‘Dex didn’t have no enemies,’ growled Stewart.
‘Knowed a real friendly man, one time,’ the Kid said. ‘Allus inviting folks into the house, feeding ‘em and acting kind. Man he took in one night killed him for the bit of money he’d got.’
‘It’s possible a stranger did the killing here,’ Humboldt put in, brightening slightly at the chance of getting Mort Lewis out of trouble without antagonizing Dave Stewart.
‘Sure, there’s no evidence that Mort did the killing. Only thing we know for sure is that he and Dex didn’t get along,’ Dickson remarked. ‘And the same could be said about Dex and near on everybody he came in contact with.’
‘I daresay a good half of the town didn’t really care for Dex at that,’ Humboldt said thoughtfully. ‘An unpleasant man, I always found.’
The Ysabel Kid gave a laugh entirely without mirth. ‘Sounds like Mr. Chass wasn’t so all-fired popular as we was led to believe. Half the town didn’t cotton to him and he didn’t have no enemies.’
There was a guffaw of laughter from the cowhands. The Ysabel Kid had a reputation amongst them as a disrespecter of persons who would thumb his nose at the devil if he felt so inclined. Dusty Fog and Mark Counter might be regarded as tophands, and leaders of the cowland society, but the Kid was a wild heller with no respect for pomp and dignity. He was proving it here for Stewart was a bad man to cross and should be accorded every respect.
‘Reckon Dave gave us the wrong impression — unintentionally of course,’ the sheriff remarked, grinning broadly. ‘Ole Dex was a cantankerous, mean old cuss at best. He wouldn’t get shot by anybody he took in for a meal, because he wouldn’t offer to take them in in the first place. I don’t reckon you could have found three people to give him a good word — afore he was killed.’
‘Got to be tolerable popular after he was dead,’ grunted the Kid. ‘But I still haven’t seen anything to prove Mort did it.’
‘He ran away!’ Stewart snapped.
‘Sure, and he just told us why,’ Dusty replied evenly. ‘You and your crew would have been reaching for a rope before Mort could open his mouth and tell where he’d been.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ve been acting all-fired eager to get Mort blamed and hung ever since he was brought in,’ Dusty said, without raising his voice. ‘Why’re you so eager?’ He paused, then went on. ‘It wouldn’t be because there’d be a chance of buying up two ranches, instead of one?’
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Stewart snarled.
‘Neither do I.’
Stewart’s eyes locked with Dusty’s, but it was the rancher who looked away first. He was faced down and did not like the feeling, for he was the biggest rancher around Holbrock. He’d also built up a reputation as a fast gun hardcase but knew he didn’t stack knee-high against that small, insignificant cowhand called Dusty Fog. Stewart’s ranch might seem big to Eastern eyes, but the OD Connected, the spread where Dusty was foreman, would swallow three ranches as big as Stewart’s. Stewart’s outfit boasted they were tough, hard and never curried below the knees, but the OD Connected did not boast. They were acknowledged as being without peer for salty toughness and Dusty Fog was the toughest of them all. Scanlan’s face was mute testimony to that fact.
‘All right,’ Stewart said finally. ‘I suppose you’re taking the breed at his word about not being around here?’
‘No, we’re not,’ Dusty replied. ‘Where’d you stay at Fort Worth, Mort?’
‘Outside, sagehenning most all the time,’ Mort answered. ‘I took Miss Clover in to the Bull’s Head Hotel, then moved out. Used to meet her on the edge of town each day and show her what she wanted to see, while she was waiting for the stage.’
‘She works for the New York Tribune,’ the sheriff remarked. ‘Could they get word to her?’
‘Sure, I reckon they might. She tells me she’s been to other Injun villages. This new chore was to one out in the Dakota country. They might be able to get word to her.’
‘Which leaves that diary at Long Walker’s camp,’ Dusty said thoughtfully. ‘That’d prove you’d been there, if it could be found.’
‘It’s in my
tipi
,’ Mort replied.
‘Which same means it’ll still be there,’ the Kid went on. ‘It’ll prove that you was there, I reckon.’
‘Who you got in mind to go and fetch it back?’ Stewart growled, ‘Lewis? A white rnan’d be plumb loco to go in there.’
‘Sure would, Cap’n,’ a grizzled old-timer agreed. ‘Long Walker don’t cotton none to white men going into his land.’
‘It’s all right for young Mort there, he knows them.’
Dusty smiled, then turned to the Ysabel Kid. ‘How about it.’
‘Dusty,’ replied the Kid, ‘you’re looking at a real plumb loco man.’
‘There’s no need for that, Captain,’ Humboldt spoke up. ‘We’ll take Lewis’ word for—’
‘No, you won’t,’ Dusty barked. ‘Not just to keep on the right side of me. We aim to clear Mort, or find he’s been lying.’
