Quiet Town (12 page)

“Yowee!” Rusty Willis whooped. “You come just in time, Stone.”

The crowd held back, watchful and the rumblings of rage dying down. They knew, most of them, who the new arrivals were. The scarred faced young man was Stone Hart, leader of the Wedge, Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy’s boss. Fanning out in a line between Stone Hart and his cook, Chow Willicka, in the wagon, were the other, permanent members of the crew. Tall, lean, middle-aged Waggles Harrison, the foreman. Tall, red haired, handsome dandy Johnny Raybold, the scout of the outfit. Next was a short, stocky rider called Silent Churchman, known to belie both names. Seated a grulla, next to the wagon and looking miserable, was a medium-sized man with a long, drooping moustache. He was Peaceful Gunn, last but by no means least of the Wedge crew, as tough a bunch of riders as could be found anywhere in the West.

It was a bunch which would hold back any crowd, particularly when backed by three shotgun armed men. Still more when they were siding Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid.

Dusty saw the wavering again and knew that he must strike while the iron was hot. The crowd were seeing that they could only take Happy Day by force and now the odds were even greater against doing it. Dusty was about to speak when Stone Hart asked, “What’s it all about?”

“They’re protecting one of them murdering Calhouns,” Fang yelled back. He could see there was still a chance if he could persuade Stone Hart and his men to change sides. “We want him.”

“Who says he’s a Calhoun?” Stone inquired.

Some of the crowd were wondering the same thing now it was pointed out to them. “Yeah, Fang,” a miner turned to look back at the gambler. “Who says that young feller’s a Calhoun. I’ve met him and he’s a real nice young feller. Besides he works for Miss Roxie.”

This time the rumble of agreement was not the savage mob snarl, but more in a query. “Where’s the feller who recognised him at, Fang?” another man shouted.

“Down to Bearcat Annie’s,” Fang replied, seeing a way out. The man would identify Happy and the mob would feel justified in taking, the law into their own hands. The presence of the Wedge and the shotgun guards would add to the fury of the men, stir them into action. “I’ll get him.”

“Stay where you are,” Dusty snapped. “Don’t chance it Fang, or I’ll cut you down. One of you men go fetch him.”

The crowd quietened down, night was coming on now and the sun dropping down towards the horizon. There was still more than enough light for them to see what they were doing even yet. The crowd stood back waiting. Stone Hart swung down from his horse and went on to the porch, nodding to his two hands, then speaking to Dusty. “There’s a one-eyed man in the game, Cap’n Fog,” he said. “That hombre in the saloon doesn’t seem to think they should be lynching this Calhoun.”

“Neither do I,” Dusty answered; he knew Stone Hart by reputation. Stone, like Dusty, was an ex-Confederate officer although they had never met. That scar was caused by a Union Army sabre, and the man who caused it never made another.

The eyes of the crowd were all on Bearcat Annie’s saloon.

They saw a man come from the side door with the miner who had gone to fetch him. The two men started to walk towards the crowd and from behind them a shadowy shape came to the side door of the saloon.

“Drop!” Dusty suddenly yelled, his right hand gun coming out, lining and firing, in one flickering blurr of movement. The bullet hummed over the head of the buckskin-dressed man, splattering into the wall of the saloon near the door. At the same movement a shot roared from the shadowy shape but his aim was put off by Dusty’s bullet. The shot ripped the hat from the man’s head as he, with remarkable presence of mind, dropped to the ground.

Fang saw what was happening and knew he must get away. His hand dropped to his side. Across the street he saw the Ysabel Kid’s lithe figure lunging forward, bowie knife sweeping up and then flikering out as he threw it. Fang’s gun was almost clear of leather when he stiffened, something smashing into him. His hands clawed up in a convulsive move at the ivory hilt of the bowie knife which seemed to be sprouting from his chest. For a brief couple of seconds he stood there, then hunched forward and fell down.

The buckskin-dressed man was up and running, making for the jail as fast as he could go. He swung up on the porch but there was no more shooting from the saloon.

“You’re the man who started all this,” Dusty said to him. “Is Happy here one of the Calhoun gang?”

“I never said he was,” the other man replied. “Sure his name’s Calhoun. Mine’s James, but that don’t make me a kin to ole Dingus and Frank.” His eyes went to the crowd, contempt and disgust lashing at them. “His name’s Calhoun and he was with Bronco when he was a button, but he never rode with gang. You take off his shirt and see the scars Bronco left, whipping him, to make him ride with the gang. He never did.”

