The sentry made no attempt to move, but he drew back the hammer of his carbine with a thumb and grinned bleakly.
‘Don’t try it, mister. You might scare me to death.’
This was the first sign Bruno Lewis got that things were far different than in his last visit to the Fort. He’d been allowed in to see Gilbey without any fuss and had learned enough to enable him to slip rushers over the line for a week. He hoped to feel out the new commanding officer, to try and learn something if he could, for the rushers were getting restless. In the back of his buggy sat a thin, myopic-1ooking man in old clothes, one of the many drawn from the east by dreams of easy money. This man had returned from an unsuccessful attempt to cross the river and had a grievance he wished aired with Captain Fog.
‘Pass the party in, sentry,’ Dusty called, on Kallan whispering who the gaunt man in the buggy was.
Dusty had not yet found time to go to Shacktown, although Mark and the Kid had been and brought back a report of it. However, the small Texan hoped he would get a chance to meet Bruno Lewis, who Magoon, among others, claimed was a real bad one and the power in the town.
‘I’m here on a serious matter, Captain,’ Lewis said, climbing stiffly from the buggy and looking Dusty over, wondering if the small man could really be the famous Dusty Fog. ‘Your sentry didn’t allow me to enter.’
‘On my orders, mister,’ Dusty replied. ‘You only needed to wait until he called the sergeant of the guard and he’d have passed you in.’
Looking around him with some wonder Lewis studied the bearing and aspect of the men. For a post supposedly falling apart at the seams. Fort Tucker looked remarkably smart and well cared for. Madlarn’s stories of drunkenness and idleness wearing down the men had either been grossly exaggerated or this new officer must have something which did not immediately show.
‘I’m mayor of Shacktown, Captain Fog,’ Lewis went on. ‘As well as serving as local judge. This man came to me with a serious complaint.’
Climbing down the rusher looked around him in wonder as if he’d never seen the inside of a fort before. He wore old clothes and his boots looked to be considerably battered. From the way he walked his feet hurt him, for he stepped like a man crossing egg shells.
‘Why bother me with his complaint?’ asked Dusty.
‘Because he was set upon by an officer of your command. Ill-treated. I am here to support his demand that disciplinary action be taken against the officer in question.’
‘I’d need to know more before I’ll take any action.’
‘I’ve friends in Washington, and at Yankton—!’ Lewis began, a threat which often worked with career officers.
‘Mister, I’ve friends in a lot of places but I don’t boast about them. Who might you be complaining about?’
‘One of your lieutenants. This man was peacefully travelling when the officer stopped him, took his horse and made him walk back to Shacktown.’
‘From the Belle Pourche?’ asked Dusty. ‘Sergeant Kallan, have the bugler blow for Mr. Cardon.’
‘From the Belle Pourche,’ agreed Lewis, throwing an angry look at Cato who snarled something under his breath. ‘Where he was merely looking—’
‘I’ve read Mr. Cardon’s report on the incident. The man was on the Black Hills side of the river and one of the scouts fetched him back. It had been the second time Mr. Cardon caught him trying to cross the river.’
Lewis had come to the Fort to test the mettle of the man in charge. He found himself tangling with a tough, determined young officer who did not appear to fear threats of repercussions from friends in high places. He’d brought the rusher along to show the man how much influence he had, only it did not seem such a good idea now as he didn’t appear to have any influence.
‘That’s him!’ yelped the rusher, pointing to where Cardon came running towards them in answer to the bugle call. Then the man pointed to where Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid came along at a slower pace, having been with Cardon both on the patrol in question and when the bugle call sounded. ‘Them two was the scouts with him. That black-dressed ‘un came after me across—’
The words died unsaid as Lewis thrust an elbow into the man’s ribs but it was too late. Dusty looked at the man, then turned to Cardon who halted and brought off a salute straight from the drill manual.
‘Did you make this civilian walk from the Belle Pourche, mister?’ Dusty asked, returning the salute.
‘Yes, sir. As I put in my report this was the second time I’d warned him about trying to get into the Black Hills. I thought a stiffer lesson might work this time.’
‘They made me walk while they rode around me, Captain,’ wailed the rusher, raising one boot to show a hole in the sole. ‘They made me walk back in these boots.’
‘In that correct, mister?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cardon.
‘You shouldn’t’ve done it.’
