Although Dusty spent an enjoyable afternoon with Mobstell’s ranch hands, he learned nothing to help locate the man behind the attempts on Sandy’s life. Long practice had taught Dusty to drink sparingly and yet give the appearance of keeping up with his companions’ consumption. So he remained sober while the rest of his male companions grew more drunk and talkative. Dusty learned much about local conditions and certain items of gossip, but could not find a thing to either prove or disprove Mobstell’s connection with the events that brought the three cousins to San Garcia.
He did learn that Towcester bore a reputation for being bad medicine. After taking one drink with the celebrating group, the saloonkeeper disappeared into his office. Among other items of local gossip, the cowhands warned Dusty not to make any attempt to damage the more lavish fittings of the room. On three occasions, as Stevie hinted to Red earlier, drunken cowhands had tried to smash the chandelier and each time Towcester handed them a beating out of all proportion to the value of his property.
‘Mind you, though,’ Avon told Dusty confidentially. ‘I reckon you could take him, Ed.’
‘I don’t even feel like trying,’ Dusty replied and passed the word for the glasses to be filled again.
Collecting his horse from the livery barn later that evening, Dusty rode out of San Garcia. By following the directions Mobstell had given to him, Dusty easily located the Lazy M’s headquarters. Night had fallen as Dusty rode towards the cluster of small buildings, but he could see well enough to locate the barn. Unlike the main house, this proved to be made of wood and with sufficient accommodation for half-a-dozen horses. The house, bunkhouse and cook shack were all adobe-built, small and set out to offer each other mutual defense; a vital point in the days when marauding Indians and bad Mexicans posed a threat to the lives of people on isolated ranches. Three pole corrals, a small store cabin and a backhouse completed the ranch’s living quarters. All in all, the buildings struck Dusty as being just what a small ranch needed to supply comfort for its owners.
With the big paint stallion settled in a stall, Dusty carried his saddle to the main house. Cactus and Rache had come out on hearing his arrival, telling him that the boss lady wanted to see him. Knowing what to expect, Dusty prepared his defenses even before reaching the house. Beating Betty to the punch, Dusty immediately launched into a description of the happenings in town. While the girl had intended to make known her views on his behavior—having already told Red what she thought of him—she decided to leave it until later.
‘Who do you think hired Damon?’ she asked as they sat at the table in the living room.
‘The same man who hired Murphy,’ Red put in. ‘Could be Mobstell, Cordova, the land agent, the saloonkeeper, he’s been seen riding around the spread, that lard-gutted marshal—’
‘Or somebody we’ve not met yet and don’t know about,’ Dusty interrupted.
‘How do we find out, Dusty?’ Betty inquired. ‘I’d say wait until they make another move, but we can’t stay here indefinitely.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘With Lon, Mark and Billy Jack all away; I want to get home as soon as I can. Even without Sandy champing on the bit to get here and start running his spread.’
‘Then what’re we going to do?’ Red wanted to know.
‘I’ve already started doing it. Unless I’m wrong, that land agent’s in this game up to his skinny lil neck. So I prodded him a mite, maybe we’ll have some result. I hinted that comparing the signature on that receipt you signed and the letter that never came would have proved who you are, Red.’
‘So?’ Red asked.
‘I think he already had compared them,’ Dusty replied.
‘You mean that the letter reached him?’ Betty said.
‘I’d say so. He looked kind of startled when he saw your signature, was going to say something and didn’t. Then later this afternoon he was coming towards the back of the saloon. Called out to Towcester and had two papers in his hand. But he stuffed them away pronto and asked for Cordova.’
‘You reckon he had Sandy’s letter and my receipt?’ asked Red.
‘I’d bet on it.’
‘Who was he going to tell?’
‘That’s the big question, Betty gal,’ Dusty replied. ‘Maybe Towcester, only when he saw me he figured to make me think he wanted Cordova.’
