Never had the town of San Garcia seethed with such suppressed excitement, not even when one of the local spreads returned from a trail-drive to the Kansas railhead market. Normally a sleepy collection of wood or adobe homes and business premises scattered haphazardly close to the Rio Moreno, it showed a bubbling eagerness which hinted at big doings in the near future. Many of its citizens had already gathered in the central plaza and were waiting for what ought to be a time to be remembered. Fastened in prominent positions around town and scattered widely across the surrounding countryside, notices announced the sale of the McGrath ranch to offset lapsed taxes.
Everybody in town knew full well that Cal Mobstell of the Rocking Rafter outfit wanted to add the McGraw place to his not inconsiderable holdings. Nor was it any great secret that Francisco Cordova hoped that day to increase the size of his already large Whangdoodle ranch and augment its resources with Seth McGraw’s water. As each rancher possessed sufficient wealth, and the backing of loyal, hardy men, to gain his way in most matters, the auction ought to prove interesting to say the least.
Already Cordova’s Mexican crew had gathered in the Paraiso cantina, but the band did not play and the flashing-eyed señoritas of easy virtue remained in their rooms. Down at the other end of the plaza, in the Golden Goose saloon, Mobstell and four of his cowhands sat sipping beer in a silence made the more menacing when compared with their usual rowdy behavior in town. Every ingredient was on hand for a hell of a ruckus, the only requirement being somebody to start stirring up the pot.
Feeling like a cook preparing a stew of gunpowder, dynamite and nitroglycerine, Herbert Corlin, the county land agent, came down from his room on the saloon’s first floor. Small, thin, wearing an expensive town suit, Corlin gave the impression of being a cowardly weasel. He jumped nervously as he saw Mobstell rise and walk towards him; yet the bulky rancher’s broad face bore a friendly grin.
‘How’s about starting that sale, Herb?’ asked the rancher.
‘It’s not a quarter to twelve yet,’ Corlin answered.
‘So what difference’s fifteen minutes or so going to make?’ snorted Mobstell. ‘Let’s get her started and done with.’
‘I’ve no legal right to sell until noon,’ Corlin protested. ‘Up until that time Seth McGraw’s heir’s got the right to come in, pay off the back taxes and take possession.’
‘There’s been no sight nor Sound of him yet,’ Mobstell answered. ‘He’s not likely to be coming now.’
‘You seem to be in one big hurry to get the sale started,’ said a voice from the main batwing doors of the saloon.
Slowly Mobstell turned to look at the newcomer. The rancher was a big man, heavily built, powerful, dressed in much the same style and quality clothing as his hired hands. Around his waist hung a gunbelt with an Army Colt in its holster. He looked just the kind of man he was. Tough, capable, he came to Texas in the early days with little or nothing. Hard work, guts and willingness to accept the responsibilities of ownership lifted him over those content to remain as employees. Such a man did not lightly turn aside once he made up his mind on a course of action.
Compared with Mobstell, the newcomer appeared almost effeminately groomed. A costly white sombrero sat on his head. Unlike Mobstell’s bristle-covered features, his handsome face was smoothly shaved. His charro outfit of soft brown leather, with a decorative filigree of silver, and white shirt showed no signs of wear, while his gunbelt and boots bore a polish almost good enough to reflect the scenery. Francisco Cordova was tall, slim and moved with a bullfighter’s grace. However he did not rely on a matador’s weapons. In the contoured holster of his gunbelt, just right for a fast draw, rode a magnificent Colt 1861 Navy revolver with a fancy solid silver Tiffany butt of the kind popular among Mexican dandies. Elegant dresser Cordova might be, but he built his ranch in the same way as Mobstell, by hard work, cold courage and being ready, willing and able to fight for his rights.
‘There’s some of us work our spreads instead of hiring the sweating done,’ Mobstell replied. ‘So we can’t spend too much time in town.’
At their table Mobstell’s companions stirred in their seats. Bob Lynn, six foot of whang-leather toughness; Shanty, middle-sized yet strong; Avon, black bearded and big; Luke Clayd, tall, young and capable: a quartet ready to fight at the drop of a hat and knock it down themselves. Although none of them moved, they watched their boss ready to back any play he made.