“Reckon you’d best tell them all you know,” Dusty remarked, watching the Kid swing from the porch and go through the crowd. Men older than the black-dressed boy, bigger and stronger also, made way for the Ysabel Kid as he went to collect his knife.

“Sure I’ll tell ‘em. It’ll happen make them real proud. I met Happy Day in Sioux country. He was riding scout for the Army. It was him who got out of Fort Jo when the Sioux surrounded it. Snuck through the Sioux and stole one of their hosses to get away. Five of ‘em followed him, we found them on the way back. One put an arrow into him but he kept on riding. You likely heard what happened. He got to Carrington and they relieved the fort. I went with them and took a bullet. I was in hospital, that’s where I saw his back. He was unconscious and raving. I learned who he was then. Bronco Calhoun took him and his mother off a stage and made them stop with him. He tried to turn Happy there into one of his gang and Happy wouldn’t. He killed Happy’s mother.”

The crowd were uneasy now, looking at each other. Happy Day felt a warm hand in his. Roxie was moving forward, her eyes blazing as she looked at the mob. “That’s the sort of man you’re going to lynch!”

One of the miners stepped forward, his face sheepish and his eyes on the ground. Then he braced back his shoulders and looked at Happy. “Ain’t much a man can say, friend. But I reckon every man here’s real ashamed and sorry for what’s just happened.”

“Not as sorry as you’d have been had you tried it,” Dusty answered, then as the Kid joined him snapped. “Let’s go.”

“Where are you going, Dusty?” Roxie asked although she could guess the answer even before it was given.

“To Bearcat Annie’s place. This time she’s gone way too far.”

A woman came around the side of the jail, running at a speed which belied her age. It was Matt Gillem’s wife, her face ashy white at the strain. “Cap’n Fog,” she gasped, and a man caught her, supporting her. “Cap’n Fog. It’s the Calhoun gang!”

“Where, ma’am?” Dusty was from the porch.

“Headed for the bank, I saw them and came right off.”

Then Dusty saw the reason for the lynching attempt. Saw it even as he started to give his orders. “Stone, your boys are deputised. Let’s go.”

The Texans left their horses, they would be better off fighting on foot. All the crowd gave angry yells and started to follow Dusty and his men; he did not try to stop them, knowing it would be no use and a waste of time to try.

Roxie suddenly realised Happy was not going with the other men. She looked at him, his face was working with emotion. Then he went to swing astride Johnny Raybold’s big
bayo coyote
horse. The girl watched him, a sudden sick hurt coming over her.

Happy Day was not headed for the bank. He was riding out of town. Choking down the rising tears Roxie mounted Peaceful Gunn’s roan. Disregarding the fact she was showing more of her legs than a young lady should, she rode after him. If Happy Day was deserting her and leaving town it meant he had fooled them all. He really was one of the gang. In that case she was going to kill him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

BRONCO CALHOUN watched his men swinging from their horses in front of the Quiet Town bank. His sons and the four remaining men taken on since they came to town were to do the actual hold-up while he, as was his custom, stayed outside. From the town they heard the mob roar still rising. Calhoun nodded and his three sons led the way into the bank, guns in hand.

Standing with his shoulder rammed against the wall of a building Bronco Calhoun listened to the noise. He could tell there was a slightly different sound to it. Then it died away and a single shot came to his ears. He could not hear the shot fired in the saloon. Something told him all was not going according to plan, his instincts, worn fine by long years of dangerous trails, warned him. He was sure he had seen a woman come from a house nearby, Gillem’s house, now he came to think about it. She had come out, glanced at him and walked away. What worried him was he could not get over the feeling she had been watching him and his men. Bronco Calhoun was no fool. A man did not defy the law, even the rough and ready frontier law of the West, without a whole lot of savvy. One thing he never did was underestimate the thinking powers of others. The old woman might have recognised him, his face was on many wanted posters and his description circulated. She could have recognised him, or maybe guessed from the action of his men what was happening. Instead of panicking she left her house as if going for a stroll, came on to the street without any sign of suspicion. Right now she would, or could, be going for help.

The mob roar had died down now. He twisted to try and see what was happening in the bank. He could guess; the tellers would be lined up with hands raised and some of his men were scooping money into cornsacks. Soon they would be coming out and making for their horses for the rapid ride into the fast coming dark and safety.

