‘Will you gentlemen both take a drink with me?’ Cordova asked. ‘I feel that we should get acquainted as we are to be neighbors.’
‘Well be pleased to, señor,’ Dusty replied.
‘Here, or at the Golden Goose?’
‘Here’s fine,’ Dusty assured the rancher.
Turning, Cordova led the way into the cantina. As Dusty and Red neared its doors, they heard startled gasps and exclamations behind them, mingled with the sound of hurriedly moving feet. Recognizing what the sounds meant, each cousin began to swing around and sent a hand streaking towards its gun. Before either completed his turn, a shot thundered out.
Jesus stood with a smoking Colt in his hand, its barrel slanting down towards the street. Sprawled on his back, a hole between his eyes and a Remington Double Derringer lying alongside his right hand, Ortega kicked his life away.
‘You didn’t hit him hard enough, señor,’ the segundo remarked calmly.
‘That is true,’ Cordova went on. ‘His kind do not forgive easily. Sooner or later you would have had to kill him.’
‘Likely,’ Red answered. ‘Gracias, Jesus.’
‘If a man starts a fight with a knife, he should end it with one, señor,’ the segundo replied.
‘Does he mean me, or that Ortega jasper?’ Red inquired as he followed Cordova into the cantina.
‘A little of both probably,’ smiled the rancher. ‘Jesus belongs to the old school and feels you have gone against the code duello in fighting the way you did. Not that I blame you.’
Dusty stayed at the cantina’s door so as to hear what happened when the town marshal came to investigate the shooting. On his arrival, Tenby looked at the body and shrugged.
‘Just a greaser killing,’ he said. ‘Who done it?’
‘I did,’ Jesus replied coldly.
‘Figure you’d a good enough reason,’ Tenby growled. ‘Get him off the street pronto—’
‘And that is all it matters!’ Jesus spat out as the marshal ambled away.
‘Not all lawmen are like him, amigo,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Do you know the dead man?’
‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Jesus replied. ‘Even if he is another of us greasers.’
‘The marshal said it, not me,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘There’re good and bad in every race.’
‘Si, señor. And this is one of the bad ones. I will see to him. My patron wishes to speak with you.’
‘See if you can learn who he is and where he’s been for me, will you?’
‘I will try to learn, señor,’ Jesus promised.
Entering the cantina, Dusty joined Red and Cordova at the bar. Although Jesus returned after taking the body to the undertaker’s shop and announced that nobody appeared to know where Ortega came from, the rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Cordova proved to be an excellent host. However, as in Mobstell’s case, Dusty could find nothing to point to Cordova being the man behind Sandy’s troubles. At sundown Dusty and Red left the cantina and walked through the town in the direction of the livery bam. On the way Red told Dusty the full story of the events leading to his fight with Ortega, having left out certain points while talking about it to Cordova.
‘What do you make of it, Dusty?’ he asked as they saddled their horses. ‘Ortega allowed I was spying on his boss.’
‘He could’ve been telling the truth, figuring you’d be too dead to mention it later,’ Dusty replied. ‘Or he said it so you’d think Cordova hired him.’
‘His hoss was outside the cantina. I saw them load him on to it and tote him away.’
‘And there was that Mexican jasper watching us at the ranch.’
‘Cordova’d likely hire Mexicans rather than white folks,’ Red pointed out.
‘So would somebody who wanted us to blame Cordova for sending a hired gun after you,’ Dusty countered.
‘This whole damned game’s sickening my guts,’ Red growled. ‘Give me a face-to-face, straight up fight any time.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Only we have to play it the way whoever we want deals the hand.’
As the cousins led their horses from the barn, they saw the Golden Goose’s swamper approaching.
‘Miss Stevie wants to see you, Mr. Marsden,’ the old timer said.
‘I’m just headed back to the spread,’ Dusty replied.
‘She said to tell you it’s real important.’
‘You’d maybe best go, Du—Ed,’ Red said. ‘I’ll head back to the spread.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only ride careful and don’t go to sleep in the saddle. Unless it’s something real important, I’ll try to catch up with you on the way home.’
Red mounted his claybank and Dusty watched him ride off. Wondering what the girl might want, Dusty left his horse saddled but in the livery barn. On reaching the saloon, he saw Stevie at the bar. She walked towards him as he entered, smiling with her lips only. While her face bore its usual make-up, there was a puffiness about the eyes as if she had been crying recently. ‘Hi!’ Dusty greeted. ‘What’d you want to see me about?’
‘I—I thought you’d want to see me before you left town,’ she replied, darting a glance in Towcester’s direction. Then she dropped her voice and turned her back on the saloonkeeper. ‘I’ve found that miner for you.’
‘Where is he?’ Dusty asked.
‘At the house. I thought you’d not want folks to see you talking to him or they might get the wrong idea.’
‘Smart thinking,’ Dusty said. ‘Let’s go see him.’
‘C-can’t we have a drink first?’
