The night was dark and still as Dusty Fog rode towards the deserted Flying Fish ranch house. The house itself looked deserted, except for a solitary light which showed from a window. Dusty did not expect to be challenged, or to find anyone but Rangoon. The small man would not leave a message just to murder him, that Dusty was sure of. There would be no ambush laid for him. So sure was he that he rode straight to the front of the house and left the horse at the porch hitching rail; stepped on to the porch and went through the front door. Along the passage he saw a door open and light showing through it.
Gun in hand Dusty walked along the passage and halted before stepping into plain sight. He stood still, the house was as silent as a grave. All Rangoon’s crew had been in town and he had paid off his cook on his return, sending the man to Escopeta out of the way.
“Come in, Captain Fog,” said Rangoon from the room. “I’m not holding a gun, although I tell you that there is one, fully loaded, on the desk in front of me.”
Dusty holstered his gun and stepped into the room. Rangoon was seated at a desk in the center of the room; the desk top was clear except for a Merwin & Hulbert Pocket revolver. Rangoon leaned back in his chair, hands on the desk top but not near the butt of the gun. He looked like a mild cherub but Dusty knew he was the hardest man he had ever met.
Slowly Dusty looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished and looked much like the living quarters of a soldier in a frontier post. There was a shelf of books like the one in Rangoon’s office at the bank. The only reading matter was of a military nature, books on tactics, official publications, histories of the War. Dusty turned his attention to the two pictures on the wall. One was of three men, big men if the comparison of them and their muzzle loading rifles was anything to go by. They wore the pre-Civil War army uniforms and one was bigger in every way than the other two. This biggest man looked familiar to Dusty, as familiar as a half forgotten picture in a book. The man was also on the other photograph; it appeared to have been taken on his wedding day, his bride was a big, buxom woman.
Rangoon remained seated, making no move, his mild face showing no expression beyond the usual bland friendliness. “Do you like the picture of my father, Captain Fog?”
“Your father?”
“Colonel Grice Baldwin was my father.”
“Grice Baldwin?”
“Yes, you’ve heard of him?”
“Why sure,” agreed Dusty, remembering the photograph from a book he had seen. “I’ve read about him and heard the old Army men talk about him. Wasn’t he the one who wouldn’t take any men into his regiment who stood under six foot? The man who boasted any man in his regiment could lick two men—and he could whip any man in the regiment?”
There was a bitter note in Rangoon’s voice. “That’s right. That was the boast of Grice Baldwin, my father.”
Neither man spoke for a time. Dusty did not know why Rangoon had left word where he could be found and waited to learn. At last he broke the silence. “We got all of your men. I reckon they might talk.”
Rangoon did not reply to this. His eyes went to the pictures on the wall. “Did your father ever look down on you because of your size, Captain?”
“Can’t say he ever did. Reckon he knew it wasn’t my fault I didn’t grow any taller.”
“Then you were lucky. Grice Baldwin lived only for bigness. He was a big man; the only one I’ve seen who was his equal is Mark Counter. Grice Baldwin lived only to have the biggest things about him. Horses, men, they all must be big for him. He married my mother because she was the biggest woman he could find. That way he expected a big son. The night I was born he took bets that I would weigh over ten pounds at birth—I weighed six, no more. When he found out I was not going to grow big, he parted from my mother. Sent her away from him, gave her enough money to live in comfort and educate me,” Rangoon spoke softly but his voice held torment and anger. “He made two stipulations to his settlement. The first was that she never allowed me to use his name. The second was the most brutal, that she called me Horace. She did for he would have thrown her aside without a cent if she refused. She took her name of Rangoon again and told everyone she was a widow. Always the Army held a fascination for me, Captain, I’ve read almost every book on tactics that was written. My size and appearance were against me. I was too small for acceptance at West Point. I always looked mild, and fat. But I’m strong, Captain, far stronger than you’d think looking at me. Nobody would ever take me seriously. I would have been in my element in the Army but they would not accept me. When the War began I enlisted, hoping to be posted into a fighting unit. They allowed me in as a Quartermaster officer. Me, a man with more knowledge of tactics than half of the Army’s officers. I only accepted in the hope that I would be able to get to a fighting regiment later on. But they kept me well back from the fighting line and I rose to major, tied somewhere safe at a desk.”
Dusty sat on the edge of the desk, watching Rangoon’s face. He could guess how the other man must feel. They were both small in a country of big men. Yet it was easier for Dusty. He had never felt his lack of inches, not when there were so many ways in which he could excel over the bigger men.
