Trigger Fast (14 page)

‘They’ve got ‘em!’ Dusty said with satisfaction. ‘Making ‘em do a merry-go-round. That’ll slow ‘em down.’

Waco did not reply. He looked at the small man, only he no longer saw Dusty as being small. He knew he owed the other man his life, not once, but twice. Dusty could have killed him back there when he tried to draw. Then at the risk of his own life Dusty came to rescue him. This was a kind of man Waco had never met before and did not know what to make of. Clearly Dusty gave no thought to the incident back under the cottonwood, his full attention being on the herd.

They watched the circle made, and the steers began to slow, being kept in a circle all the time. Slowly the movement came to an end but the hands continued to ride their circle.

Clay Allison and Mark swung from the herd, riding to where Dusty and Waco stood waiting.

‘You came close to being the late Waco, boy,’ Mark said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Clay. ‘I never thought to see you alive when your hoss went down. Reckon you owe Dusty something.’

Slowly Waco turned, his eyes on Dusty.

‘I reckon I do. I’m sorry for what happened back there Dusty.’

A smile flickered on Dusty’s face. He knew what the apology meant to Waco. It had been torn from him for he had never felt he owed any man a thing, now he owed Dusty his life.

‘That’s all right, boy. You did the man’s thing back there when you shot that hoss rather than leave it to be stampeded under by the herd. You might have got clear with no trouble if you hadn’t.’

‘It was my hoss, never let me down. I couldn’t let it down at the end.’

Smiles came to faces of the watching men. Then Clay pointed back to the remuda which approached them.

‘You’ve got your pick of any hoss in the bunch, boy. Go take it.’

A grin came to Waco’s face, softening the sullen expression. Until this moment Clay never referred to him as anything but his own name. It looked like Dusty had stuck him with a fresh title. Somehow he did not mind. The word ‘boy’ was now spoken in a different manner. Now Dusty regarded him as a boy who would one day grow into a man.

‘I’ll lend you a hand to get your saddle out, boy,’ Mark drawled. ‘Come on.’

There were good horses in Clay Allison’s remuda. One of them caught Waco’s eye. He took up the rope from the saddle he’d laid on the ground. With a quick whirl he sent a hooleyann loop flipping out to settle on the neck of a big young paint stallion, a seventeen hand beauty as yet untrained in cattle work. This horse he led out. It had been three saddled, ridden the three times which a bronc-buster considered all that was necessary before handing the horse into the remuda and since then little ridden. Clay brought it along to test out anybody who wanted to ride it, only Waco aimed to be the only man who ever did.

‘You’ve picked a mean one there, boy,’ drawled Mark, on whom the implication of the choice was not lost. ‘He’s got a belly full of bed-springs that need taking out before he’ll be any use.’

‘Then I’m going to have to take them out,’ Waco replied.

Dusty and Clay watched the herd settle down before they offered to do anything else. Clay sat his horse and cursed the fool steers which had run off a fair amount of beef in the stampede.

‘Keep ‘em here and range feed for a spell,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Two, three days on this buffalo grass’ll put the meat on them again. And by that time, happen you go along with me, we’ll have this wire trouble fixed and the narrows opened again.’

‘I’ll go along.’

‘Leave the herd here, with Ben and Jack, get half a dozen or more men you can rely on not to start a shooting match unless they have to, ride to the Lasalle place, and we’ll pick Stone up on the way. Then I’ll tell all of you what I aim to do.’

It said much for Clay Allison’s faith in Dusty that he agreed to this without inquiring what Dusty’s plans might be. He felt fully satisfied that Dusty not only had a plan but could also see that same plan through given a bit of aid.

Calling his brother Ben over, Clay told of Dusty’s arrangements. Ben listened and gave his agreement. Then he jerked his thumb along to the remuda where Waco and Mark were saddling the big paint.

‘Waco sure picked the beauty this time,’ he said. ‘Told me you said he could have hand-choice of the remuda and he wanted the paint, so I told him to go ahead. Why in hell did he pick that hoss out of the rest?’