Cardon’s face showed it’s surprise at the words. He stared at Dusty as if he couldn’t believe his ears. Since getting to know Dusty he’d grown to expect backing from the small Texan, yet Dusty seemed to be deserting him in a most public manner. The rusher beamed in delight as he thought of getting his revenge on the young lieutenant. Lewis also looked pleased, he put Dusty’s words down to a change of stand in the face of his threats. The small Texan must have reconsidered his words and decided to get out from under while he could. None of the officers or sergeants would follow his orders now.
‘No, sir,’ Dusty went on. ‘You shouldn’t have made him walk back in those boots, mister. You should have taken them off and made him do it barefoot. The next rusher you catch on his second try at crossing do just that and haul him here to the guardhouse when you get back. You acted right, mister.’
Three startled faces stared at Dusty. The rusher’s mouth dropped open and he seemed to be contemplating flight. Cardon’s face fought to remain emotionless but he could hardly hold down a smile of delight. Lewis stood with a scowl on his face and rage filling him.
‘You’ve no right to do that, Captain Fog,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m registering an official protest against the attitude you’re encouraging among your men. I feel that as mayor of Shacktown I should be informed where your patrols will be, so as to be able to tell folks the areas to avoid.’
‘Yeah, I bet you would,’ grinned Dusty. ‘My patrols will be out daily and covering the length of the Belle Pourche. They’ve orders to turn back any rusher who tries to cross the river. I’ll back them no matter how they carry out their orders. Understand that, Mr. Lewis.’
‘I protest it!’ Lewis bellowed back. ‘Both as a civic leader, a citizen of the United States and a member of the bar. I’ll have your coat off your back for this, Captain Fog. I’ll break you—’
‘If you’re not out of these gates
pronto
, mister,’ Dusty suddenly snapped, ‘I’ll have you thrown in the guardhouse.’
‘You and who else?’ snarled Cato with mistimed loyalty.
‘Just me,’ Dusty replied. ‘And take your hand away from your gun.’
Cato stood up on the seat of the buggy, his face mean as a starving silver-tip grizzly and his hand hovering the butt of his Colt. Then suddenly the small Texan was no longer small. He stood towering above all of them, he dominated the scene.
‘Sit down, Cato!’ Lewis ordered. His concern was less for the possibility of shooting than for the certainty that his man would die if he tried to touch a gun.
For once Cato needed no second telling. He’d seen good men with their guns before and knew that here stood a man the equal of the best. His chances against such a man were less than nil. Slowly he sank down to the seat and reached for the reins. His boss climbed into the buggy and the rusher came towards it but Lewis snarled an order and Cato drove off without the man.
Dusty stood watching the buggy leave and the rusher hobbling painfully after it. He smiled and the smile was mirrored on the faces of the men around him.
‘So endeth the first lesson,’ he drawled. ‘Let’s have some work done, Mr. Cardon. And don’t forget what I told you.’
‘No, sir,’ answered Cardon. ‘I never do, sir.’
With that he headed back to supervise his company as they groomed their horses. Dusty turned to Kallan and resumed his talking as if nothing had happened but he knew it had. Lewis would have things to think about now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Three days went by after Bruno Lewis tried, and failed, to make his impression on Dusty Fog. The rushers no longer tried to cross the Belle Pourche in daytime for fear of being caught. The few who thought of trying at night mostly gave it up for only at certain points could a night crossing be chanced and there was rarely time to make a careful study of the lie of the land without the added risk of a patrol detecting them.
In Shacktown much changed. The few rushers who remained had little money to throw around in the saloon or brothel. Bruno Lewis and his guns faced one group of indignant men but were forced to pay back money advanced for word of how to cross the Belle Pourche in safety. Lewis, in a cold rage, headed for the sutler’s and warned Madlarn to either learn where the patrols went—or else.
The threat left Madlarn in a real muck-sweat, for he knew Lewis did not warn without meaning to carry it out. Madlarn’s faith in himself had been severely shaken since his beating at the hands of the small Texan. His trust in the ability of Tuck and Kete had likewise undergone a reverse. He doubted if they would be capable of handling Bruno Lewis’ gunmen in the event of trouble.
So Madlarn laid his cards flat before Noreen when she came in for a morning session of love-making. He did his part and then, lying beside her on the bed, looked down and tried to put on his best charm.
‘You’ve got to find out where the patrols are, Noreen,’ he said.
Flat on her back, hair dishevelled and mouth hanging open a little as she caught her breath once more, Noreen Kallan looked the man over in disgust. She sat up the better to study his fattening frame and suddenly felt sickened by him. He had none of the vitality of her husband and made a poor substitute. At best Madlarn gave no more than the mechanics of love and she was finding it hard to make her imagination do the rest. Suddenly she wanted no more to do with him and felt that she must get him done with for keeps.
