Dusty Fog was riding the other side of the range with a cheerful Lazy S cowhand known as Howler, a Texas boy who left his home to see something of the West. Now Howler was doing something he never thought he would, not even in his wildest day dreams. He was riding with the Lone Star State’s favorite son, the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. Fowler was bursting with pride but he was not acting respectful or admiringly. He rode alongside Dusty, trying to top the windies Dusty spun about hunting or fishing.
It was shortly before noon and they were looking for a straying bull which took off with a string of cows. The hunt was not successful but they were trying and, topping a rise, looked down on to a well-marked trail. A wagon drawn by two horses was moving along the trail, two men sitting on the box. Howler’s face showed relief for he was out of tobacco. That would not be so bad but Dusty was also out and Howler was a smoking addict.
“Let’s head down and talk some,” he suggested.
“Sure,” Dusty agreed, starting his horse forward, headed for the wagon. He saw the men watching him, hands dropping to their sides but ignored the move. In a wild land like this a man took elementary precautions. “Howdy gents.”
“Howdy,” replied the man driving the team. He was a bearded, dirty-looking man of medium size, dressed in fringed buckskin shirt, old cavalry trousers and calf high Apache moccasins. A livid scar started at the left side of his face, up near the hair-line and ran down into the whiskers. There was an expression in his eyes as he looked at Dusty, as if he thought he should know the small Texan. Then his eyes went to the Lazy S roan Dusty was riding.
“Wouldn’t have the makings, would you, friend?” Howler asked.
The bearded man dug out a sack of Bull Durham and passed it over. That was part of the code of the range. A man could ask for tobacco and the request was never refused except as a deliberate insult. The other man looked them over and grinned.
“You wouldn’t work hereabouts, would you?”
“Why sure,” agreed Dusty and took the sack after Howler got his smoke rolled. “Ride for the Lazy S. We’re out looking for strays.”
Dusty was sure that he should know the bearded man, but his memory would not work. The man was feeling the same way, Dusty was sure, it was only the horse which was fooling him. Dusty was pleased he had decided to rest his big paint and take out a Lazy S remuda horse.
“Town far off?” asked the bearded man.
“Three, four miles at most,” replied Howler, not knowing Dusty was worried by the nagging thoughts, trying to recollect where he had seen the bearded man. “You haven’t seen a big roan bull and maybe a dozen or so cows?”
“Lost ’em?”
“Sure, that damned fool bull’s wuss’n any Apache for roaming off. Trouble is he always comes back but the cows don’t.”
“It’s hell when you get one like that, ain’t it?” the second man inquired, for he had worked as a cowhand and knew the curse of a roaming bull. “Don’t know which’s the worst a bull or an Apache.”
Howler made a simple reply, “Bulls don’t tote rifles.”
Dusty saw a furtive expression cross the face of the two men. He did not know what brought about the change but it was something to do with the innocent words Howler just spoke that made the men show tension. He saw the hands which left the gun butts as they came up moving back again. Yet not by any sign did he let the two men on the wagon know he had noticed any change.
“This’s not going to get that old bull found, Howler,” said Dusty, his voice even and friendly. “Let’s get to looking for him.”
Turning his horse Dusty headed back up the slope. Howler raised his hand in a gesture of farewell and followed. The bearded man sat watching them go, his face scowling and troubled. After Dusty and Howler passed out of sight he started the wagon team forward and growled:
“I’ve seen that short growed runt some place before.”
“Totes two guns,” the other man answered. “Don’t look hardly old enough to. I bet he bought them to show off with. What you reckon he meant about Apaches and rifles?”
“Just making talk. You know what cowhands are, allus talking.”
The man seated by, the driver looked back over his shoulder at the boxes in the back of the wagon; some were long, rectangular in shape, others were square. One thing they all showed in common, no sign of what they contained. The man knew what the boxes held and was worried by the casual remark.
“Reckon he knows what’s in them boxes, Poggy?”
“How the hell could he?” growled the driver. “Rangoon don’t talk, or make mistakes. I bet there ain’t more than Rangoon knows about what we’ve got, or what they’re for.”