A grin twisted Clay’s lips and he glanced at Dusty’s big horse which stood grazing to one side.

‘I wonder why?’ he said.

Three times the paint threw Waco, but each time he got up and mounted again. He showed he could really handle a horse and the fourth time on he stuck there until the horse gave in. Not until then did he join the other men at the fire and took the mug of coffee offered by the cook. His eyes were on Dusty all the time, his ears working to catch every word Dusty said. Not until then did he fully realize who Dusty was for nobody had introduced him.

After the meal Clay selected six men, including Waco, to ride with them and see about moving the wire.

We’re r’aring to go, Cap’n Fog,’ said one of the men.

‘Then un-rear!’ Dusty snapped. ‘There’s a time to talk and a time to fight. We’ll try talk first.’

‘Hell they ain’t but a bunch of hired guns, way you told us, Dusty,’ Waco objected.

‘You’re just as dead no matter who puts the lead into you, boy,’ Dusty answered. ‘And a lot of innocent folks might get hurt at the same time.’

Usually Waco would have scoffed at the idea of worrying about other people. This time he did not. He sat back and waited to hear what the others said on the subject.

‘We’ll do whatever you say, Dusty,’ Clay stated firmly. ‘Then if talk don’t work we can always try making war.’

The Lasalle house had a crowd in it after dark that evening, not counting the Allison hands who lounged around outside, letting their boss make the talk while they ate some good fixings.

In the dining-room Dusty, Mark, Clay Allison, Stone Hart and Waco sat with Lasalle and Morg. The girl came in and joined her father after serving a meal from the supplies the CA crew brought along. They had barely got down to business when Johnny Raybold arrived, bringing word that although visited by the Double K men the Jones’ and Gibbs’ houses were fine and without a worry in the world.

‘Never seed ole Peaceful looking so miserable,’ he concluded, to show that all really was well.

‘I thought I’d send him visiting to earn his pay,’ Stone remarked.

‘I sure earned it,’ Johnny grinned. ‘Mrs. Gibbs done made a pie for the boys, had it all a-cooling on the window. Only it’s not there any more.’ Here Johnny rolled his eyes in ecstasy and rubbed his stomach. ‘Man, that Mrs. Gibbs sure is one good cook. Not that you-all ain’t, Miss Freda.’

This latter came as he caught an accusing gleam in Freda’s eyes and remembered visiting the house and praising her cooking.

‘I bet you say that to all the cooks,’ she replied.

‘I do, I do. But I sure don’t want to meet up with Rusty, Doc’n Billy for a spell, not ‘til they get over losing their pie.’

‘Now that’s a shame. That sure is a shame,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Because you’re headed over there right now, then on to Jones’. I want them here with their wagons in the morning so we can take them into town for supplies.’

‘Sure,’ Johnny replied, secure in the knowledge that no reprisals could be taken on him while he rode on urgent business. ‘I’ll tell them.’

‘Just one man with each wagon,’ Dusty went on. ‘The other two stay on and guard the house.’

‘Yo!’ Johnny replied and left the room.

‘What’s your plan, Dusty?’ Clay asked.

‘Easy enough. We’re going into town tomorrow in force. And we’re serving notice on the Double K bunch that they get out of town. After that I’m getting some questions answered by Mr. Mallick, the Land Agent, whether he wants to answer or not.’

‘And after that?’ Stone put in.

‘I want to get this fence business ended one way or the other. I aim to run Elben out of Barlock so the Double K doesn’t have the backing of the law. Then, if I have to I’m going to see Keller and show him the error of his ways.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE town of Barlock lay sleepily under the early morning sun. Few people walked the streets. In the office of the Land Agent an emergency meeting had been called. Mallick sat at his desk, sullen and scowling. Jackieboy Disraeli sat in a chair with a pout like a petulant schoolgirl on his face. To one side, by the door, stood Knuckles, leaning against the wall and looking about as intelligent as the wooden planks behind him. Before the desk stood Elben, and a man from the Double K, a hired gun who had slipped away early in order to have a chance at making some money at the expense of his friends.