‘How could I find out?’ she asked. ‘The patrols go out under sealed orders. The only man who knows where they’re going in advance is Captain Fog.’
‘Couldn’t you get around him?’
The disgust and loathing showed plain in her eyes now. ‘I couldn’t and I don’t think I’d try even if I could.’
‘Why not?’ said Madlarn in something nearer a whine than a snarl.
‘You wouldn’t understand, Karl. I’m not even sure I do myself. Go fetch a bottle in, will you. We’ll see what we can work out.’
Madlarn rose, pulled on his shirt and trousers, then headed for the bar. He wanted a drink badly and felt that after a couple of snorts of whisky and some of his charm she would agree to help. Only with Noreen’s aid might he learn what he must know. Then he could kiss her goodbye for her demands proved too wearing for him. Whatever he did he must not let her know that.
In the bar Tuck and Kete were working, idly cleaning glasses. They both threw broad grins at their boss as he entered. Madlarn did not wear his coat or a tie and his shirt neck hung open, on the side of his throat, clearly visible, was a brownish oval bruise.
‘Been busy, boss?’ grinned Tuck.
‘Shut your mouth!’ snarled Madlarn, taking up a bottle of his best whisky. ‘I don’t need your wit.’
The main doors of the building opened even as he spoke. Madlarn’s face lost what little colour it possessed as he saw the three men who entered.
The day was warm and Dusty Fog strolled back from watching a section of men learning sabre-fighting from horseback. With Dusty walked sergeants Magoon and Kallan, for it had been men from Magoon’s company on the training and Kallan was a first-rate sabre fighter.
From his arrival Dusty had found but little time to spend with Mark and the Kid, for he was fully occupied with the running of the Fort. His two friends knew this and performed their duties as scouts for the various patrols, or spent their leisure time escorting Joanna on fishing and shooting trips, much to the annoyance of Jarrow and Cardon, who found themselves too busy to play escort.
Dusty himself saw the girl often, but he could not spend time during parade hours to be social or act as escort. This day had been a good example for he’d not found time even to return to his office since inspecting the battalion on muster parade.
‘I reckon a cold beer’d go down right now,’ he remarked to the two sergeants. ‘What do you say?’
‘I’ve never been known to refuse a beer, Cap’n darlin’,’ replied Magoon.
‘You sure haven’t,’ grinned Kallan. ‘What’s Madlarn’s stock like?’
‘Real good and cold as a mountain stream,’ said Magoon, licking his lips at the prospect.
‘Let’s give it a whirl then,’ drawled Dusty, grateful that he could talk naturally instead of sticking to the way van Druten would address his men. ‘But if the beer’s not cold you’ll be sergeant of the guard every day you come off patrol.’
Saying that Dusty led the way to the sutler’s building. They stepped on to the porch and Kallan opened the door for Dusty, allowing him to be first to enter. Magoon went next and Kallan brought up the rear. At this hour of the morning the bar-room had no customers, only the three men behind the bar.
This was the first time Dusty had entered the sutler’s bar since his hectic first day. For all that he was surprised at the startled expressions he saw on the faces of Madlarn and his two men. They all stared towards him as seeing a ghost and Madlarn threw a nervous look at the door which led to his quarters and the rear of the building. Then Madlarn stood staring like a mesmerized rabbit faced by a weasel as the men came nearer.
‘Three beers, Madlarn,’ boomed Magoon. ‘And make them cold, for my sake.’
A look of relief came to the faces of Tuck and Kete, even Madlarn got some of the colour back to his face. He nodded to Tuck who produced the bottles of beer from beneath the counter while Kete fetched out beer schooners. Madlarn ran a tongue-tip across his lips and threw another look over his shoulder towards the door.
‘We don’t often see you in here, Captain Fog,’ he said.
Whatever Dusty might have replied to the words never did get said. The door behind the bar opened and Madlarn staggered back, his hand going to the open neck of his shirt, trying to hide the bite mark on his throat. He saw the rage in Slasher Kallan’s face and fell back a pace.
Dressed in her gingham frock, but fastening it up as she came through the door, without her shoes or stockings and with hair rumpled, Noreen Kallan came into the bar. The way the door opened she could not see the three customers at first and she asked:
‘Where’s the drink you promised me, K—’
Her voice died away as she saw her husband and the other two men beyond the bar. Her face lost its colour and she stood rooted to the spot for the moment. There could be no doubt as to why she’d been in the back with Madlarn, her unbuttoned frock and lack of shoes and stockings pointed clearly to her previous actions as did the way she looked generally. She staggered slightly, her hand catching the edge of the door for support. Never had Slasher caught her out in one of her indiscretions, not until this moment.
