‘Be it known that all persons who served the Confederate States during the late War of Secession are required and ruled by Brownton City Civic Ordinance No. 28 to surrender their firearms to the office of Town Marshal Banks Fagan on arrival in the city limits and not to wear or carry any firearms during their stay in the said city limits.
Signed,
B. A. Grief, Mayor’
Although the sign hung prominently on the wall of Kate Gilgore’s Buffalo Saloon, neither of the two young men who entered showed any interest in it beyond a first casual glance. Yet both could read, one of them slowly and as long as there were not too many long words and the other very well—and both had weapons on their persons.
One of the pair might be termed extra well armed, especially in view of his apparent youth, for, in addition to the walnut handled old Dragoon Colt hanging butt forward at his right side, he had a bowie knife sheathed at the left and a Winchester Model of 1866 rifle in his left hand.
While he appeared to be around sixteen years old, it must be admitted that in the Ysabel Kid’s case the looks were deceptive. He was older than sixteen and had packed a world of practical savvy into every year of his life. It was his face that gave the impression of youth, being innocent-looking and almost babyishly handsome—unless one looked at his cold, wolf-savage red-hazel eyes. They were not the eyes of a sixteen-year-old boy. All his clothing from hat, through bandana, shirt and levis down to his boots, was black; only the brown walnut grips of the old Second Model Dragoon Colt and the ivory grips of the James Black bowie knife relieved the blackness.
There was something wild, alien, almost Indian about the Ysabel Kid. One way of accounting for this stemmed from his mother being a French Creole-Comanche girl with direct blood-line to Chief Long Walker of the dreaded Dog Soldier Lodge, while his father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian who loved to fight and had sand to burn. The Kid came from fighting stock on both sides. He handled a rifle like a backwoodsman of old, used his knife with the flair of both French Creole and Comanche—knife fighters from way back, could use his Dragoon with some skill although not well enough to be termed a gunfighter. Mostly the Kid handled scouting work for the O.D. Connected spread; and in addition to being able to move in silence over sun-dried sticks or capable of following tracks where a buck Apache would give up, he spoke several Indian dialects well and fluent Spanish. Not a bad record for a man who lacked formal education. All in all the Ysabel Kid made a good friend, but a bad mean enemy.
That then was the Ysabel Kid; his companion being none other than the Rio Hondo gun wizard Dusty Fog. How would one expect such a man as Dusty Fog to look?
He had been a Confederate Army captain at seventeen and his name ranked with John Singleton Mosby or Turner Ashby as a fighting Cavalry commander. The union Army respected him as a shrewd and gallant enemy; and the man who rode behind their lines to give evidence at a court martial, clearing a Yankee lieutenant wrongly accused of cowardice. ii After the war, Dusty’s name rose high as a cowhand, the segundo of the great O.D. Connected ranch and a master trail driver. He was also the man who tamed and brought law to Quiet Town when that Montana city rolled high, wild and woolly. Men told much of his skill in a barehanded fight; but mostly they spoke of his chain-lightning draw and deadly accuracy, claiming him to be the fastest of that magic-handed group produced by conditions in Texas after the war.
Such a man ought to be a veritable handsome giant amongst men.
Dusty Fog stood five foot six in his high-heeled, expensive cowhand boots. While his clothing cost as much as Mark Counter’s, Dusty did not have the flair to show it off to its best advantage. At first glance Dusty might have been passed over as a small, insignificant Texas cowhand; good looking and with dusty blond hair, but not noticeable enough to rate a closer study. Happen one did look closer, there was a strength and intelligence in Dusty’s face, his grey eyes met a scrutiny without any flinching. His muscular development would have equaled Mark Counter’s had they both been the same height; but few folks noticed that any more than they noticed the matched brace of Army Colts in the contoured holsters of a real well-made gunbelt—until either the strength or use of his guns became necessary. Once a person saw Dusty in action, he or she never again thought of the Rio Hondo gun wizard as being small.
After glancing around the room, Dusty turned to the bartender. ‘Take two beers,’ he ordered, ‘and have something yourself.’
Buffalo Kate Gilgore’s employees had none of the usual Kansas trail end town antipathy towards the Texans who supplied the butter to put on their bread, so the bartender decided to hand out a warning before it became too late.
‘Sign there means what it says, friend,’ he remarked, nodding to the wall.
Resting his ‘yellow boy’ rifle—so named because of its brass frame—on the bar top, the Kid gave a grin. ‘Saw me a whole slew of fellers wearing guns as we rode in.’
‘Yeah? Well they live here.’
‘And that gives them, and not us, the right to benefit by the Second Amendment?’ asked Dusty.
‘Huh?’ grunted the bartender.