Tension crackled in the air. Behind Cordova, outside the batwing doors, stood four Mexican vaqueros. No less tough nor willing than the Rocking Rafter men, they only needed their patron’s order to set them going. One wrong word, a single hasty action, and the town would see its excitement even before the sale started.
Standing at the long mahogany bar, Tony Towcester watched the scene. As owner of the saloon he had more than a casual interest in what developed. His property would suffer heavy damage should a fight break out. All in all the saloon looked far better furnished and equipped than one might expect in such a small town. Shipping in the good quality gear ran to money. Replacing the long bar mirror and the fancy crystal chandelier would be very expensive. So Towcester had no desire to see the start of a range war in his place.
Like his saloon, Towcester seemed more suited to a Kansas trail-end town or prosperous gold camp than a Texas range hamlet—and San Garcia, despite its citizens’ claims, was no more than that. Tall, handsome, wearing the cutaway coat, frilly shirt, string tie, fancy vest, tight legged pants and town boots of a successful professional gambler, Towcester watched the confrontation of the two ranchers and took action to halt the trouble.
‘Stevie!’ he hissed to the girl at his side. ‘Get circulating, pronto!’
Stevie Cameron was another who hardly fitted into the accepted pattern of a small town saloon. Raven black hair piled gracefully on top of her head, she was the youngest, best-looking girl present. Her blue satin dress emphasized the rich swell of a well-developed bosom, clung to her slender waist and curved out alluringly over the hips, ending at knee level to expose shapely legs in black silk stockings. Moving from the bar, she signaled to the other girls and they converged on the Rocking Rafter contingent. All four cowhands suddenly found themselves with a lapful of girl each and Stevie went to take hold of the rancher’s left arm.
‘Buy a girl a’drink, Cal?’ she asked.
‘Later, Stevie,’ Mobstell replied, not taking his eyes from Cordova.
‘Then how about you buying me one, Cisco?’ the girl went on, releasing Mobstell’s arm and walking towards the Mexican.
‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure, chiquita,’ Cordova replied. ‘But at some other time.’
However the presence of Stevie and the other girls lessened the danger of a flare-up between the men. Taking his chance, Towcester went to Corlin’s side. The land-agent mopped his face with a large red handkerchief. At any time he perspired easily and never more than when involved in a potentially dangerous situation.
‘That was close,’ Corlin breathed.
‘Too close,’ Towcester replied. ‘You’d best get down to the—’
‘It’s too early—!’
‘I don’t give a damn! If you go, they’ll follow. That way any trouble that comes isn’t going to blow up in my place.’
‘But outside—’
‘There’ll be women and kids around; and not just those calico cats of mine. I don’t reckon either Mobstell or Cordova’ll start fuss if there’s a chance of women or kids getting hurt.’
‘I’ll go then,’ Corlin said, darting a glance at the saloon’s clock. Mobstell appeared to have called the time wrong on the land agent’s appearance, for the fingers read only a quarter to noon. ‘All right, gents,’ he called. ‘Looks like young McGraw’s not going to come. Let’s go start the sale.’
As Corlin left the saloon, the two ranchers followed him. Keeping to opposite sides of the street, their men at their heels, Mobstell and Cordova crossed the plaza. Already most of the town’s population had assembled, all eyes on the front of the building which housed the jail, and the sheriff’s and town marshal’s offices. A table stood on the porch before the building, with a bung-starter borrowed from the saloon waiting to do service as an auctioneer’s mallet. The sheriff came from the office, having made the trip down from the county seat for the occasion. Following him and dwarfing him, Town Marshal Sash Tenby ambled into view. Although holding down the combined post of deputy sheriff and town marshal, Tenby was not an energetic or efficient peace officer. In fact he held his official positions through his one virtue—he came cheap, an important factor in the eyes of the town’s tax-paying citizens. He kept the peace, which entailed little more than tossing a few drunken cowhands or vaqueros in jail one night and releasing them after payment of a fine the following morning, with as little effort as possible. Hoisting up his gunbelt on a barrel-sized belly, Tenby crossed to the hitching rail and assumed his second favorite position, sitting on the creaking horizontal pole; given first choice, he would rather have stayed lying on the office’s comfortable and well-used couch.
‘All right, folks,’ called Corlin. ‘We all know why we’re here and what’s for sale. So I won’t waste time talking about it. Can I hear the bidding open?’