A low, almost beastlike snarl came from Kallan’s lips. He seemed to be the first one to recover from the shock of finding Noreen in the building. The woman saw her husband throw himself towards the bar, hands reaching out towards Madlarn, who backed hurriedly so his shoulders hit the wall. Noreen gave a cry of mortification and retreated through the door, slamming it behind her. She fled along the passage, pausing only to grab up her shoes, then she let herself out of the back door and fled towards the Fort. Behind her she could hear nothing and did not know what might be happening in the sutler’s building, only that whatever it was her life as Slasher Kallan’s wife was over.
Dusty came out of his shock at seeing Kallan’s wife. He saw the sergeant leap at Madlarn and knew he must intervene or see murder done. There was no time to give orders, even if they would be obeyed. Kallan’s temper had snapped and he would be deaf to any words.
So Dusty did not waste words. He struck with the
tegazana
, the handsword of karate. He did not use a clenched fist for that would be too slow to stop Kallan at such a moment. With fingers extended instead of bent, held rigidly together, thumb bent over the palm of his hand, Dusty struck as if he was making a back-hand slash with a sabre. The edge of his hand smashed into the back of Kallan’s neck and the sergeant seemed to crumple in mid-stride, then go down like a back-broken rabbit.
‘Get him out of here, Magoon,’ Dusty ordered.
Although he’d never in his life felt less like obeying an order, the big Irishman bent and gripped Kallan’s arm. He lifted Kallan to his feet, slipped an arm between the other’s legs and draped Kallan across his shoulders. Magoon headed for the door, the rage which filled him against Madlarn not lessening as he kicked open the doors and left the building.
Dusty allowed Magoon to leave before he turned towards Madlarn once more. The small Texan rubbed the heel of his right hand against the palm of his left, working the ache from it. He knew the danger of using any karate blow and hoped he had not struck too hard. Kallan was a tough man and should take no harm from the
tegatana
blow. He had to be stopped and stopped fast and Dusty did it the only way he could.
Cold grey eyes watched the men behind the bar. Tuck and Kete stood away from their boss as if wishing to dissociate themselves from him. They knew who Dusty was and they could both see the Texan was on the prod. When a man like Dusty Fog went on the prod it behoved all who might have crossed him to hunt for the storm shelters.
‘Get out, both of you,’ he said quietly.
Just as quietly, the two men eased by their boss. Tuck opened the door and slipped through it followed by Kete, who closed it after him just as quietly. The ticking of the wall clock sounded loud in the stillness of the room.
Standing alone Madlarn felt the cold hand of death on him. He licked his dry lips and watched Dusty’s face, trying to read something from the impassive face and failing in his try.
‘She kept coming here,’ Madlarn croaked. ‘Forcing herself on me. What could I do—’
Before he finished what he hoped would be a speech throwing the full blame on to Noreen, Madlarn wished he’d never started it. The cold grey eyes never left his face, they seemed to bite down inside him, make his stomach crawl with fear.
‘We done nothing wrong—!’ he whined.
Still Dusty did not reply. The Texan’s eyes looked pointedly at the mark on Madlarn’s neck. Slowly the sutler lifted his hand to feel the swollen surface of the bite.
‘You’ll be gone from here before nightfall,’ Dusty said quietly.
‘But this place. I sank—’
Madlarn might never have spoken for all the notice Dusty took of him.
‘Sergeant Kallan’s one of my men. If I leave you here he’ll kill you and I wouldn’t blame him in the least. But I’d still have to hold him for a court martial and the whole filthy game’d come out. Even if he didn’t hang for the killing it’d break him. He’s a good soldier, deserves better than that.’
‘It might not do you any good, either,’ snarled Madlarn, seeing a chance by which he might yet get clear. ‘Not to have it known what’s been going on—’
In his rage and fear Madlarn made the mistake of coming near to the bar counter. Dusty’s left hand lashed around, the back of it smashing into the man’s mouth and sprawling him into the bar. Madlarn snarled in rage, his hand went to his gunless side, clawed at it. Then his eyes went to the double-barrelled ten-gauge shotgun under the counter.
‘Go ahead!’ snapped Dusty. ‘Try for it!’