‘The Second Amendment of the United States Constitution, friend,’ Dusty explained. ‘It goes something like “A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed”.’
‘Which same, comes last herd count, me ’n’ Dusty was marked down as being people,’ the Kid went on..‘So we come under the Second Amendment.’
‘But the—’
‘Pour out the beers, friend,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Say, whose turn is it to pay, Lon?’
‘Danged if I don’t have to go out back,’ the Kid replied and took up his rifle, heading for the door at the rear of the room.
‘Never once knowed it to fail,’ Dusty grinned, watching his amigo walk away. ‘Mention paying and he takes off like a wolf-chased pronghorn antelope.’
Throwing a worried look around the saloon, the bartender poured out three drinks. He had given out a serious warning and hoped the small Texan might take it. There were only a few railroad workers, awaiting a train to the construction camps, present. The bartender could better have understood Dusty’s attitude had he recognized the small Texan, or had there been a large bunch of Texans in town to back up his play should a showdown come. One small, insignificant young feller and bald-faced boy would not have much chance against Fagan and his three deputies.
Thinking of the devil may not produce him; but it is a fact that as the bartender gave thought of Fagan’s deputies, one of them walked by the window of the saloon, glancing in. For a moment the bartender thought, hoped even, that big Vince Crocker had missed noticing the small Texan. However, on reaching the doors, the deputy thrust them open and entered. For a moment he stood looking around him and then walked forward across the room to halt behind Dusty. There was quite a contrast between the two men for Crocker stood six foot two and had a decent, though not exceptional, build that towered over Dusty.
‘The guns, cow-nurse,’ Crocker growled.
Slowly Dusty turned and looked the man over. ‘I’m just passing through, don’t aim to stop on.’
A sly grin came to Crocker’s face. A jerk of his head sent the bartender out of ear-shot. While having nothing against the small Texan, the bartender had to go on living in Brownton; a thing which would not be easy or pleasant to do with Fagan’s deputies regarding him as being uncooperative,
‘Finish your drink then, feller,’ Crocker told Dusty in a low voice; but as Dusty turned back to do so the deputy yelled, ‘Don’t try it!’
Out lashed Crocker’s fist in a blow at Dusty’s head; a blow powered to hurt the small Texan, make him angry enough to grab for his gun but dazed enough to be easy meat for Crocker’s Colt. The trouble was that the blow failed to connect. Dusty completed his turn, dropping forward on to his hands upon the floor. Coiling up his legs under him, Dusty kicked back with them, driving his boots into Crocker’s stomach. The big deputy yelped in pain and reeled back a few steps, holding his middle. After delivering the unexpected kick, Dusty bounded to his feet and turned to face Crocker, waiting to see what the deputy aimed to try next.
After rubbing his stomach, Crocker lunged forward once more. He decided against shooting down the small Texan—at least, not until he had worked the short runt over. Again Crocker’s fist lashed out and once more it failed to connect.
Dusty turned his back on the man, hunching his shoulders and head forward as if trying to avoid the blow. The very attitude threw Crocker off guard and set him up for what came next. Suddenly Dusty fell forward, landing on his stomach, so that Crocker’s advancing left foot descended between his open legs. Rolling on to his back, Dusty pressed forward with his left leg and forced against Crocker’s trapped limb with his right shin. For a moment Crocker tried to keep his balance, then went down, landing on his belly with a gratifying—to Dusty’s ears—thud. Immediately the deputy landed, Dusty sat up and caught the toe of Crocker’s left boot in his left hand. Then Dusty bent Crocker’s trapped limb over his right leg, forcing down on the gripped toe as if trying to press it on to the deputy’s backbone.
Pain knifed through Crocker’s trapped leg, causing him to yell and struggle in an attempt to free himself. The contortions of the big deputy’s body allowed his handcuffs to slip from his pocket. Bending forward, Dusty released the trapped leg with one hand and gathered up the handcuffs. After opening them, without losing his hold on Crocker, Dusty put them down close to hand. As Crocker tried to grab Dusty, the small Texan caught his wrist. Holding the deputy with his legs, Dusty snapped one link of the handcuffs on to the captured wrist and secured the other to the bar’s brass foot-rail. Then he released Crocker and came to his feet.
At that moment Fagan’s other two deputies entered the saloon. They had been making their rounds and stepped in as a matter of routine. Coming to a halt as if they had struck an invisible wall, the two men stared at the scene before them. A low curse left Stock’s lips and his hand started to move towards the ivory butted Colt at his right side. At the bar Dusty’s hands crossed in a flickering blur of movement, bringing his matched guns out, their hammers clicking back under his thumbs as they left leather. Knowing something of Fagan and his deputies’ way of upholding the law, Dusty did not wait to discover their full intentions. Way he saw it, the discovery could best be made after his long barreled Army Colts covered the two men.