‘What’re we going to do, Dusty?’ demanded Red, always eager to go into some kind of action.
‘Let them stew for a couple of days,’ Dusty replied. ‘Then we’ll ride into town and see what we can make pop.’
The following morning Dusty and Red started a tour of the Lazy M range, acting as a new owner would be expected to do. Nothing Dusty saw helped him to understand why anybody would go to such extremes to gain possession of the property. It was good grazing land, yet no more so than the surrounding country. Returning to the house on the second day, Dusty learned that the ranch had a certain historical significance. As they rode towards the creek which watered the buildings, Cactus indicated it with a touch of pride.
‘That was where old Jim Bowie and his boys held off the Kaddo and Kiowas, and done sent ole Tres Manos to the Happy Hunting Grounds.’
‘You can see the bullet holes in the trees and find rusted up arrer heads,’ Rache went on. ‘That’s mebbe what that Mexican jasper’s looking for.’
‘Which Mexican?’ Dusty asked.
‘There’s one been watching us both yesterday and today,’ the old timer answered calmly. ‘I’ve seed him a couple of times, back there a fair piece.’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ Dusty growled.
‘Warn’t no point. He could see us and’d’ve run afore we could get close enough to say “Howdy”.’
‘Want for us to take out after him, Dusty?’ Red said hopefully.
‘He’s pulled out already,’ Rache commented. ‘Might be able to follow his sign though.’
‘Make a try,’ Dusty ordered. ‘I’ll go on down to the house.’
Half an hour later Red and the old timers returned to tell how they had lost the mysterious watcher’s tracks on some rocky ground, but when last seen the trail headed towards Cordova’s ranch.
‘Which proves something,’ Red finished. ‘Only what, I don’t know.’
‘Either he works for Cordova and’s been sent to watch us,’ Dusty said, ‘or wants us to think he works for Cordova. Say, Red, you remember when that fight Bowie had with the Kaddos happened?’
‘On that horse-hunting trip when he was supposed to have found the silver mine,’ Red replied. ‘And Murphy was talking about Jim Bowie’s lost mine. Aw hell, Dusty, you don’t reckon somebody thinks it’s around here?’
‘I reckon we’d best ride into town tomorrow,’ Dusty replied.
Shortly before noon the next day Dusty and Red rode into San Garcia. Passing the Paraiso cantina, they saw a bunch of horses standing at its hitching rail. Judging by the large-horned ‘dinner-plate’ saddles the horses carried, Cordova’s men were in town. Two of the horses caught the eye, both big, fine-looking animals with costly rigs. However Dusty and Red did not stop, but left their own horses at the livery barn.
Corlin looked up from the papers on his desk as his office door opened.
‘Howdy, Mr. Corlin,’ Red greeted, entering the room alone.
‘Good afternoon, Mr. McGraw,’ the agent replied. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I was wanting to know something about the mineral rights to my spread.’
‘Mi-mineral rights?’
‘Sure. You know, like supposing gold’s discovered on my range is it mine no matter who finds it—’
For a moment Corlin did not reply, but his face worked nervously. Then he made an effort and regained control of himself.
‘I hardly think it’s likely—’ he began.
‘Maybe not,’ Red drawled. ‘But I’d sure like to know.’
‘Mineral rights are a tricky subject,’ Corlin told him. ‘I’d have to read up the various rulings before I can give you a clear explanation. The books are in my room at the saloon. It may take some considerable time.’
‘I’ll be around for a spell,’ Red assured him; ‘Say, does the general store sell blasting powder, picks and shovels?’
‘I believe they may have, a keg in—’
‘I’ll need a whole lot more than one keg. Got a whole slew of tree stumps around the place that want clearing off.’
Red said the second sentence in the manner of an afterthought as if he suddenly realized that the first gave too much information. Nodding to the land agent, he walked from the office, his whole attitude that of a man wishing to avoid answering inconvenient questions. Although he did not look back, Red guessed that Corlin watched him from the office window and so headed straight for the general store.