Stewart grunted, coming to his feet. ‘So you aim to go and try to find Long Walker’s camp, Kid?’ he asked. ‘Hell, there ain’t a white man in the State could do that.’
‘Waal, I’ll surely give her a try,’ replied the Kid. ‘I’ll be back by noon, seven days from now, Dusty.’
‘If you come back,’ Stewart sneered.
‘I’ll try, mister. I’ll surely make a try.’
‘Then it’s settled, gentlemen,’ Humboldt said, pleased that the inquest was over and hoping to get Dusty to talk business. ‘This inquest is postponed for seven days and will meet again at noon on the thirtieth to hear the evidence of the Ysabel Kid.’
The bartender reached under the bar and brought out a bottle of whisky as a sign that the official business was over. The crowd made either for the door or the bar. Humboldt turned to Dusty, beaming with satisfaction.
‘Would you care for that drink now, Captain?’ he asked.
‘Later, thanks. I’m acting as deputy for the sheriff and I’ve got to take the prisoner back to the jail.’
‘I thought you was so sure he was innocent,’ Stewart sneered. He’d come up and was near enough to have heard what Dusty had said.
‘What difference does that make?’ replied Dusty, and looked at Mort. ‘The sheriff’s holding him on a charge of damage to property and he can’t afford to pay either for the damage or his fine. Can you, Mort?’
‘Sure can’t, Cp’n,’ Mort answered. He did not know what Dusty was getting at but was willing to go along with it. ‘I’ll just have to stop in jail until I can work it off.’
Stewart did not reply. He could see what Dusty was doing. With Mort Lewis out of jail there was a chance of stirring up trouble, of pushing him into some foolish move. He turned and left the saloon, slamming through the batwing doors in a cold rage.
Humboldt rubbed his hands together. He was relieved that the Kid was to be away for a few days. He did not like the idea of that soft-drawling, mocking-eyed young man coming to his house. He was a wild cowhand and not the sort Humboldt would willingly invite. Being with Dusty Fog gave the Kid certain advantages but Humboldt was not sorry he was going. Now an offer to Captain Fog could be made; he could live at the Humboldt house instead of in the best room at the hotel as planned by Humboldt when he saw the Kid.
‘My home is at your disposal, Captain,’ he said.
‘Why, thanks, Mr. Humboldt. Trouble being I’m still working for the sheriff and I’ll be staying at the jail until the Kid comes back. We’ll be ready to move in for a few days when he gets back.’
That was not what Humboldt had meant at all, but he did not say so. Before he was able to say anything more he was too late. Dusty, the sheriff and the Ysabel Kid had escorted Mort Lewis from the saloon and along the street to the Jail. For a moment Humboldt stared at the swinging doors, then followed the others out, heading along the street.
Five hard-looking riders came into town, passing by the sheriff and throwing surprised glances at Mort Lewis. Dusty studied the men: they were not cowhands, even though they wore the clothes. Four looked experienced men in their late twenties and early thirties, but the other was a brash-looking youngster, who would need watching. They passed on towards the other saloon, further along the street. Stewart was about to enter the saloon but stopped and waited for the men, saying something which made them look at Dusty’s party with more interest.
‘Stewart’s bunch,’ Dickson remarked. ‘Calls them cowhands but I don’t reckon any of them’d know a bull from a yearling heifer.’
The Kid ran a hand along the neck of his white stallion. The horse snorted and swung its head to bite him. Grinning, the Kid gripped the saddle horn and swung afork his horse with a lithe bound. He looked down at the other three, then raised his hand in a mocking salute to Humboldt who was puffing along the street towards the jail.
‘I’ll see you in seven days at most, Dusty,’ he said. ‘Don’t take any wooden nickels while I’m gone.’
‘Will you put the prisoner away, sheriff?’ Dusty inquired. ‘I want to go out to the Chass place, happen you can find me a guide.’
‘Reckon Humboldt’d be more’n pleased to show you the way, only he doesn’t know it,’ Dickson replied, grinning broadly, looking at Humboldt, deep in conversation with one of his cronies. ‘He must think a tolerable piece about you, way he acted to the Kid.’
‘Could be our charm,’ drawled Dusty. ‘Or the fact he wants Uncle Devil to sink some money into an idea he’s got. One thing, though, the name’s Dusty.’
‘Best call me Jerome, though why my pappy wanted to tie me with a handle like that I’ll never know. Might be he was trying to get revenge on me for keeping him awake for the first three weeks I was born. I’d like to go out to the Chass place with you, but one of us had best stop in town and watch out for Mort.’
‘Be best,’ Dusty agreed.