From his place, Tenby swept sleepy eyes around the crowd. Being interested in the sale, he overlooked the four-horse wagon that had come to a halt back along Main Street. A seventeen-hand paint stallion and a claybank almost as big stood by the wagon, but its occupants had already joined the crowd. Tenby did see two of Seth McGraw’s crew in the forefront of the assembled people. Lean, leathery, bearded, dressed as usual in grease-blackened buckskins, Cactus Jones cradled his battered Colt revolving rifle across one arm and darted interested glances about him as if wondering who his next employer might be. Shorter, wiry as a winter-starved bobcat, Horatio Charles Wilberforce, known as Rache, studied Corlin and seemed to be debating whether to blow the land agent’s ears off with the wicked eight-gauge twin-barreled shotgun he carried.
‘Five hundred dollars!’ barked Mobstell, drawing Tenby’s attention to him.
‘And fifty,’ Cordova spoke up from another part of the crowd and the people between the two ranchers began to edge away.
‘Six hundred!’ Mobstell raised.
‘And fifty,’ Cordova went on.
‘Three thousand!’
Instead of the next bid coming from Mobstell, a third party had taken a hand. A sudden silence came down. Neither Mobstell nor Cordova spoke for a moment, being taken aback by the new element introduced into what they regarded as a matter to be settled between them. Of course three thousand dollars would be a reasonable price for the McGraw spread and neither of them expected to get it for less; but the two thousand three hundred and fifty dollar jump in the bidding made them both stop to think. They also looked hard at the man who made it.
Realizing that a third player had taken cards in the game, those people standing closest to the bidder drew away and left him standing isolated in full view of the two ranchers. Six foot tall, lean, dressed in range clothes of expensive cut—although they probably never felt the touch of cattle-raised dust—the man wore a brace of pearl-handled Army Colts in tied-down holsters. His face bore a challenging smile and an expression which hinted that he felt confident of emerging a winner in anything he put his hand to. No cattleman, to eyes which knew the West he spelled pistolero valiente; a good one, fast, deadly and as dangerous as a stick-teased diamondback rattlesnake. Not the kind of man one would expect to be making bids on a small ranch; yet he undoubtedly had just done so.
‘Three thousand is the bid, gentlemen,’ Corlin said, sweat glistening on his face. ‘Do I hear three thousand and fifty?’
Mobstell darted a glance at Cordova, reading the same indecision he himself felt. On hearing the bet and seeing the kind of man making it, Cordova first thought that Mobstell had hired him to bring an unsuspected element into the bidding. Yet the bulky rancher, noted for his ability as a poker-player, showed too much surprise and confusion for the expressions to be assumed. Clearly the newcomer was as much a surprise to Mobstell as to Cordova.
‘Three thousand, going once,’ intoned Corlin.
Still the mocking challenge played on the newcomer’s face. ‘Go ahead, up the bidding,’ his expression seemed to say to the two ranchers. ‘I can top any bet you make and call finish to ’em with lead if I have to.’
‘Going twice!’ Corlin called, reaching for the bung-starter.
‘Time wants five minutes for noon, mister,’ a voice from the rear of the crowd announced. ‘You’re in a tolerable hurry to start selling my ranch.’
Turning, the crowd looked in the direction of the latest entrant to the already growing dramatic qualities of the situation. Two young men and a very pretty young woman stood at the edge of the plaza. Hat thrust back to show off a fiery red mop of hair, the taller man looked straight at Corlin. The small, insignificant-looking cowhand at the other side of the girl studied the crowd—or certain parts of it—with the same interest those already assembled gave to his companions.
‘That must be young Sandy McGraw!’ one of the crowd said in a carrying voice. ‘I mind him from when he come visiting ole Seth afore the war.’
‘And me,’ another citizen continued. ‘There’s no mistaking that head of hair, is there?’
‘Damn it, Cousin Dusty,’ the irrepressible Red Blaze muttered from the corner of his mouth and over Betty Hardin’s head, ‘I’m better looking than Sandy and I’ll surely raise lumps on the fat jasper’s pumpkin head if he talks about my hair that ways again.’