“You were the major with Hantley on the Cumberland?”
“Hantley!” Rangoon spat the word out. “I was sent to the Cumberland, near the fighting area, to check on some stores. There was supposedly no danger but I was given an escort commanded by a Lieutenant. Tom Hantley was his name, a dull, stupid and drunken lout with little or no command of his men. Through his stupidity we were lost and I brought us to the house on the Cumberland. We were attacked by a small battalion of Confederate infantry. Hantley wanted to surrender but I refused. He was scared and lost his head. There was a good cellar in the house and Hantley was never sober enough to fight. I commanded the men. I defended the house, Captain. Hantley was too drunk even to fire a rifle. Those rebs could shoot, Captain. They got man after man in my small command but we held them off. I used every military trick I could think of and we held them off. I was wounded on the first day, but I kept on my feet. One thought kept me going, that I would be given my chance at a fighting command as a result. I took a second wound on the day we were relieved and fell unconscious as I heard the bugles of Custer’s regiment coming to help us. They found two men left alive. I was unconscious and Hantley managed to make himself sober enough to take the credit for the defense. There was not another man left alive who could tell the truth. When I recovered sufficiently to understand what was happening Hantley was a hero, a major, commissioned in the field as a reward for my defense.”
“You could have told them,” Dusty remarked, guessing what was to come.
“Who would believe me?” Rangoon asked pathetically. “Hantley was the sort of man who looked like a hero, I was not. I sounded a few people out, trying to say what happened. They treated me as the fortunate man who was with Hantley when he made his gallant defense. Inside a year nobody remembered I had anything to do with the fight, or any of the men who died to make it possible. Hantley was all they remembered. Look in any book of the War and see what I mean.”
“I know. I’ve read a few.”
“And never saw the name of the major who was with Hantley in any of them.”
“No, I never did,” agreed Dusty. “So you wanted to get back at Hantley.”
“I did. The War was over when I was finally released from hospital and I was turned out of the Army. They kept Tom Hantley in on a permanent commission. I watched his career. It was one of blunder and missed opportunity, but that one defense blinded everyone to it. I followed him to the Black Hills, where I met Poggy. Only Hantley’s coming down with fever saved him there. He would have gone the way of Custer, massacred by his ego and blind stupidity. I waited, he was next in Washington where there was no chance of my getting at him. Then he came to New Mexico; to the fort near the Apache reservation; to his home town. I followed him but the very fates must have worked against me for he was sent to Arizona Territory and the Apache Kid killed him.”
“Why carry on then?” Dusty asked, feeling sorry for the other man.
“I was willing to forget everything, when that infernal book of Hantley’s came out. The people of town gave me a copy—”
“Which you threw at the wall from the look of it.”
“I did. For once in my life I lost my temper. Those fools from Escopeta gave me the book to show me how a real soldier fought the War. One of them even said I should change my saloon’s name to Hantley’s Place. That was when I swore I would be revenged on them. I started to stir up trouble between the ranchers and the nesters, just in small ways, building them up for the Simmonds and Mahon business. I’d got Poggy out buying rifles and never stopped him.” There was a harder note in Dusty’s voice as he interrupted. “So you aimed to arm the Apaches all the time?”
“Only as a last resort. I meant to arm them and give Tom Hantley some bad trouble. It took time to gather so many weapons without raising suspicion. I never thought I would need the arms; the business you and your friends spoiled would have been enough. It was a pity about Simmonds and Mahon, they were both good men. That was why they had to be killed. I suppose you know why?”
“Sure, kill the fighting men and the moderate-tempered folks wait for the law. Kill the moderate men and the fighters start fighting without thinking.”
“Yes. You and I could have made a great team. It was to be war to the end and in war there are always casualties, the innocent suffer. There was suspicion and distrust, even after you showed them that someone was stirring up trouble between them. Nobody knew who they could trust, everybody was suspicious of his neighbor. Only I was never suspected. Even my men were not suspect, they worked for that nice, little, Mr. Rangoon. They never suspected me and I hated them for it. They looked down on me, those big men. Treated me as though I was a half-wit or something, all of them, none thinking I was the man behind their troubles. Only you suspected me. You—the Rio Hondo gun wizard, the Confederate hero, Dusty Fog. You recognized me for what I was. I meant to smash the others, even if I must use the Apaches to do it—One thing though, Captain, I did not think the Apaches would strike this way or so soon. I thought the county would be embroiled in a range war.”