A short time later Corlin left the small building which housed his office. He darted a nervous glance in each direction before hurrying off along the street. Stepping out of the alley where he had been standing to avoid being seen, Dusty followed Corlin to the Golden Goose saloon. Looking through one of the front windows, Dusty was in time to see the agent going upstairs.
Stevie rose from the table where she sat with a couple of the girls as Dusty entered the barroom. Crossing the floor, she smiled a greeting.
‘Hey there, Ed,’ she said. ‘I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.’
‘I’ve been busy out at the spread,’ Dusty replied. ‘Come and have a drink.’
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she answered.
‘Say, Stevie,’ Dusty said as they stood at the bar with their drinks. ‘I’ve been thinking about moving into town. Where can I find a room?’
‘Here. It’s as near to a hotel as this one-hoss town’s got.’
‘Many folks use it?’
‘The marshal, the land agent, folks passing through.’
‘I reckon I’ll see Towcester about it,’ Dusty said. ‘Where is he?’
‘In his office,’ the girl replied, then went on as Dusty put his glass down, ‘Tony’s busy just now. You’ll have to see him later.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty said. ‘Say. Was I to come and live here, could I get out of my room without using the stairs there—I mean if I wanted to meet somebody private like.’
‘Only by climbing down the fire rope in your room,’ the girl replied. ‘And who would you be wanting to see private like?’
‘A real pretty lil gal I know,’ Dusty told her with a wink. ‘Have another drink.’
‘I’ve never refused. Hey, here’s your boss.’
Entering the saloon, Red walked across to the bar. ‘I’ve got it all ordered like you said, Ed. Man, oh man, just think. All those years and ole Uncle Seth never knew about it. You figured it out mighty slick from what that dying gunny told—’
‘You’ve got a big mouth, Sandy!’ Dusty growled.
‘What’s wrong, Ed?’ Stevie asked.
‘Nothing,’ Dusty answered, throwing a scowl at Red.
‘Will you be able to afford to come and live in town?’ she inquired.
‘He sure will after we—’ Red began.
‘Get the spread going!’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Don’t you want to see the land agent, Sandy?’
‘Sure. Which room’s he in, Stevie?’
‘The third on the left at the front.’
Dusty and Stevie carried on a conversation while Red disappeared upstairs, but the girl made no further reference to the hints given by the cousins. After a short time Red returned.
‘He’s not there. Or if he is, he’s deaf. I knocked hard.’
‘Maybe Stevie can help us,’ Dusty remarked. ‘Do you know anybody around here that’s done any mining?’
‘Mi-mining?’ she gasped. ‘I can’t think of anybody. What do you want with a miner?’
‘If this ranch business doesn’t pay off I aim to go up north to the gold camps and try my luck,’ Dusty told her. ‘Figured I might as well learn something about the game afore I sat in on it.’
‘Oh!’ she said in the kind of tone women always use when being told a lie.
All the time they talked Dusty had a feeling of being watched. Years of riding danger trails developed in him an instinct for such things. Unless he missed his guess, somebody was studying the three of them with hostile eyes. Yet he could not locate the watcher. Before he could set about discovering who took such an interest in them, Dusty saw Corlin come down the stairs. Without a glance at the cousins, Corlin walked from the saloon.
‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ Red said. ‘He was up there all the time.’
‘He may have been with Vinnie, one of the girls,’ Stevie answered. ‘They see a lot of each other.’
‘Reckon I’ll go have a talk with him,’ Red drawled. ‘Coming, Cousin—Ed?’
‘I reckon I’ll stay here and talk to Stevie instead,’ Dusty replied.
Although Red left the saloon soon after Corlin, he made no attempt to catch up to the man. Instead he tagged along at a short distance behind Corlin until the land agent entered the Paraiso cantina. Walking along, Red glanced through the window and saw Corlin join Cordova. On the land agent’s arrival, the two vaqueros seated at the rancher’s table rose and walked over to their companions at the bar. Standing by the side of the window, Red watched Corlin sit down and start to talk with Cordova.