Something in the girl’s attitude disturbed Dusty. It almost seemed that she did not want to go with him. Crossing to the bar, he ordered a couple of drinks and looked at Towcester. Nodding a greeting, the saloonkeeper went to watch a game of cards being played at one of the tables.
‘Well,’ Dusty said to the girl as they finished their drinks. ‘How about this miner?’
Looking past him for a moment, the girl gulped and nodded. ‘All right, we’ll go and see him.’
‘Let’s do—!’ Dusty began.
‘Not together!’ Stevie interrupted. ‘Tony’s jealous already. After you leave, I’ll slip out of the back door and meet you by the house.’
‘We’ll do that,’ Dusty agreed and raised his voice. ‘Much as I’d like to, I can’t stay any longer, Stevie. I’ll see you the next time I’m in town.’
‘I’ll be here,’ the girl replied and seemed about to say more, but Towcester left the card game and walked in her direction.
Strolling from the saloon, Dusty turned along the sidewalk. He paused at the window and looked inside. Already Stevie had made her way towards the rear door and Towcester had gone into his office. Slowly Dusty continued along the front of the saloon, passed through the alley separating it from the next building and halted at the rear while he studied the area ahead of him. Both the back of the saloon and the small house were in darkness. Dusty could see nothing to disturb his peace of mind and so stepped forward.
A shape rose on the porch of the house. Instantly Dusty stopped. Then he saw the white V a shirt made when worn under a buttoned-up jacket. Clearly the man on the porch expected somebody, for he stepped forward. Even as Dusty recognized the man as Corlin, a shot crashed from the other end of the saloon. Jerking backwards, Corlin slammed into the wall and slid down.
Although Dusty’s right hand fetched out the left side Colt without conscious thought on his part, he did not squeeze the trigger. For one thing he could see nothing to shoot at; also he wanted to reach Corlin and learn how badly the man was hit. Darting to the house, Dusty bounded up on to the porch and knelt at Corlin’s side. A glance at the place from where the shot came failed to reveal any sign of the man responsible. Then Dusty turned his attention to Corlin. Whoever fired the shot knew his business. Before Dusty could do more than look, Corlin gave a harsh rattling cough. The land agent’s body twisted convulsively and then went limp.
At the same moment Dusty heard a soft footstep at the end of the building. Looking up, he saw the bulky shape of the marshal and recognized the thing in Tenby’s hands. Maybe Tenby lacked most of the qualities one expected in a lawman, but he knew the correct tool for his present work. He was also, Dusty concluded, deeply involved in Corlin’s murder. Instead of looking to where the shot had been fired, Tenby stared first to where Dusty might be expected to have halted and then swiveled himself around to face the porch.
Flinging himself aside and down, Dusty saw flame belch from the muzzle of Tenby’s shotgun. Something struck the planks just behind the small Texan as he rolled off the porch and at the same time he heard the sinister, eerie whistle as more .32 caliber buckshot balls fanned the air above him. If he had reacted just a shade slower, he would have been caught in the shotgun’s deadly nine-ball pattern. Still Dusty did not shoot. On landing upon the ground, he twisted himself back under the porch and edged in beneath it. Over his head heavy boots thudded on the porch’s planks. On the plaza voices yelled. The saloon’s side doors burst open and men started to come out, running towards the rear of the building. Coming to a halt, Tenby peered cautiously over the porch rail and cursed when he did not see Dusty’s body. Jumping down, as people converged on the house, Tenby glanced under the edge of the porch. He failed to see Dusty and straightened up to answer a request to be told who had done the shooting.
‘That Ed Marsden’s just killed Agent Corlin,’ Tenby replied. ‘Shot him down in cold blood and him without a gun.’
‘Why’d Marsden do a thing like that?’ demanded a voice Dusty recognized as belonging to the Wells Fargo agent.
‘Maybe I can tell you,’ Towcester answered. ‘Mr. Corlin told me earlier tonight that he had learned the man claiming to be Sandy McGraw is an impostor.’
‘Who is he?’ asked one of the crowd.
‘We don’t know yet,’ Towcester replied. ‘But we shall when the marshal gets his hands on Marsden. Where is he now, marshal?’
‘He took off running, went ’round the corner there,’ Tenby answered.
‘You mean that you missed him—with a shotgun?’ the saloonkeeper growled.
‘Hell, it was dark on the porch, Mr. Towcester,’ Tenby apologized. ‘You’ve seen how fast he can move. I didn’t have time to—’
‘You’ll have to find and arrest him,’ Towcester pointed out.
‘Yeah.’
Indecision showed in the one word answer given by the marshal. Clearly he did not relish the thought of tangling with ‘Ed Marsden’. An angry snort broke from Towcester’s lips as he read worry and not a little fear in Tenby’s attitude.
‘All right boys,’ Towcester told the assembled crowd. ‘The marshal wants deputies; and none of us can blame him when he’s got to deal with a gun-slick like Marsden. I’ve not liked the way Marsden’s been acting since he came here. So I’ll give any man who comes forward a free night’s drinking in my place.’