“You worked with him afore this?”
“Yes, up in the Black Hills just after the War. Don’t you go letting his looks fool you. He’s the hardest man I ever came across.”
“Wonder what he wants them for?”
“Revolution below the border,” Poggy growled in a voice which warned the other man it was a closed subject and the questions died away.
Poggy did not know why Rangoon wanted the goods he was carrying and did not mean to ask questions either. Like he said, he had worked with Rangoon before and was accepting, if not entirely satisfied, with the explanation given for the collecting of his cargo. Rangoon was not the sort of man one argued with, or questioned.
The two men rode on towards Escopeta without talking, both busy with their own thoughts. They came in by the Gunn River Saloon as the batwing doors opened to allow a man to pass through into the street. He paused on the sidewalk looking at the wagon with some interest, then spoke:
“Howdy Poggy!”
The voice brought Poggy’s attention to the man, taking in the gambler’s dress, the deputy sheriff’s badge and the hat pulled forward so as to throw the face into deep shadow. Slowly Poggy dropped his hand to his side, rubbing the butt of his old Army Colt gun.
“You know me?” he asked.
Wes Hardin stepped forward, left hand thrusting back his hat to allow the tanned face to show clear of the shadow.
“Hardin!” Poggy brought out the word in a strangled gasp.
“As ever was,” replied Hardin mockingly. “What’re you doing here, old friend of my youth?”
Poggy overlooked the fact that such a question was a breech of Western etiquette and a deliberate insult. “Just making an honest living, Wes.”
Hardin laughed, a savage cough of laughter which brought Poggy’s hand well clear of his gun butt. “Making a living, an honest living, is it. What’s in the wagon, Poggy?”
Licking his lips nervously Poggy replied, “Supplies for the Banking House Saloon down there.”
“Move over!”
There was no arguing with Hardin. Poggy knew it, and so did the man by his side. Poggy crowded up to his companion and allowed Hardin to climb up on the box. Looking inside the wagon Hardin studied the contents. His eyes narrowed and his voice was a suspicious growl as he asked: “What’s in the boxes?”
Glasses, some fancy likker, stuff like that. Long ’uns hold a new gambling set-up,” replied Poggy, fighting to hold his voice even. “Got it on my bill of loading here.”
Hardin thought of opening one or two of the boxes but before he could make a move to do so saw the sheriff stepping from his office. Hollister raised his arm and called to Hardin, who reluctantly swung from the wagon and looked up at Poggy, his eyes hard and cold.
“You wouldn’t be up to your old tricks now, would you?”
“Me, Wes?” yelped Poggy, well simulated innocence in his voice. “Once’s enough for me. I’ve done with that sort of thing now.”
Hardin grunted and walked away along the side of the street. Poggy’s hand moved gunwards again but sanity returned to him. He held his move uncompleted and started the wagon forward. He knew that if he shot and missed he would never get a second chance. Hardin would see to that. If he shot and hit, his position would not be much better. Hardin wore a law badge which meant he and the sheriff must be friends. Poggy could not hope to get both sheriff and Hardin. He also knew Rangoon would not want any trouble.
“What’s Hardin doing here and as a john law?” Poggy’s companion asked.
There was no direct reply to the question for seeing Wes Hardin jogged Poggy’s memory. “You know who that short-growed cowhand we saw out there was?”
“Naw, why should I?”
“He was Dusty Fog.”
“Dusty Fog?” Poggy’s companion snorted. “A short-growed runt like that?”
“Short-growed, or tall as a cottonwood tree, that was Dusty Fog,” said Poggy, worry in his tones. “When I’ve delivered this stuff I’m pulling out—fast.”
Wes Hardin walked on along the street and joined the sheriff. They strolled along the sidewalk together. Hardin was frowning, thinking of Poggy coming to Escopeta. The man could be telling the truth, making an honest living, but life had made Wes Hardin a suspicious man.
“Sure wished I could spend half my day in bed,” greeted Hollister.