‘So you came here with a warning?’ asked Mallick, in a mocking tone as he watched the man’s face.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘I reckoned it’d be worth something for you to know what Tring’s fixing to do,’ replied the gunman.

Mallick looked at the man, and his voice still stayed mocking. ‘I see. So Tring and the rest are coming here to make us pay them for work they botched and couldn’t complete.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you thought you would warn us out of the goodness of your heart?’ piped Disraeli, also watching the man.

‘I reckoned it’d be worth at least a hundred dollars for you to know,’ answered the man, throwing a contemptuous look at the fancy dressed Jew.

The sudden anger which came to Disraeli’s face should have warned the man of his danger, but he was more interested in talking himself into money, then getting away from town before the others arrived. Disraeli snapped his fingers and pointed at the man.

With a slow, almost beast-like snarl Knuckles left his place.

He moved faster than one might have thought possible for so bulky a man. The gunman heard Knuckles and started to turn, his hand dropping towards the butt of his gun. Knuckles drove out a big fist, throwing it with all his power. Like the arrival of a thunderbolt it smashed into the side of the man’s head as he turned. He flew across the room, his head snapped over and hanging at an unnatural angle. The others watched him hurl into the wall, hit it and slide down.

Crossing the room, Elben bent over and looked down at the man. Then he lifted scared eyes to Disraeli and Mallick. The Land Agent stood staring, but Disraeli remained in his seat, sadistic pleasure etched on his face.

‘He’s dead!’ Elben said. ‘His neck’s broke.’

‘So?’

There was challenge in Disraeli’s one-word reply, mockery too, for Disraeli liked nothing better than to see stronger men who might have treated him with derision and mockery but cowered before the awful might of Knuckles. He watched Elben, seeing the marshal’s eyes flicker to Knuckles who ignored the man he had struck down and killed and was now leaning against the wall again.

‘I only told you,’ Elben answered. What do you want us to do with him?’

‘That’s for you to decide,’ Mallick answered. ‘It was self defence on Knuckles’ part. Now get down to your office and come back in a couple of hours with some of your men and clear that carrion out of here.’

After the door closed on Elben’s departing back, Mallick and Disraeli exchanged glances.

‘I think we’re finished here, don’t you?’ Disraeli asked.

Mallick nodded. ‘I think we are. What next?’

‘We run. I have a friend in New York who can get us on a boat for Europe and we can disappear into some big city if we find that the law is after us. That is one advantage to being of my race, Mallick, the brotherhood of my people will shield us from the Gentiles.’

‘And what about me?’ asked Mallick.

‘You too, old friend. A little more money might help us though.’

They exchanged glances. Both had money from their scheme, although not as much as at first expected. The hiring of gunmen took much of the cream from their profits but the same men had been a necessity.

‘Keller has the money to complete the purchase,’ Mallick remarked. ‘And for his running costs as he calls them. And he had a collection of jewellery, as you told me when you first put this idea to me. He’ll be at the ranch, alone except for his daughter and with that bad ankle won’t be any a problem. He’ll never suspect anything, until too late.’

An evil gleam came to Disraeli’s eyes. ‘Yes that’s the idea!’ he said, slapping his hands together like an excited girl. ‘I’ll have revenge for my brother and see that accursed Sir James Keller suffer.’

‘Let’s destroy all the papers on the Lindon Land Grant, and do a thorough job this time!’ Mallick said. ‘Then we’ll get the wagon, the money, and go to the Double K.’

Half an hour later only the ashes of burned paper lay in the waste-paper basket, the body of the gunman sprawled by the wall. The doors were locked, that at the front bolted also for Mallick’s party left by the rear.

They called at the saloon where Disraeli emptied his office safe, took all the money and the deeds to the business from it. Then, after making sure that no incriminating papers remained the two men went to where Knuckles had a fast two horse carriage awaiting them. They left town and took cover in a wood while Tring and his men rode by, then they headed across the range in the direction of the Double K.