Dusty had noticed that the Golden Goose’s clientele that night included a good number of the usual type of range loafers, the kind of men who would do anything except work for a night’s free drinking. So Tenby did not lack volunteers, although several members of the crowd held back.
‘All right,’ Tenby growled when sure he would raise no more help. ‘Two of you go to the livery barn and watch his hoss. The rest of you split up and start looking for him.’
‘You’ve forgotten something, marshal,’ Towcester interrupted. ‘Marsden’s a killer and you don’t want any of these good gents gunning down. So make sure they know not to take chances.’
‘Yeah,’ Tenby agreed. ‘If you boys see Marsden, shoot first and ask questions after he’s dead.’
Lying beneath the porch, Dusty watched the crowd separate and depart. Everything began to flop into place, all the puzzling aspects of the affair growing more clear in the light of the new developments. There were a few gaps to fill in, but Dusty felt sure that Towcester was the man behind the hired gun who tried to kill Sandy McGraw.
Although Dusty hoped for a chance to reach Towcester, the saloonkeeper returned to the Golden Goose before the crowd dispersed. While waiting for a chance to leave his place, Dusty decided against bursting in on Towcester straight away. The element of surprise might be on Dusty’s side but there were too many people in town ready to shoot turn down for him to take risks. First he must escape, go to the ranch and gather reinforcements. Then he could have a showdown with Towcester.
Easing himself from under the porch, Dusty made a cautious way along the back street in the direction of the livery barn. Once he crouched in the darkness while a trio of Tenby’s ‘deputies’ passed by in what they imagined to be a conscientious search.
As usual the livery barn was illuminated by a couple of oil lamps and Dusty, looking in through the rear window, saw two men sitting on a bale of hay. Neither appeared to be taking his duty too seriously, nor had they interfered with the big paint. Not that Dusty felt surprised at the latter, knowing his horse’s temperament and general distrust of strangers. Carefully Dusty inched open the barn’s rear door and stepped in with his left hand filled with its Colt.
‘Just sit still, boys,’ he ordered as the men started to turn. ‘If you aim to move or shout, pray first.’
Two startled faces swiveled in Dusty’s direction. Although the men sat as if turned to stone, one of them began to open his mouth.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Dusty advised, making a convincing gesture with his Colt, and the mouth closed again. ‘Now both of you take out your guns and see how far you can throw them into the stalls—left-handed, hombre. That way you’ll live to earn your night’s free drinking.’ The last came as one of the pair reached gunwards with his right hand. Awkwardly drawing his gun, the man flipped it across the barn to fall into a stall. A moment later his companion’s weapon disappeared into the straw at the other side. ‘Now lie flat on your bellies,’ Dusty went on.
After one look at his grimly set face, the two men obeyed. Walking to his paint, Dusty tested the saddle and, satisfied that he could mount without the saddle slipping due to having its girths loosened, took the reins in his right hand. Watching the men, he led the horse across the barn and halted at the rear door.
‘Don’t come rushing to see me off, boys,’ he warned and vaulted into the saddle.
Giving the men no chance to make a hostile move, Dusty started the paint moving. He did not know what kind of conditions he might meet on the backstreets and decided against risking laming his horse. So he swung the paint between two buildings and reached the main street. He set his spurs to the big horse’s flanks and started it galloping. Behind him a voice yelled, then more. Two shots crashed, but Dusty did not hear their bullets. Then he passed the last houses and the darkness swallowed him up as the paint galloped along the Lazy M trail.
A mile from San Garcia, Dusty eased the paint to a halt and sat listening for sounds of pursuit from town. Although he could hear none behind him, hooves drummed on the trail ahead. Nobody from town could have passed him, riding across country, without his being aware of it. Nor did he believe Tenby possessed sufficient experience or reasoning ability to send men out with the intention of cutting off the way to the Lazy M. For all that, Dusty took no chances. Ahead of him, a clump of bushes offered a hiding place and he rode towards them. Slipping from his saddle, Dusty held the paint’s head ready to silence any sound it made.
Three riders came along the trail, moving at a purposeful trot and in silence. Despite the darkness, Dusty recognized them. He started to whistle the opening bars of ‘Dixie’. Instantly the trio halted, Red Blaze and old Cactus swinging their horses in front of Betty Hardin, and each reached for his favorite weapon.
‘You’re jumpy tonight,’ Dusty said.
‘Dusty?’Red challenged.
‘You’re expecting maybe Robert E. Lee?’ Dusty replied and rode from behind the bushes. ‘Where do you three reckon you’re going?’
‘Into San Garcia to save you from being lured into a life of sin,’ Betty told him as Red holstered his revolver and Cactus replaced the Colt rifle across his knees. ‘I’m sure Aunt Betty wouldn’t approve of that Stevie Cameron as a daughter-in-law.’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Dusty drawled. ‘I don’t approve too strong of her myself. She tried to make herself a widow even afore we got to church.’