In that moment Madlarn knew Dusty was aware of the shotgun under the bar. Not only aware of it but willing to let the sutler make his play for it. Madlarn became painfully aware that Dusty no longer wore his regulation sword belt with a revolver in a closed-topped holster. Instead he wore the buscadero gunbelt and in the holsters hung a brace of Colts. Dusty Fog’s gun-speed and his ability to handle the matched Colts were known to all. The small Texan could let him start his move and kill him in what would pass as self defence.
‘You got no right to make me leave this place,’ whined Madlarn, fear once more crawling over him.
Dusty’s right hand crossed his body, the white handled Colt almost seeming to fly from the left-side holster into it. Going into what would become known as the gunman’s crouch, legs slightly bent, feet a little apart, body thrown forward to reduce the target, Dusty lined his gun. He held it waist-high almost centrally as he lined it full on the target. His left hand started to drive back the hammer and allow it to fall again, the shots thundering out like the roll of a Gatling gun.
Often Madlarn had heard and joined in arguments as to whether a fanning could be done with a gun and make hits. He had always claimed no man could fan a Colt and hit anything he aimed at. Right now Madlarn learned he was wrong, for Dusty Fog both fanned and hit his mark.
At each hand stroke the four-and-three-quarter-inch barrel of the Civilian model Peacemaker flamed and black powder swirled around Dusty. To the tune of every shot came a crash of splinters of glass, splashes of raw whisky, sprayed from one of the bottles behind the bar. Madlarn stood as if turned to stone, some of the glasses and whisky struck him in passing but he did not dare move. He’d no idea how long, or little, time he spent like that. Actually it was around three seconds from the time it took Dusty to draw to emptying his fifth chamber. For all that to Madlarn it seemer to be much longer. At any moment he expected to feel lead smash into his body and stood waiting for it.
The last shot sounded, slowly the powder smoke blew away and to his surprise Madlarn found himself standing alive and unharmed by the bullets. His legs shook and sweat poured down his face. He stared at Dusty who slowly pumped the empty cartridge cases from the chamber and replaced them with loaded rounds. That Dusty used both hands for the job did not give Madlarn the courage to try and grab the shotgun. It lay under the bar, so near, yet he knew he would never be able to move fast enough to get the weapon and prevent Dusty from killing him with the second Colt.
‘You’re a lousy, yellow, no-good skunk,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘And I’m telling you just the once. Be long gone from here by nightfall or I’ll be coming after you and when I come I’m shooting on sight.’
A shudder ran through Madlarn’s frame. He no longer looked burly but appeared to have collapsed into himself. Madlarn had seen Dusty in action, seen that flickering half second in which Dusty threw his guns and shot. Even Cato and the other guns hired by Bruno Lewis were far from that class. If Dusty Fog said he’d be back, back he would come and he would not break his word.
With a gesture of supreme contempt Dusty turned and walked from the room. At first Madlarn watched the blue uniformed figure, the squared back shoulders, the back so contemptuously presented. He was being offered a chance. All he needed was the courage to take it. One step would bring him to the shotgun, then he could bring it up, line and fire it. At that range, with a nine buckshot charge, he could not miss.
Only he lacked the guts to make the move. He knew Dusty did not take such a chance blindly. There would be noise as he stepped towards the gun, still more noise as he brought it up and cocked it. One sound would be enough to warn Dusty Fog and the small Texan’s turn would be fast, ending with a gun roaring in his hand. Madlarn did not think pure luck guided the shots into the bottles behind the bar. He did not think luck would be needed for Dusty to hit a man-sized mark across the width of the room.
So Madlarn stood without movement as the doors swung closed behind Dusty. Then the sutler raised a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his face. The door behind the bar inched open and the scared face of Tuck peeped around it. The big man looked relieved to see his boss in one piece.
‘What happened, boss?’ he asked.
A shudder passed through Madlarn’s frame, a shudder he could not have hid no matter how he tried. He turned a white, scared face to the man.
‘Saddle me a hoss.’
‘Going to see Lewis?’ inquired Tuck. ‘Ask him for help?’
‘Go saddle the hoss. I’m pulling out of here.’
‘How about us?’ Kete asked, stepping through the door.
‘How about you?’
‘We got pay coming.’
At any other time Madlarn might have taken a different attitude but right now his fear of Dusty Fog rode over it.
‘You can come with me if you like. I’ll pay you before I go if you don’t.’
‘Will Dusty Fog be back?’ said Tuck, throwing a worried glance at the door.
‘Tonight.’
‘We’re coming with you.’