’ Stewart put in. ‘He was lying face up. I didn’t find the bullet hole until I went to look at him. He’d been shot in the back; been dead for ten, eleven days.’
‘How’d you know that?’ Dusty asked, watching the rancher.
‘I saw him eleven days back. Come to think of it, the date was the eleventh and it’s the twenty-third today. Was over to talk a deal with Dex; he wanted to sell out, sounded real scared of Lewis. I told him to come over to my place and see me the next day but he never showed. We had that cloudburst, remember, Jerome. It kept me busy for the next few days and I thought Dex must have changed his mind. Then, when I heard nobody’d seen him around I went out to his place. He was either killed soon after I left or during the storm.’
‘You certain sure about the date?’ inquired the Kid.
‘I am. There were no tracks around the house and the rain left some real soft earth all around. The killing took place either before the storm, or during it; that was what washed the sign out. If it’d been done after the storm, there’d have been plenty of sign,’ Stewart replied.
‘Was Chass good with a gun?’ Dusty drawled.
‘Naw,’ scoffed Stewart, seeing a chance to blacken the evidence against Mort Lewis even more. ‘Old Dex wasn’t any sort of hand with a gun. Didn’t even own a handgun, only a worn out Kentucky rifle. He wouldn’t have stood any kind of chance in a gunfight against the half-breed.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘What’s strange about it,’ growled the rancher, seeing Dusty was holding the crowd’s attention.
‘Why Mort’d shoot a man in the back and take a chance of getting hung, when he was in the right and could have taken the same man in what’d be classed as a fair fight,’ Dusty answered. ‘It doesn’t figger to me.’
‘Hell, you all know what half-breeds are,’ Stewart answered. ‘He wouldn’t stack up against any man in a fair fight.’
‘That’s a lie and you know it, Stewart,’ Mort Lewis growled, he was quivering with anger but controlling it for he knew that if he attacked Stewart the rancher would shoot him down, pleading self-defence. ‘I’ll face you any time you haven’t got your hired guns at your back.’
‘Sounds like a fair offer,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Want the loan of my old Dragoon, Mort?’
‘Cut it, Lon,’ barked Dusty. ‘Let this gent have his say, then we’ll hear what Mort’s got in answer to it. I haven’t seen anything which makes me think that Mort did the killing.’
‘All right, I’ll tell you why,’ Stewart replied. ‘I went across Lewis’ land on the eleventh, looking for him. I saw about a dozen head of Chass’ stuff over the Lewis line. I never saw a sign of Lewis but one of my boys reckoned he saw the breed skulking around the Chass place.’
‘One of your men?’ Dusty put in. ‘How many did you have along?’
‘Just a couple or so. Thought we might find some of my stock up there and be able to bring them down. It was Scanlan who thought he saw the breed.’
‘Did he see him?’
‘Shem allowed he did,’ Stewart replied. ‘He could have come down after we’d gone and cut old Dex down.’
‘Who could have?’ inquired Dusty mildly.
‘Lewis. Who’d you think?’
‘Way you said it, I’d have thought your man came back,’ Dusty drawled. ‘So you allowed that Mort must have done the killing. How about the body?’
‘Brought it in with us, left it down at Doc Harvey’s place for burial.’
Dusty nodded. He turned in his chair and looked at Mort Lewis. ‘It looks like you’d best tell us where you were on the eleventh, Mort.’
The young man frowned, then he looked relieved. ‘I wasn’t anywhere near to Holbrock. I’ve been away for near three weeks.’
‘Where were you?’ Dusty asked again.
‘Took an Eastern newspaper woman and her artist out to Long Walker’s camp.’
‘That sounds real likely!’ Stewart yelled.
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ Mort answered. ‘I’m part Comanche and don’t mind who knows it. Least, they never hold white blood against me. I took the young woman and this feller who done the drawings for her; they offered good money and I can always use that. Five days back I brought her out and down to Fort Worth, so’s she could get a stage East with her story. When we got to Fort Worth she found that she’d left a book in the Comanche camp, one she used to write what happened each day in. Wanted me to go back for it, said she’d make it worth my while. I was going to head out when she said she’d heard from her paper; they wanted her to go some place and get another story. She paid me and told me to get the book, make it a package and mail it to the New York Tribune.’
‘And did you?’ Humboldt asked, sounding as if he did not believe a word of what Mort had said.
‘Came home first. I aimed to go out to my place, then make for Long Walker’s village again.’
‘How about the woman?’ Dusty put in. ‘What was her name?’
‘Clover, Miss Anthea Clover, got it all down on a piece of paper in my warbag out to the spread.’
‘When did you get back?’
‘Late afternoon, yesterday, Cap’n. I came into town this morning.’
‘Why’d you light out and run when the sheriff started to ask you about the killing?’ Dusty went on.
‘I saw Stewart and his boys watching. I didn’t figure that anybody who counted would listen to me, or believe me. I didn’t even figure I’d get a trial.’
‘Nonsense!’ Humboldt barked. ‘I don’t hold any man’s blood against him. If the case came up—.’
‘I lit out as fast as I could, Cap’n,’ Mort interrupted. ‘You saw what happened when they caught up with me.’
‘I saw,’ agreed Dusty, then looked at Stewart. ‘Your men wanted to lynch Mort as soon as they caught up with him.’
‘Dex Chass was a real popular man.’
‘Was he?’ Dusty drawled, his eyes on the rancher. ‘That still doesn’t mean Mort killed him,’