When he found the birds had flown Tring cursed savagely. A look over the painted lower half of the Land Agent’s office windows showed him the room held only the body of a man who would have sold them out. The safe door hung open and clearly Mallick was gone. So had his partner Jackieboy Disraeli, when they came to the saloon. A boot sent his office door flying open but once more the Double K had arrived too late.

We’ll take it out of here boys,’ Tring said waving a hand towards the saloon. ‘And anything more we need this stinking lil town’s going to give us.’

His plan only partially succeeded. The men headed for the bar where scared bartenders poured drinks and emptied the till for Tring and the hired gunmen. They drank and then one of the men standing by a window and watching the street, gave a warning shout.

Silence fell on the room. They heard the sound of hooves, many hooves and gathered to see who came to town. Mutters of surprise and fear rose from amongst the men as they recognized the men who led the well armed party into town.

‘There’s Dusty Fog and Mark Counter!’ one man said. We never touched either of them when we hit Lasalle’s.’

‘Naw. They weren’t staying in the house ‘cause they was scared neither,’ another went on, putting forth the reason one faction of the raiding party offered for Dusty and Mark not coming after them in revenge for the attack on Lasalle’s. ‘They was waiting for help.’

‘And they got it!’ a third put in. ‘That’s Clay Allison and Stone Hart up front and some of their boys along.’

‘They coming in here?’ asked a fourth man, casting an eye on the rear door.

‘Nope, going through.’

They formed quite a party, coming down the main street. The four men in the lead each famous in his own right. Behind them came the Gibbs and Jones’ wagons, driven by the women and flanked by men. Stone had called a further four men from his herd, bringing the fighting force to fourteen, but they were fourteen who might have made a troop of cavalry think twice about attacking.

‘There’s the stores, Clay,’ Dusty said. ‘Get to it.’

In his store Matt Roylan looked at the two gunhung deputies who now lounged at the counter and decimated his profits by their constant dipping into cracker barrel or candy jar.

‘How the hell does your boss expect me to make a living with you scaring trade off?’ he asked.

‘Whyn’t you go and ask him?’ answered one of the men, then looked towards the door.

Horses and a wagon had halted outside. Then boots thudded on to the sidewalk and up to the door. It opened and two tall men stepped inside, two men with low hanging guns, although one of them did not look more than sixteen years old.

‘The name’s Clay Allison,’ said the bearded man and jerked a thumb to where Ma Jones stood by her wagon. ‘The lady aims to buy supplies and I’m here to see she gets them. Understand?’

The two deputies understood. So did Roylan. He removed his apron, walked around the end of the counter and shot out a hand to grip each collar of the gunmen. With spirit and delight he hustled the two men across his business premises, doing what his heart craved to do ever since they first came here. He heaved the two astonished deputies through the door, ran them to the edge of the sidewalk and hurled them off. With a delighted grin Roylan looked down at them.

‘That was gentle!’ he said. ‘The next of you shows his face in here gets it damaged!’

One of the daputies sat up, mouthing curses. His hand went to his side, to grip the butt of his gun, eyes glowing hate at Roylan’s back as the storekeeper turned to Ma Jones.

Waco lunged through the door, his right hand Colt coming clear and lining on the man.

‘Loose it!’ he snapped. ‘Then on your feet and find a hoss. The next time I see you I’ll shoot.’

Watching this Clay Allison felt puzzled and then smiled. Waco would have shot the man without a chance had this happened yesterday. Waco also felt surprised at the change in his outlook. His first instinct had been to shoot, to send lead into the gunman. Then, at the last instant, he held his hand. He knew Dusty Fog had said no killing unless it became necessary. He could not see Dusty, or Mark, wanting truck with a fool trigger-fast-and-up-from-Texas kid who cut down a man in cold blood.

So Waco watched the man get to his feet, then kept the two deputies under observation as they walked away. He stood aside and let Roylan and Ma Jones enter the store.

‘I had to do it, Ma,’ Roylan said. ‘So did Banker O’Neil. They threatened his wife and family unless he went along with them. It’s over now.’

She nodded. ‘It looks that way.’