‘That was what I call real fast,’ Kady Jones said calmly. ‘Just stand good and still,’ Dusty replied.
Having been a professional gunfighter before taking on the post of deputy to Fagan, Kady Jones had no intention of doing other than standing still. He knew such smoothly efficient speed only rarely failed to be accompanied by an equal accuracy of placing home bullets where they would do most good. Being younger, and full of the feeling of importance and power association with Banks Fagan gave him, Stock failed to show such good sense or as clear a grasp of the true merits of the situation. So he made a suggestion which sent a cold finger running down Jones’ spine.
‘He can’t get both of us, Kady. Let’s take him.’
‘You get him to promise he’ll handle you first, and I’m game to try,’ the gaunt gunfighter replied. ‘Otherwise I’m fixing in to do just what this gent wants me to do.’
For all his cynical comment Jones knew the suggestion had some, though not much, merit. Given but one slight hint of inattention on the Texan’s part, even one of only a split-second, and Jones would take his chances on his lightning fast draw.
Then, even as Jones thought things over, the matter was taken dean out of his hands. It went to the accompaniment of a double clicking sound unique to a Winchester rifle as its cocking lever fed a round into the chamber. The sound drew both deputies’ eyes to where the Ysabel Kid lounged at the saloon’s door, his old ‘yellow boy’ held in what soldiers called the ‘high port’, position enabling a skilled user to bring his rifle into action fast; nothing in the Kid’s attitude and appearance hinted that he might not be a skilled user of a rifle. Having arrived unnoticed at about the same time as the two deputies, and read the facts of the scene with commendable speed, the Kid took a hand.
The fact that Dusty Fog had thrown down on and covered a brace of prime town law badges meant nothing to the Kid. Way he looked at it, Dusty had a right good reason for such an action. Even if Dusty did not have a good reason for showing such disrespect for the law, the Kid would still have backed him as became a good, true and loyal friend.
‘Good question now’d be what started this,’ Jones remarked.
Suddenly Crocker lunged forward, his free arm shooting out in an attempt to catch Dusty’s ankle. However before he could reach the small Texan, the handcuff brought him to a jarring halt, instead of sliding along the rail.
‘You never was better’n half-smart, Vince,’ Jones said calmly. ‘That feller made sure you couldn’t get close to him. Just lie still a whiles and let us talk things out.’ He looked at Dusty. ‘Like to tell me your side, mister?’
‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘Do we call it a truce?’
‘A truce she is.’
On receiving Jones’ agreement, Dusty holstered his Colts and the Kid lowered his rifle although he kept three fingers through the cocking lever, forefinger on the trigger and thumb coiled around the small of the butt.
Jones relaxed; but Stock grabbed at his gun’s butt. While the young deputy reckoned to be fast—and expected Jones to back his play—he had tangled in the wrong company. Like the flickering strike of an enraged rattlesnake, Dusty’s left hand stabbed out, crossing his body and fetching the right side Colt from leather. Even as Stock’s Colt cleared leather, Dusty fired. The young deputy gave a scream as a bullet drove into his knee-cap. His leg caved under him and he went to the ground, half-fainting in the agony and, fortunately for him, letting the gun fall from his hand.
Strange as it may seem, the Ysabel Kid—that wolf-cautious and suspicious-natured young man—made no attempt to lift his rifle and cover Jones.
‘Is that how your friends keep their truces?’ Dusty asked.
‘Fool kid,’ Jones answered, seeing Dusty exonerated him of all blame. ‘He made the move, not me.’
The door of a side room flew open and a man burst out, hand reaching for a gun. He was a big, burly man wearing range clothes and sporting the badge of town marshal on his vest. Sliding to a halt, he stopped his hand falling for he looked into the muzzle of Dusty’s Colt.
‘Take him, Jones,’ the man ordered.
‘You can’t see the other one, Banks,’ Jones replied.
Banks Fagan scowled. Like any proficient fighting man, he knew when to sing low and yell ‘calf rope’. A low curse left his lips as he took in the situation, realizing two of his men were out of action and his best gun had been taken out of the jackpot
‘You’ll not get away with this,’ Fagan warned,
‘Which same your two deputies tried real hard to prove,’ Dusty replied. ‘If I put up my gun, do I get to talk this time?’
Two more shapes appeared at the door of the room. One of them was a tall, portly, sly-looking man wearing costly town clothes that looked a mite too good for him. The other, a woman, attracted only a brief glance from Dusty. She stood maybe five foot seven and had a buxom, yet firm-fleshed figure. Blonde hair piled on top of her head; her face bore some make-up, though not too much. From the blue dress she wore, revealing rather than concealing her figure, Dusty figured her to be Buffalo Kate Gilgore, owner of the saloon.