Dusty could see the tragedy of this man; clearly in comparison with his own life. Dusty was honest enough to admit he was well-known, almost famous. In the War he had been a fighting man, leading a company of Cavalry. He had done very well, but Rangoon could have handled a troop just as well given the chance. Dusty was known, respected and admired throughout the range country, even by taller men. Nobody ever regarded him as small. Rangoon might have been the same, respected and admired. It was a tragic waste of what could have been a very useful life.
“I’m sorry. More sorry than I can tell you,” said Dusty, swinging down from the desk and facing Rangoon, hands hanging by his sides.
“Thank you. And now, Captain, what are we going to do?”
“I’m going to take you in, Major,” Dusty answered. “I could have passed over your causing trouble between the folks. Might have overlooked your having Simmonds killed. I’d even forget about your having Lon shot down, we got enough of the bunch who did it to even things up—But I can’t forget, or forgive, your arming the Apaches and endangering the lives of women.”
Rangoon nodded, his face was still that mild mask. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve a carpet bag here in the desk, with money in it.” He waved down Dusty’s objection. “It’s not a bribe, Captain. I’m still gentleman enough for that. It’s the money taken from Simmonds. I’d like you to return it, or I will see Mary gets it. The rest of the bank’s funds, less my own money are in the safe. I meant to try and make a fresh start away from here.”
“I can’t let you go.”
Slowly Rangoon rose to his feet, eyes never leaving Dusty’s face. His shoulders braced back. “I know!”
Rangoon’s hand went down to sweep the Merwin and Hulbert gun up from the desk. At the same instant Dusty’s hands crossed, the bone-handled guns sliding out in that sight-defying flicker of speed which was the difference between a top gun and a man who was just fast. Rangoon’s short-barreled weapon spat as flame tore from Dusty’s guns. The bullet ripped a hole in Dusty’s hat brim. Through the whirling smoke the small Texan saw Rangoon reel back, hit in the chest. For a moment Rangoon stood; his gun slid from his limp hand, and he went down.
Stepping forward Dusty kicked the Merwin to one side and bent over Rangoon. The man looked up at him, pain and something else dimming his eyes. Rangoon laid a hand on his chest, looked dully at the blood, then gasped: “Captain Fog. You’ve captured some of my troop?” Dusty could guess what was happening. Rangoon’s mind was going; he thought he was still in the Army, fighting against the Confederates. “I have, Major,” he agreed.
“They acted under my orders, Captain. Under my orders—understand that—I gave—the orders—They merely followed—remember that—remem—!”
Rangoon’s head fell back, blood gushed from his mouth, his small, fat frame jerked once, then went still. Dusty straightened up, there was nothing more he could do.
Slowly Dusty lifted his hand in a silent salute. “I’ll remember, Major.”
Wes Hardin and Mahon were the only men awake when Dusty returned to the farm. They came out to greet him; a few of the sleepers around the place stirred and rose. The cowhands and nesters were all staying at the Mahon place to help clean it up the following morning.
“We’ve got all Rangoon’s men hawg-tied behind the house, Dusty,” Hardin said, looking at his cousin. “Haven’t said much to them, but the last of the bunch who cut the Kid down are here. Want to see them?”
“Not until I’ve talked to Mark and Lon.”
“See Rangoon?” asked Hardin as Dusty crossed to the house.
Dusty did not reply, but went inside and closed the door. Half an hour went by and Dusty came out with Mark behind him. A fire was going now and in the light of it Dusty looked at the men of Gunn River County. They were all present the leading citizens; Hollister, the ranchers, the nesters. Hardin watched his cousin’s face and said:
“You want the Flying Fish men here, Dusty?”
“Nope, turned loose.”
Hardin was a poker player who usually won more than he lost, but for once he lost his poker face. The surprise he showed was mirrored by every other man around the fire.
“Turned loose?” asked Hardin, it was all he could think to say.
“That’s what I said. We got six of the eight who matched with the Kid. It’s a fair swap for one wound. We got the man who shot Mr. Simmonds. The Apaches killed the man who brought them the rifles. There’s been killing enough.”
“What about Rangoon?” Blayne inquired.
“He’s at the Flying Fish. I killed him. He gave me Mary Simmonds’ money, the rest is in a safe at the bank,” answered Dusty, then his eyes went to each face in turn. “He’ll need burying. I want him burying in town, with a decent headstone.”
“Like hell!” Hollister snapped. “Why should we?”
“Because Lon, Mark and I are all asking you. If you allow you owe us anything at all you’ll do it—And when you put up the headstone don’t put Rangoon. Put Major Grice Baldwin, Junior, U.S. Army. Retired.”