“And me. Just been along to see Frank Gunn. He’s got him a touch of the grippe and not holding the game tonight. You look a mighty worried man.”
“I am,” agreed Hollister. “I saw young Johnny Brace today. He’s come down through the reservation. Allows there’s a whole lot of council smoke going up.”
“What’s he make of it?” Hardin asked, for Johnny Brace knew Apaches.
“Didn’t know for sure. Says Juan Jose allowed it was for a wedding but Johnny allows it wasn’t no wedding smoke. They were at the war medicine wickiup. You’ve heard about Juan Jose, he don’t like white-eyes one little bit. Give him a few good rifles and he’d paint for war.”
Hardin’s face darkened in a sudden frown. The last time he had seen Poggy the man was seated on a horse, a rope around his neck and a quirt waiting to send the saddle from under him. It was the intervention of Dusty Fog and Mark Counter which saved Poggy from hanging as a renegade selling arms to the Indians. Before he could mention his suspicions, Hardin was foiled. Hollister announced that he meant to go home, wash and shave. He wanted to ride out to the place where Simmonds was killed to see if he could learn anything more. Promising to meet Hardin at the Banking House Saloon later for a quiet game of poker, Hollister walked away.
Left to himself, Hardin went into the sheriff’s office and sat at the desk trying to decide what to do. It must be a coincidence that Poggy was in town and nothing to do with the Apaches. The man might have turned over a new leaf and was really headed for the rear of the Banking House Saloon. Hardin almost decided he would go along and see the boxes unloaded but called it off. He cleaned his guns and then picked up a copy of the Police Gazette and thumbed through it.
The doors of the office opened and a small boy peeped in. He jerked his head back out again, then looked around the corner of the door, clearly meaning to run if Hardin made any hostile move. The Texan’s usually grim features relaxed as he beckoned the youngster to come in, thinking perhaps the boy was bringing a message from his folks.
“Come on in, now, boy,” drawled Hardin. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“School’s all done for the day,” replied the boy, entering and standing first on one leg, then the other. He looked at Hardin’s guns with undisguised interest. “You’re Wes Hardin, aren’t you?”
“Me, boy? They call me Johnson.”
“Shucks, that don’t mean a lil thing. You’re Wes Hardin, the fastest man on the draw. Is it right you’ve killed seventy-five men?”
“You’ve got me all mixed up with Wild Bill Hickok, boy,” answered Hardin with a grin softening his face, making him look young and friendly. He could guess why the boy had come to the office.
The boy shook his head. “Naw I’ve not. I heard how you fooled Wild Bill up in Dodge City. I read about it in one of Ned Buntline’s books.”
“Ned Buntline never told the truth about anything, boy,” replied Hardin. “I was never in Dodge City, nor was Wild Bill.”
They talked on for a time, Hardin mentioning other fast men, including his cousin, Dusty Fog. Finally Hardin asked, “What’d you come in here for?”
“You know what them folks down at the Banking House was getting off an old wagon, Wes?”
“I’d bet me a quarter it was a box full of glasses or something.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed in excitement. “Naw. It warn’t glasses. They’d got rifles, new Winchesters in them boxes.”
“Rifles!” Hardin growled, stiffening in his chair, his face becoming hard once more. “You wouldn’t be funning none, would you?”
“No sir, Mr. Hardin,” answered the boy. “Cross my heart and hope to die if I wasn’t telling the truth.”
“How’d you see them?”
“You know that ole cottonwood tree back of the Banking House? Well, I was up there, can see into the yard at the back and into the room. I’ve seed some of the gals undressing from that old tree. Waal, I was up there when that wagon come and I dassn’t get down again. See, that old Banjo Edwards, he’s said he’ll whale the tar out of the next kid he catches up there. Well, them fellers started to unload the wagon and they dropped a box. It burst open and I saw the rifles.”
“That so?” Hardin drawled, his voice and face showing none of the excitement he felt. “Now look here, boy. We’re friends, you and me. You reckon you can keep a real secret?”
“Shucks, I wanted to tell the gang.”