‘Why don’t you go in, gringo, instead of standing outside and spying?’ said a voice.
Turning, Red looked at a stocky, swarthy Mexican whose evil face did not go with the once elegant, but now dirty clothing of a caballero. No gun hung at the man’s side, only a long bladed fighting knife.
‘Says which?’ asked Red.
‘I don’t like gringos spying on my boss,’ the Mexican growled and put his left hand on Red’s shoulder. ‘Get—’
Red knocked the hand aside and saw the right start to move towards the knife’s hilt. Guessing that the knife would prove just as deadly as a gun in the man’s hand, Red hit him before his fingers closed on its handle. Back shot the Mexican and landed rump first on the sidewalk. Spanish curses roared from the man’s lips and he started to rise, reaching for the knife again.
‘Leave it be,’ Red ordered, backing it up with his left hand Colt’s cocking click as he drew and threw down on the Mexican.
Behind Red, the cantina doors opened and some of Cordova’s men appeared. Attracted by the man’s shouted curses, more of the cantina’s customers followed the vaqueros and Red could hear their excited comments.
‘You’re a brave man with a gun in your hand, gringo!’ the Mexican spat out. ‘Like all your kind. Without the gun you are nothing. I, Manuel Ortega, spit on you.’
‘Maybe you’d like me to put the gun away,’ Red replied, twirling it back into leather.
‘What does that mean?’ Ortega snarled. ‘If I try to avenge the insult you put on me, you will shoot me down.’
‘You got a notion on how you’d like to get satisfaction for the insult?’ asked Red, plunging into what he guessed to be a trap.
‘With a knife!’
Despite his hot-headed way of becoming involved in fights, Red never went completely blind-charging. He guessed that Ortega intended to force a fight, but refused to back down. Yet Red knew the danger all too well. Having seen that master of the knife-fighting art, the Ysabel Kid, in action, Red did not underestimate the peril. Swiftly he sought for a way to counter Ortega’s challenge. An idea sprang to Red’s mind, although it was not one a more prudent man would have considered. Of course a prudent man would not find himself in such a situation.
‘All right, hombre,’ he said. ‘We’ll use knives, if somebody’ll loan me one. Only we’ll do it a way that’ll give me an even chance.’
‘How’s that?’ Ortega asked, showing surprise at Red’s acceptance.
‘Helena fashion,’ Red replied.
Shock wiped the sneer from Ortega’s face and Red’s words were repeated in hushed tones among the crowd. Any of the onlookers who did not know what Red meant rapidly had the deficiency rectified by the more knowledgeable present. A Helena duel meant that the two contestants stood in a twenty-foot circle, each holding a knife in one hand, their other wrists fastened together. On the signal to start being given, they went at it and remained fastened together until one of them could not continue.
‘You mean to go through with this, senor?’ asked Cordova.
‘All the way,’ Red agreed. ‘This pelado’s xi been hired to pick a fight with me and I aim to get it done here, not have him waiting to back-shoot me some dark night.’
‘You lie, gringo!’ Ortega snarled. ‘But soon it will not matter, the insult will be wiped out in your blood.’
No man of Cordova’s upbringing would attempt to stop an affair of honor. So, although a hint of concern flickered across his handsome face, he gave the order for a circle to be made ready. Then he turned to his segundo and told the man to loan Red a knife.
Looking confident, Ortega swaggered into the circle a vaquero traced in the dirt of the street. He held his knife in his right hand, extending the left towards Red.
‘Looks like we’ve got us a problem,’ Red said quietly. ‘I’m left-handed.’