‘What’s all this, Marshal Fagan?’ boomed the big man, in a real hand-shaking politician’s voice, starting to step forward.
‘Just stay right where you are, mister! Dusty snapped. Coming to a halt, Mayor Baxter A. Grief scowled at the small Texan. After being mayor of two western towns, he possessed a fair working knowledge of such situations.
Counting on the reluctance of most men to shoot down an unarmed person, Grief had planned to step between Fagan and Dusty, allowing the marshal a chance to draw and shoot. The trouble with Grief’s plan being that Dusty saw through it and brought it to a halt before it could be started.
‘You’ll never get out of town alive,’ Grief warned. ‘Put up your gun and I’ll see you get a fair trial.’
Dusty saw Buffalo Kate give a warning head-shake that was certainly not directed at any of the local talent. Emotions warred on the woman’s friendly, jovial and good-looking face. Clearly she wanted to lend the small Texan a helping hand, but knew what her fate would be. at Fagan’s hands if she did. So, beyond giving the one warning, she decided to leave matters in Dusty’s capable hands.
‘Sure,’ Dusty drawled. ‘We’d get a fair trial, then you’d hang us—unless we were shot trying to escape on the way to jail.’
‘This’s Marshal Banks Fagan from Dakota!’ Grief spluttered,
‘Which same’s more reason for not putting up the gun,’ Dusty answered. ‘I’ve heard about him.’
From the way he spoke, Dusty had heard little good about Marshal Banks Fagan of Dakota Territory.
Just as Fagan thought of calling on every man in the saloon to help him, deputizing them as was his right under the law, a man walked in through the batwing doors. Despite his fashionable eastern clothes, the man showed a remarkably quick grasp of the western situation before him. Coming to an abrupt halt, he took in the bar-room’s scene with a quick glance and kept his hands well clear of his jacket. After sweeping the room, the man’s eyes came to rest on Dusty and a look of surprise came to his face.
‘Cap’n Fog,’ he said. ‘What’s all this?’
The way Grief’s mouth dropped open at the words, it was lucky he had a neck in the way to stop it. Part of the mayor’s duties in Brownton was to know important visitors and make sure their stay be as welcome and happy as possible. The newcomer rated top priority treatment, he was Waldo Burkman, head cattle-buyer for a big eastern company and a man who could bring thousands of dollars into Brownton.
And he dearly recognized the small Texan—more than that, he used a name Grief had heard many times. Nor was Burkman likely to be making jokes at such a moment, pretending the small Texan was somebody he was not.
‘What happened?’Fagan asked.
‘Your deputy came in and pulled the old resisting arrest game on me,’ Dusty replied. ‘Grabbed me over the poster there, then told me to finish my drink. Only he spoke so low that nobody but me could hear. Then he yelled out and threw a punch at me. I figured he’d be safer down there for a spell.’
Fagan knew Crocker very well and did not doubt that Dusty told the truth about the deputy’s earlier actions. Yet he wondered how a small man like the Texan managed to put Crocker in such a position. The answer was simple. Down in the Rio Hondo, working as servant to Ole Devil Hardin, lived a small man who looked Chinese but boasted of coming from some place called Nippon. From this man Dusty learned two fighting arts, ju-jitsu and karate, strange to the Western world but ideally suited to off-set his lack of inches, Crocker knew none of this, nor did his boss, but the deputy could, and later did, profanely testify to its effectiveness.
‘How about Bell?’ Fagan asked, deciding to drop the Crocker side of the affair.
‘Jones called a truce so we could talk things out. I agreed, put up my guns, and Bell tried to draw. He didn’t make it.’
Once again Fagan guessed that Dusty told the simple truth. Young Bell Stock had a sneaky, mean streak in him when given the right kind of backing; and he probably figured Kady Jones to be backing enough. The ruined condition of his leg showed how wrong he had been.
‘Anything more, marshal?’ Dusty asked after a pause in which nobody said anything at all.
‘No!’ The word came out bitter as bile from Fagan’s lips. He did not doubt the full story would be spread around town before nightfall.
‘Let’s go, Lon.’
Not until he received the word from Dusty did the Kid relax. The two Texans walked across the saloon and Burkman followed in their heels.
Hurrying out of the room, Grief halted on the sidewalk and watched the two Texans riding out of town. He turned to Burkman and put on an ingratiating smile.
‘Did Captain Fog say when his trail drive would be arriving?’
A cold smile flickered across Burkman’s face.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it won’t be arriving at all.’
‘W—won’t—!’
‘That’s what I said. Well, I’ll be going. I want to draw my money from the bank and catch the afternoon train down to Mulrooney.’