“Not yet. See, Mr. Rangoon, he’s going to outfit a troop of cavalry from the town here but he don’t want folks to know yet. You keep quiet about this until I tell you to let the word out.”
The boy looked disappointed at the restriction on his passing out the news. “Aw gee, me and the gang—”
“Tell you what I’ll do. You keep quiet about it, don’t tell nobody, and I’ll let you shoot off my guns. And I’ll get Cousin Dusty to let you shoot his as well.”
The boy stared at Hardin, hardly believing his ears. For a chance to shoot both Wes Hardin and Dusty Fog’s guns he would willingly keep any secret. Hardin saw the excited boy out of the room and took up his hat. He stepped out of the office and walked along the street. Turning into the space between two buildings, Hardin walked through and on to the dusty street which ran at the rear of the Military Avenue buildings. He strolled along, acting as he would if he had been on his rounds as deputy. He stopped under the big cottonwood tree behind the saloon, surrounding the saloon’s yard. The wagon stood outside the fence; the gate leading into the yard was open.
Entering the yard, Hardin went towards the rear door of the saloon but before he was halfway Banjo Edwards peered out. There was something about the way the gambler looked which made Hardin change his plans. He had been all set to force his way in but right now did not seem to be the time.
“Howdy, Banjo,” he greeted. “Thought I saw somebody hanging about in here, so I came to look. Didn’t see anybody.”
“Must have been one of them damned kids, they’re always fooling about back here,” Edwards replied, he stood so that only his left hand showed. Hardin was willing to bet the right hand held a gun. “Thanks for looking in.”
“That’s all right, I get paid for it,” Hardin drawled, then nodded to the wagon. “Taking in supplies?”
“Sure. Some fancy likker the boss ordered. Man’d need a real educated tongue to handle them. He reckons the boys’ll buy them.”
Hardin grunted a noncommittal reply, turned and walked away. He knew there was nothing to be gained by trying to force an entry into the building. Edwards would not be the only man there and they would all be armed. Besides if there were rifles in the wagon. Rangoon might have a perfectly good reason for buying them. In fact he probably did have.
The youngster might have been making up the story as an excuse to talk with Hardin.
That night Hardin and Hollister went along to the Banking House Saloon and found the other members of the poker game gathered. Frank Gunn was known to have an attack of the grippe at intervals; mostly when he felt that an all-night poker game was not as acceptable as an all-night sleep. The game would be held in the Banking House for there were few other customers, pay day not being for another three days.
In respect of Hardin’s superstition the table was at the side of the room and Hardin’s seat against the wall. Facing him across the room was the door to Rangoon’s private office. Looking at the door Hardin wondered again about the rifles although he did not mention them. Rangoon was in the game and he was a good poker player, keen, shrewd and with a better than fair knowledge of the mathematics of the game. So were the other players. Hardin forgot his worries and concentrated on the game, any inattention could be costly when matched with good players.
For once, Rangoon was not on his best form. He made a couple of mistakes in his betting and calling which he would not otherwise have done. His eyes kept flickering to the office door.
“I’m not staying in long,” he said, studying his cards. “I’ve got some urgent business coming up tonight and I’ll have to pull out when my caller comes.”
The other players nodded in agreement. It was part of the etiquette of the game to give notice if meaning to quit before the finishing time. At any other time Hardin would have thought nothing of it, except that it showed Rangoon’s knowledge of the game. This night it was different and Hardin found himself speculating who the caller might be. He yawned and looked around the table.”
“Don’t feel much like an all-night game myself. I reckon I’ve got me a touch of the grippe coming on like ole Frank.”
“Let’s all call it a night when Rangoon finishes then,” Hollister went on. “The wife’s raising all hell because I’m stopping out most nights. Anything for a quiet life.”
“Sure,” agreed Blinky Howard with a grin. “Anyways, I like to see the law out and about good and early in the morning. Makes me feel I’m getting my money’s worth as a tax payer.”
“In that case you want to let your taxes lapse,” growled Hardin.