Mrs. Gibbs traded with the other store. She found that her escort would consist of Stone Hart, Rusty Willis and Peaceful Gunn. They made for the store where Peaceful and Rusty insisted on entering first, to sort of watch things and kind of make sure the deputies didn’t get too festive when Mrs. Gibbs entered. This was Rusty’s idea. Peaceful moaned about it being safer inside than on the streets where already Dusty’s men were letting out their wild cowhand yells, firing guns into the air and doing all they could to produce the local law.

In the store Jake Billings leaned his old frame on the counter and glowered at the pair of deputies, one of whom lit his third free cigar from Jake’s private stock.

‘You pair’s supposed to be deputies,’ he said. ‘Whyn’t you get out there afore those cowhands ropes the town and hauls it back to the Old Trail with them.’

‘Not us. We’re special deputies,’ replied one of the men, his face bearing marks of Mark Counter’s big fists.

They looked at the door as Rusty Willis and Peaceful Gunn entered. The two cowhands separated, crossing the store to halt one by each deputy. Peaceful removed his hat and held it in his right hand, mopping his brow with a large red handkerchief and letting his moustache droop in an abject manner.

‘Them rowdies out there,’ he said in his ‘usual mournful and whining tone for such an occasion. ‘They’re causing so much fuss that I’ll just get me some t’baccy and light out afore the marshal comes and jails everybody in sight.’

If anything could have lulled the suspicions of the two deputies, Peaceful words were most likely to succeed. Neither of the hard-cases gave him another glance. The second deputy looked at Rusty who stood by him and took up a heavy skillet.

‘Chow asked me to get him one of these,’ he drawled, looking at the deputy. ‘You reckon this’n’d be all right?’

‘How the hell would I know?’ snapped the deputy, then looked to where Stone and Mrs. Gibbs came through the door. What do you want?’

‘The lady’s here for her supplies,’ Stone answered.

‘Then she can get the hell out of—!’ began the deputy by Peaceful.

His speech did not end. Peaceful moved at a speed which amazed Joyce, when she thought of his usual lethargic movements. His hat lashed back, full into the man’s face. Two pounds of prime J. B. Stetson could hurt when lashed around with the full power of a brawny arm. The gunman’s hand, almost on his gun butt, missed and he gave forth a startled, pain-filled yell.

The second man sent his hand flying towards his gun and almost made it. At his side Rusty gripped the heavy skillet by the handle and swung it sideways, using the edge like an axe blade against the man’s stomach. With a croaking cry of pain the gunman doubled over, holding his middle. Up lifted the pan to come down with a resounding and very satisfying clang, on to the temptingly offered head. Billings let out a whoop of delight, but the gunman gave only a moan to show his disapproval of Rusty’s actions.

With tears in his eyes, the deputy Peaceful assailed with his hat dropped a hand towards the butt of his gun. Steel glinted in Peaceful’s hand, the bowie knife which mostly rode at the peace lover’s left side, now lay in his hand, its clipped point driving at the man’s stomach, Joyce let out a gasp of fear for she expected to see the deputy drop writhing in agony and spurting blood on the floor.

At the last instant Peaceful changed his aim slightly, the knife rose and then cut down, the razor sharp lower edge ripping through the leather of the man’s gunbelt causing it to drop. The deputy’s hand clawed air for his holster now hung mouth down by the pigging thong and his gun lay at his feet.

‘I’m a man of peace, I am!’ warned Peaceful and cut again, this time through the gunman’s waist band causing him to grab hurriedly at his pants. ‘And if I sees you again after you go through that door I’ll prove it!”

Taking the hint, and holding his pants up at the same time, the deputy headed past Joyce and out through the door. She watched him go and smiled a little. It appeared that the hard-case Double K were not as hard as she at first imagined.

She knew why her friends acted in the way they did. Stone Hart might be accepted as a master trail boss, but his name did not carry the same weight as Clay Allison’s in gun fighting circles. So Stone and his men arranged to take care of the deputies before announcing their presence, or at least to make sure that the two deputies could be rendered harmless by having Rusty and Peaceful on hand before Stone brought Joyce into the building.