Having used his right fist to knock the Mexican down, Red had drawn his left side Colt as being more readily available. However the fact that he had used his left hand added strength to his statement. Studying the clumsy manner in which Red held the borrowed knife, Ortega shrugged and agreed to change hands. Showing no emotion, Jesus, Cordova’s segundo, fastened the two right wrists together in such a way that each man could grasp the other’s forearm in his hand.
Already word of the trouble had reached the Golden Goose saloon, causing Dusty to leave it hurriedly. Followed by a number of interested people, Dusty headed for the cantina. He saw Corlin approaching and noticed that Dr. Paczek stood outside a store watching him. Ignoring the land agent, Dusty continued to walk towards the growing circle of men and women before the cantina. Then he heard a voice snap out the word ‘Fight!’ and knew he could not arrive in time to help his cousin, even assuming that Red would want him to do so.
As Ortega watched Red and waited for Cordova to give the command to fight, his fingers tightened slightly on the Texan’s arm. When the word came to start, the Mexican heaved in an attempt to drag his opponent off balance. Prepared for resistance to the pull, Red’s move took Ortega completely by surprise, for the Texan came forward—and fast. Perhaps using his knife right-handed, as he usually did, Ortega could have countered the move. Holding his weapon in the left hand confused him for that vital split-second Red needed to attack.
Red let Jesus’ knife fall from his hand as he went forward. Once again his fist lashed into Ortega’s face, striking the nose with some force. Pain blinded the Mexican, throwing his thought-patterns all ways. Nor did he find time to recover. Down whipped Red’s left hand, driving hard knuckles full into Ortega’s belly with sickening force. Breath rushed from Ortega’s mouth and his body hunched over, presenting his jaw to Red’s fist as it came up to meet him. Lifted erect again, Ortega stood dazed, blinded by tears brought by the pain of his broken, blood-squirting nose, wide open for the backhand smash Red sent to the underside of his jaw. The knife fell from Ortega’s fingers and he started to fall backwards. Only the support given to him by being fastened to Red prevented him from crashing to the ground.
Bending down, Red let Ortega subside and took up the borrowed knife. Silence dropped on the crowd as they waited to see what the Texan meant to do next. Under the free-and-easy rules of the Helena duel, he could finish off his enemy any way he chose. Slipping the clipped point of the knife between the wrists, he cut the thong holding them together.
‘Tell him the next time he crosses me to be wearing a gun,’ Red said as he handed the knife back to its owner.
‘You played that smart, amigo,’ Cordova remarked, an admiring grin on his face. ‘Any other way and he would have killed you. Then there would have been bad trouble between your people and mine. May I offer you a drink?’
‘I reckon I could use one,’ Red admitted, seeing Dusty coming through the crowd. ‘Did anybody ever tell me that I’m loco?’
‘If they didn’t,’ Dusty replied before Cordova could speak, ‘Cousin Be—Sarah’s sure going to when she hears about this.’
‘Now I do need that drink,’ Red stated, glancing at the groaning, writhing Ortega. ‘How about him?’
‘He can buy his own when he recovers,’ Cordova answered. ‘In some other town for preference. Jesus, see that he gets on his horse and goes.’
‘Si, senor,’ said the segundo, sheathing his knife and leaning against the cantina wall.
Along the street Corlin stood with Paczek, looking towards where the crowd dispersed. An angry snort broke from the doctor.
‘That was a fine way for him to act. I thought he would at least try to stop the fight.’
‘To save his cousin?’ Corlin asked, realizing the doctor meant Dusty, not Red.
‘To do his duty as a peace officer!’ snorted Paczek. ‘If a Texas Rangers’ captain condones brawling in the street, is there any wonder that local peace officers allow it to go on?’
Although Corlin had intended to walk on, he halted and stared at Paczek. ‘Do you mean that Marsden is a Ranger captain?’
‘He told me so himself,’ Paczek replied, getting his facts wrong in his indignation. Then he remembered Dusty’s request. ‘You will treat this as confidential, won’t you?’
‘I will,’ promised Corlin and whirled around as a shot thundered along the street.