The others laughed and resumed the game. The play was brisk and high for about an hour, then the office door opened. Hardin was just throwing in his cards and glanced at the opening door. He saw a dark-faced man looking out, nodding to Banjo Edwards who was at the bar. The gambler crossed the room and the dark face pulled back. The open door was clear for a moment and through it Hardin saw a man. A squat-built man wearing an old cavalry coat, breech cloth and calf-high moccasins. A man with a dark brown face framed with long hanging, lank black hair.
Hardin felt the tension hit him. That was an Apache in there. More it was an Apache wearing the red head band of a chief and there was only one chief in this area, Juan Jose, chief of the White Mountain Apaches, a man who hated white-eyes.
Edwards went to the office door and entered, closing it after him and made sure that when he came out again no one could see inside. He crossed the room and whispered to Rangoon. The small man looked at the other players and smiled.
“I’m sorry, boys. This’s the last hand for me.”
The other players nodded for they had been warned. The hand was played out and Rangoon pushed back his chair, standing up. The other men took their time but Hardin declined an invitation to go to the bar with the players. He left the room and walked along the sidewalk as if making for the jail. Once clear of the Banking House Saloon he made sure he was not followed then cut between two houses and made his way towards the back of the saloon. He saw the shapes of three horses tied out back and walked nearer. One of the horses swung around, snorting nervously, then a second showed signs of nervousness. That was all the warning Hardin wanted, he knew what kind of horses they were and darted to the tree, flattening behind it.
He was only just in time, the rear door of the saloon was opening just as he took cover. Two men showed in the light for an instant. One was the half-breed Hardin saw in the office; the other an Apache Indian, not the one with the chiefs head band. They closed the door and came towards the horses, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. The two men advanced on silent feet, each holding a weapon. Behind the tree Hardin drew his twin Colts but he did not cock them for he knew how keen Apaches’ ears could be. He stood, waiting for one or both the men to come over towards him. They stopped by the horses, looking around and then satisfied that the animals were not scared, turned and went back to the saloon.
Time dragged by and Hardin waited behind the tree. He was not sure what he should make of all this and knew there was no chance of his getting near enough to hear what was being said in the room. The horses would give warning of his approach and the men in the room would not hesitate to shoot if they found him spying on them. There were more men in the room than he could handle. He knew that Apaches would not deliberately go out of their way to fight in the dark, but if a fight was unavoidable they could handle themselves, so he did not wish to tangle with the two Apaches in the darkness.
Hardin tried to estimate how long he waited under the tree. It must have been over an hour, he thought, when the door opened and the half-breed emerged with the two Apaches. They mounted their horses and rode off. Soon after, Rangoon and Edwards came from the door and headed for the livery-barn. Hardin wished he could get his own horse without attracting attention. He wanted to know why Rangoon had met the Apaches and where the small man was going.
For all that, Hardin could not believe there was any sinister motive behind the meeting. If Edwards alone was involved Hardin would have thought the worst, but not with Rangoon. It could not be anything worse than selling whiskey to the Apaches, the boy must have been wrong about the rifles. If he really saw rifles Rangoon could have some perfectly simple and innocent reason for having them.
With that in mind Hardin made his way around the town, doing his tour as a deputy and finally reached the sheriff’s office. Hollister was inside the office, filling in the log.
“Don’t know why you bother,” Hardin drawled as he entered. “There’s never a thing to put in it.”
“I know. The tax payers like it though. Makes them think we’re earning our pay. You getting scared of losing, pulling out like that?”
“Nope,” replied Hardin and decided to try something. “What’d Rangoon be doing, meeting Apaches at this time of night.”
“Don’t ask me,” answered Hollister, his attention on the log and not more than half listening to the other man. Then the meaning of the words hit him and he let the pencil fall to the desk. “Apaches!”
“You all want to wake the dead?” asked Hardin sardonically. “I dearly loves a man who can control hisself. There’s no wonder your missus wants you to stop playing poker, way you go on.” He paused and eyed the other man mockingly. In the time they had known each other a liking and respect had grown between them. “Course, it might not have been Apaches. Could have been Comanches or Sioux, or Cheyennes maybe.”