A cowhand left the Long Glass saloon, mounted his horse and rode slowly along the street. From the dejected way he slouched in the saddle it was plain to both Dusty and Dickson what was wrong.
‘Howdy Wally,’ Dickson greeted. ‘You spent your pay already?’
‘Waal, not exactly,’ replied the cowhand. ‘Don’t you ever draw one card to an inside straight, Jerome. Or if you do, don’t bet on it when the other man stands pat. You cain’t win.’
It explained why Wally was heading back to his ranch. He’d lost his pay trying to fit a card into the centre of a running sequence at poker, a thing not advocated by the most skilled players.
‘Like to earn five dollars?’ Dusty asked.
‘Depends who I’ve got to kill,’ grinned Wally.
‘Nobody. I’ve got a herd of sheep outside town. Wants a man to care for them.’
‘Sheep!’ Wally bellowed. ‘Me, tending damned woolies?’
‘All right then,’ Dusty answered, showing nothing of the amusement he felt. ‘If you don’t want that chore, how about taking me out to the Chass place?’
‘Don’t know as how I wouldn’t herd sheep,’ grunted Wally. ‘All right, Cap’n, you hired yourself a man. Wally’s tours of the old West, see the sights of Holbrock County, smell the rare, sweet-scented Chass place. You want to go out to it right now?’
‘Just one call to make,’ replied Dusty.
Dickson took Mort to the cells and placed him in one, not bothering to lock the door; then returned to Dusty. He looked at the small Texan and asked:
‘Do you believe Mort’s story?’
‘Sure. It’d have to be true. A man lying’d make up a better story than that.’
With this Dusty turned and with Wally by his side rode slowly along the street. At the Bella Union saloon he halted his horse. This was the second of Holbrock’s saloons and Stewart was inside. Dusty left his horse at the sidewalk and with Wally on his heels went inside.
Stewart looked up as Dusty entered. The rest of his men were seated at the table and all flashed looks at the youngest member of their group. The youngster grinned back and dropped his hand to loosen his gun. He’d been laughing at Salar for failing to take Dusty Fog and boasting what he would do if given the chance. Now it would appear his chance was on hand. He was primed for trouble, egged on by the rancher and the other men.
Halting at the table Dusty looked at the rancher and spoke, his voice carrying to every man in the saloon.
‘Mr. Stewart, I’m riding out of town for a spell. When I come back I’ll expect to find Mort Lewis alive and well.’
‘And what if he isn’t?’
‘I’ll kill you on sight.’
The words were spoken with complete assurance. Stewart’s face lost some colour and he tried to keep his voice hard as he growled:
‘I wouldn’t want to think you’re threatening me.’
‘Why not?’ replied Dusty. ‘That’s just what I’m doing.’
‘Hold i—!’ began the young gunman, starting to his feet. Then he stopped, halfway up, his chair scraping back behind him. He looked as if he’d turn to stone. Dusty’s hands had crossed, made a sight-defying flicker of movement and both matched guns were out, lined, the hammers drawn back to set lead flying. It took him barely half a second from the start of the move to reach his position of readiness.
‘Sit down!’ Dusty’s drawl cut like a knife, sending the youngster back to his seat. The matched guns seemed to be picking out every man at the table, choosing each one as the first mark. ‘What I said goes, Stewart,’ Dusty went on. ‘Remember it. And the next time don’t have a green button to do your fighting for you.’
With that the guns went back to leather and Dusty turned contemptuously out of the saloon. Wally stood with his mouth hanging open, not knowing what to make of the scene, then followed Dusty out. Not a man at Stewart’s table made a move: they hardly appeared to breathe until the doors swung closed on Dusty. Then Stewart let out his breath in a long sigh and looked at the others. His face was pale under the tan.
‘What now, boss?’ asked the biggest of the men, a hard case called Smith.
‘Leave Lewis alone. Dusty Fog’s got friends. They’d be here if anything was to happen to that short runt. We’ll wait for the trial, there’ll be enough on the breed to convict him. I’ll send to Lawyer Rollinson from Dallas to come and prosecute. He’ll get Lewis tried and convicted for us.’
‘I don’t know, boss,’ Smith replied. ‘You told us about that diary. Mort Lewis would’ve made a better story’n that if it warn’t true.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Stewart, looking thoughtfully at the others. ‘Do you reckon the Ysabel Kid could find that Comanche camp?’
There was no reply for a moment, then Salar spoke: ‘I’ve seen the way the Kid walks, way he rides a hoss, way he talks, way he looks at a man. He’s Indian enough to find it.’
‘Then get after him!’ Stewart snapped. ‘All of you. Get him, Salar.’
‘How do you want him,
senor
?’