Restraining a grin, Dusty watched the three bidders for some sign of their reactions to ‘Sandy McGraw’s’ arrival. That Red’s announcement at such a late moment had aroused comment and created a sensation did not surprise Dusty. In fact he had counted on it when making his plans. Instead of arriving a day earlier and establishing ownership, Dusty decided they would keep out of sight and make an appearance as late as possible. That way they could learn who wanted to buy the ranch and might shock somebody into making a wrong move.
Both local ranchers showed baffled annoyance, mingled with maybe a touch of relief, as they realized what ‘Sandy McGraw’s’ presence meant. Only the third bidder seemed unaffected. Pulling a silver watch from his vest pocket, he turned his attention back to Corlin.
‘I make the time five past twelve,’ the man announced, without looking at his watch’s face. ‘Make the sale.’
‘You’d best check the time again,’ Dusty said. ‘The money for the back taxes is here, it’s five to twelve and so you can’t sell.’
Slowly the pistolero turned, his watch still in hand. ‘That sounds almost like you’re calling me a liar,’ he said and the crowd scattered to leave a wide, clear space between him and Dusty’s party.
‘It sounds to me like you’re trying to make the time pass too fast,’ Dusty countered.
‘Now hold hard there,’ Sheriff Washbourne put in, stepping forward. ‘If that young feller is Sandy McGraw, he’s entitled to pay the back taxes until noon.’
‘Why sure, Sheriff,’ the hired killer answered.
‘And that clock in the office says five to twelve, no matter what your’n gives, mister.’
‘If that’s how you want it, Sheriff,’ the killer grunted. ‘All they have to do is walk up here and pay.’
‘We’re aiming to do just that,’ Dusty replied.
‘You doing the talking for McGraw?’ asked the killer.
‘Why sure,’ Dusty answered. ‘Somebody hired you to speak for them. Sandy’s only just got married, so let’s say he hired me to speak for him.’
‘All right then,’ said the killer. ‘Come ahead. All you have to do is pass me.’
‘Hold hard there—’ began Washbourne.
‘The name’s Damon, Sheriff,’ the killer said. ‘That short-growed runt as good as called me a liar. You reckon I’m going to let him get away with that.’
Washbourne did not reply for a moment. No coward, folly also did not number among his failings. A capable peace-officer, he kept in touch with the happenings in the neighboring counties and knew the man called Damon’s reputation. Appearances did not lie. Damon was a pistolero valiente and real good with a gun. Certainly far better than the sheriff. Before Washbourne could decide what his best course of action might be, Dusty took the matter out of his hands.
‘I aim to walk up there and pay Sandy’s back taxes, mister,’ he said and moved forward.
‘You’ve got another four steps, short-growed,’ Damon replied and started to put away his watch.
Suddenly the killer realized that he faced the real thing, not merely some small youngster trying to make a grandstand play in a big man’s world. That gunbelt hung just right for top speed work and the big cowhand walking towards him could make full use of its potential. However Damon knew a trick or two and had already begun to make his move.
Even as he dropped the watch back into the vest pocket, Damon sent his left hand gunwards. Fast and practiced, the move also had the element of complete surprise to back it. Although a number of men wore two guns, only a few learned to use each hand with equal facility. Nor did the majority of people take the left hand into consideration, especially when the man in question appeared to follow the general trend by being right-handed. So reaching with his left hand always gave Damon a split-second’s advantage.
Always—until he made the move against Dusty Fog.
Having trained himself to be completely ambidextrous, partly as a way of taking attention as a child from his lack of size, Dusty never discounted the left hand when dealing with a two-gun man. For all that, the move proved nearly good enough. Only by a slight flicker of expression did Damon give warning of his intentions. Certain that he had the other man completely hornswoggled, the killer allowed the fact to show momentarily.
So Dusty’s own left hand moved to counter the threat to his life. Flicking across his body, the hand closed about the butt of the right side Colt and brought it from leather. Damon’s face showed the start of a feeling of shock and surprise when a .44 bullet drove between his eyes and wiped out all its expression. Only just clear of leather, his gun bellowed and its bullet churned dirt up scant inches in front of Dusty’s foot as it came down for the second step since Damon gave the warning. Limp, lifeless fingers opened to let Damon’s revolver fall from them. The killer went backwards under the impact and he sprawled on to the street. Halting, Dusty looked down, smoke trickling out of his Colt’s muzzle.
‘Go pay the man, Sandy,’ he said. ‘There’s still time.’