“Comanches, Sioux, Cheyennes, down this way.” Hollister snorted. “This’s Apache country and you know it. What the hell would Rangoon be doing with Apaches, anyway.”
“Don’t ask me. Ask him.”
Hollister sat studying Hardin’s face for a long moment. “You best tell me all about it, Wes.”
So Hardin explained, telling everything he knew. Hollister grunted as he sat listening. “The boy was sure about seeing the rifles, that’s what got me worried, Brick.”
“What’s he look like?” Hollister asked and when Hardin described the boy, grinned broadly. “Young Manny Lieben from the sound of it. He can spin more windies than a Texan talking about Texas. He likely made it all up.”
“Could be,” agreed Hardin. “What’re you fixing in to do about it?”
“Nothing much. We don’t know for sure there were any rifles, even Poggy don’t prove anything. You allow he was nearly lynched for selling arms to the Indians. Most men’d not want that to happen twice, he could have gone straight. I’m not at all sure what we should do.”
“Or me,” grunted Hardin. “The hell of it is I’ve never held a badge before. Look, back home in Texas when there’s a problem we take it to Ole Devil Hardin and let him handle it.”
“Trouble being Ole Devil isn’t here.”
“Sure, thought about that,” Hardin agreed. Cousin Dusty’s here. Let’s leave it until we’ve had a chance to talk it over with him.”
Hollister nodded. He had formed a very high opinion of Dusty Fog’s capabilities and was willing to go along with whatever Dusty wanted. Still Hollister could not think anything bad of the small, fat and friendly man who ran the Banking House saloon.
The morning after found the range quiet but it was a quiet which was soon to be broken. Colt Blayne stretched his feet under the table and watched his son’s face, guessing what was on Sam’s mind. He was about to suggest Sam brought Silvie Rand over for a meal when the door was opened and a gangling cowhand entered.
“Colt! There’s trouble. Somebody wired off that water-hole up on the Rands’ line. Got barbed wire right round it, I only just stopped some of our stock hanging on to it.”
Blayne came to his feet, rage showing on his face for there was nothing a ranch man hated more than wire. “What! Get the crew out, we’ll go over there and see about it.”
“Hold hard, pappy,” Sam Blayne put in. “Wes Hardin passed word about the next man to cause trouble. Let’s go into town and see him.”
Blayne scowled, he was never a man to accept argument against his orders but for once held his temper. The boy was thinking for himself, that was for sure. He knew that if the hands went to the waterhole there would be trouble. The Rands would not stand back and allow their fence torn down.
“All right. Get the crew and we’ll head for town.”
Silvie Rand heard the mournful bellows of the family’s milk cows and went up the slope which led to the waterhole on the other side of the rim. She stopped and stared down, then dashed forward, chasing the cows away from the wicked spikes of the barbed wire which was strung right round the waterhole. She looked at the new strands and her face paled. Turning she headed back to the house and burst in on her father.
“Let’s take to the hills, pappy,” growled Lil Hunk, eyeing his old rifle.
Mrs. Rand slammed the bowl of oatmeal down on the table. She was a big, rawboned and yet still handsome woman.
“No you don’t. You know what that Wes Hardin said about the folk’s caused trouble. You go into town and talk to him. I’ll take the young ’uns across to the Mahon place and pick up all the other women folks on the way.”
Big Hunk Rand grunted his agreement. He picked up his Sharps rifle and nodded to his two eldest sons; the other five children would go with his wife in the old buggy. Mrs. Rand watched the men leave, then took up the heavy shotgun from over the fireplace, broke it and slid in two shells, then told the girls to get ready.
It was the same story wherever a nester and rancher shared a waterhole, the water was inaccessible, barbed wire strung around it. Tempers rose and men reached for weapons. Then the memory of a soft-drawling speech brought an end to open hostility. Wes Hardin made a promise and gave a warning, he was a man who never went back on his word. So the men headed for town, hard-faced well-armed groups of them riding in silence. Nesters passed cowhands, angry glances exchanged but that was all for they knew Wes Hardin was in town and he would be set to handle any trouble. The nesters made for the Banking House Saloon and the cowhands headed to the Gunn River Saloon. There they waited, grouped in their ranch parties, hard-eyed and silent.
Hardin and Hollister stood at the window of the jail and looked out. “Blayne brought his boys in. Larsen’s crew arrived, Major File came in. All Rangoon’s boys were here at dawn. Most of the nesters come in. I’ll tell you, Wes, I’m scared.”
“What the hell’s wrong. It’s not pay day and even if it was the nesters wouldn’t be here,” Hardin answered worriedly. “Where’s Dusty and the Lazy S?”
Hollister was also worried by the small Texan not being in town. Dusty Fog and the Lazy S would be a steadying influence. If there was to be trouble, Dusty Fog and Mark Counter would be worth a regiment of cavalry.
From outside the jail they heard the sound of rapidly approaching hooves. It was only one rider and the two men looked at the door as they heard boot heels thudding on the sidewalk. The door was thrown open and Tommy came in, face flushed but cool enough.
“Dusty and Mark found one of our waterholes wired off this morning. They sent me into town to warn you there might be trouble.”
“We’ve seen it coming, boy,” replied Hardin. “What’d Dusty say?”
“Allows to head for the Mahon place first and see what Mr. Mahon’s got to say about it. There’s a hell of a lot of smoke coming up from the reservation so Dusty’s taking Mary and Lindy with him. He and Mark want to know what the Kid makes of the smoke. Dusty says watch the town and don’t let anyone start doing anything loco.”
“How we going to do that,” growled Hollister. “I want to see all the ranchers and the nesters. Reckon you could bring the ranchers to the Banking House Saloon, Wes?”
“I could surely make a try. You go down there and wait for me.”
“Can I help?” Tommy asked eagerly. “I’ll do what I can.”
Crossing the room Hardin took a Winchester from the rack on the wall. He tossed the rifle to Tommy. “Get some shells out of the drawer there. But don’t you start shooting unless I tell you.”
Tommy opened the drawer and lifted a box of bullets out, he forced a full sixteen load into the magazine then followed Hardin out and along the street. They entered the Gunn River Saloon and the silence hit them. It was an ominous sign to anyone who knew cowhands. They were a rowdy bunch most times, when in town. If a cowhand was not rowdy it meant there was trouble in the air. All eyes went to Hardin and Tommy as they entered but no one offered to speak. The cowhands were waiting for the bosses to give a lead and the ranchers waiting for Colt Blayne to act as spokesman for them.
At last Blayne spoke, his voice an angry growl. “They’ve started to wire off the range now. Our land, and they started to put wire on it.”
“Who have?” Hardin’s voice was soft and caressing.
“The nesters. Who else? Damn it, Wes, if my crew hadn’t found that waterhole we’d have been getting cattle ripped to pieces on the wire.”
The crowd rumbled out their angry agreement. It was like the snarl of a lynch mob, a menacing sound. Another rancher got to his feet, a big blond man; his voice, the accent of a Swede deepened by his anger.
“By gar, they ban all down in the other saloon right now. All of them no-good nesters. If they want trouble they can have it.”
A cowhand yelled his agreement and came to his feet, reaching for his hat. Other men began getting up. Even as he took action, Hardin saw Rangoon with his ranch crew at the side of the room.
“Sit fast, one and all!” Hardin’s words were backed by the double click as his matched Colts left leather. By his side Tommy brought the rifle up, holding it hip high and lined, his face set and determined. “Colt, the sheriff wants to see you and the other ranchers down at the Gunn River.”
“Sure, and walk right into a trap,” Vance, by Rangoon’s side, yelled.
“All right,” said Hardin, shrugging his shoulders without affecting the way his guns were lined. “I’ll go get Mahon and Rand to come along here. Happen they aren’t scared to take a chance.”
The ranchers exchanged glances. The biting scorn in the words hit directly at them as Hardin knew it would. Not one of the ranchers would sit back and allow the Texan to fetch the head of the nesters to the saloon. Blayne got to his feet and looked at his crew.
“You bunch stop here. Sam, you and Johnny make sure none of them come out of here until we get back.”
“You boys stay here—understand?” another rancher went on.
His men understood, although they did not like the idea of their boss going into the saloon full of nesters. The ranchers started towards the door, one of them looked at Rangoon, who was coming along, and smiled:
“Ain’t no need for you to come along, Rangoon. We’ll handle it for you.”
For a brief flicker there was annoyance in Rangoon’s face but it changed to his usual mild expression before anyone could see it. “I think I’d better come. I might be a moderating influence on you.”
The other ranchers did not object, they walked by Hardin and Tommy, through the doors and into the street. The cowhands settled back, but Vance nodded and a lank haired half-breed who sat at the rear of the room rose and slipped out of the back door, closing it silently behind him. Every ear was straining to catch some sound which would warn them their bosses were in trouble. If the nesters made any treacherous moves the cowhands intended to take a bloody and savage revenge.
The Gunn River Saloon was no more noisy than the Banking House when Hardin entered followed by the ranchers. Mahon and Rand were seated at a table away from the other men, Hollister with them tilting his chair back on the rear legs and nursing a shotgun. The nesters’ leaders looked at the ranchers, then at Hardin and Tommy. Nothing was said, the hostile glances were enough to warn Hardin that he was walking on thin ice and that at any moment now a fire underneath might melt it away.
“Let’s make some talk,” he drawled.
“Who’s here for the Lazy S?” growled Blayne. “Where’s Cap’n Fog?”
“Him and Mark were out when the word came in,” Tommy answered, following the orders Dusty gave him before leaving the ranch. “I come in as the spread’s rep.” Blayne nodded his acceptance although he would have preferred the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. Tommy was a cool hand, it would do him no harm to accept some responsibility. The boy looked firm and grim enough back in the Gunn River Saloon when his rifle lifted to back up Wes Hardin.
“Now gents,” Hollister spoke quietly, yet with authority. “Big Hunk here tells me he’s found one of the waterholes he uses wired off. So has near on every other farmer here.”
“That’s why the ranchers are in town,” snapped Blayne. “We been finding the same thing. That waterhole we share with the Rands was wired off all way round.”
“Which same’d be right smart, if Rand did it. Stop your stock getting to water,” Hardin drawled. “And his.”
Blayne opened his mouth, then closed it again as the import of the words hit him. “Say, I never thought of it like that, but it’s right.”
“By gar, Wes, I ban out to see that hole I share with Lake there. It was new wire—” the Swedish rancher put in.
“I ain’t rich enough to afford wire of any sort,” Lake, the nester, spoke up.
“And I sure ain’t,” the Swede pointed out.
The other men looked at each other. Rand and Blayne exchanged looks, both thinking the same thoughts. Before Dusty Fog started them all considering the possibility of some outside influence stirring up trouble between the ranchers and cattlemen, none of them would have taken time to think twice. They would have accepted the evidence at face value and painted for war. Now they were willing to try to talk things out first.
Blayne scowled. “It takes a fair bunch of men to lay all that wire in one night. More than any ranch around here hires.”
Hardin’s face suddenly darkened in anger. He remembered Rangoon’s visitors of the previous night. An Apache would do anything to obtain one of those wonderful sixteen-shooting Winchester rifles. He would raid for it, steal for it, kill for it. He might even help lay wire fences in the darkness of the night to get hold of a Winchester. The Texan moved forward ready to say what he suspected.
A glint of something metallic caught Hardin’s eye as he stepped forward. It was only a quick glance but Hardin knew what it was and acted with the speed which had kept him alive since being turned outlaw. He came around, hands crossing and the matched guns leaping out. The lead slashed into the bat-wing doors just in time. The hand holding a revolver jerked back, but the shot crashed out. Hardin flung himself across the room and out of the saloon, he heard rapidly-fading footsteps outside. Before he could go and see if there was a chance of catching the shooter it was too late.
Cowhands poured from the Banking House Saloon. They came fast, and with their guns in their hands ready to avenge the treacherous attack on their bosses.