It was then Bronco Calhoun heard a sound which made him swing round. His senses were as keen and alert as any animal’s and the faint noise which attracted his attention would have gone unnoticed by many a man. He caught the sound and knew what it was; men were coming, several men. It took the old outlaw just half a second to decide what to do. He could stay and warn the other men, or he could make good his escape. His feet were already moving as he made his decision. Like the other men he had ridden to the bank and his horse was tethered with the others in front of the building. That was why the other men trusted him to stay outside and keep watch for them. What they did not know, not even his sons, was he had taken the precaution of leaving a second horse out back of town. The three sons who were left to him were not smart, he regarded them as he did the strangers working with him, as tools. There was no remorse in him as he turned to desert them. Even as he faded down an alley between two houses he saw the Texas men coming towards the bank.

Grat Calhoun led the other men from the bank, glancing around. What he saw made him drop his cornsack and claw at the gun in his holster. The rest of the gang came crowding out behind him and halted as they saw men moving in on them. It was then Kennet showed his courage. Like the tellers he had been held under by the guns of the gang, remembering Dusty Fog’s advice and not trying anything. He had been forced to open the safe under threat of having his tellers killed, watched the money swept into cornsacks. Then the gang left and he heard angry curses, guessing something was wrong. He moved fast, crossing the floor and bringing the powerful door of the bank swinging closed behind the men. One of the gang saw the door moving. He tried to stop it but Kennet, with the strength of desperation, slammed it and jerked across one of the bolts.

Dusty Fog led his men forward, seeing the gang coming out of the bank. His hands crossed and brought the guns out. “Throw ‘em high!” he shouted.

Grat Calhoun’s gun came up, firing before he had lined it. Flame blossomed from Dusty Fog’s gun barrels and the outlaw went backwards into the other men, throwing them into confusion. The rest of the gang elected to fight, guns coming out as the other men swarmed up behind Dusty Fog and from between other houses. Guns roared and crashed around the front of the bank, the outlaws breaking for their horses, shooting as they went. Two more of the men went down, one of Bronco Calhoun’s sons and a fast shooting Texan who put down a miner and wounded another before he fell. The last Calhoun pitched over, hands clawing at the reins of his horse. Another man dropped the cornsack he was carrying, his gun swinging at the Ysabel Kid who was darting forward fast. The fast-moving young man dived over the hitching rail at the side of the street, landing and bringing his old Dragoon gun into line. Twice he fired and the man went down.

Then the remains of the Calhoun gang were on their horses, two men riding through a hail of lead, one bleeding badly. They got clear and raced out of town, but they went empty handed. The robbery of the Quiet Town bank, like the attempt in Northfield* many years after, came to nothing. A tough gang was shattered by the guns of the enraged and honest men of the town.

Dusty was the first man to the bodies, even as the wind blew gunsmoke from the street. He went carefully for with men like those one did not take chances. One gun was out and ready for use as he went forward. With his left hand he rolled Grat Calhoun over and looked down; the man was dead. That figured, Dusty did not have the time to attempt any fancy shooting. In an affair like that a man shot to kill and tried to make every shot count. He glanced around at the other men who crowded up and were examining the other bodies. Mark Counter went to each in turn, then came back to Dusty. “They’ve all cashed, but we didn’t get Bronco.”

“He’s the one we wanted,” Dusty answered.

“Hold it, Dusty!” The Kid moved forward. “I was near on sure I saw someone sneak off down between the houses. It’d be real like him to do that.”

“Rusty, take charge here,” Dusty snapped. “Mark, Lon, Doc, Let’s go.”

There was no chance of getting Bronco Calhoun now, for the old outlaw would have hidden a horse somewhere nearby and even now would be headed for it. He would be long gone before they got to where he had hidden it. One thing Dusty knew, he meant to have Bronco Calhoun this time. If he did not the Ysabel Kid would have lost his skill at following a track.

The Ysabel Kid was thinking the same thing. He took it as a personal slight that he missed connecting the man he had seen disappearing with Bronco Calhoun. Now he promised himself that he would take after the wily old outlaw and stick to the trail until one of them died.

Bronco Calhoun, not knowing he was the cause of the Ysabel Kid making such a grim decision moved between the houses and along the quiet streets of the town. He shambled along, ignoring the people who came from houses as guns roared. They were all talking, shouting to each other and pointing, not one of them gave him a second look. He looked like any other old drifter who might be ambling around the town. He felt relieved when he was through the houses, ahead was one of the deserted freight company buildings. Behind it, at the corral, was the horse he had taken and staked out before he even went back to collect his gang.

For a time he was thinking about the man the crowd were to have lynched. The man they said was a Calhoun. It was not one of his sons for they were all with him when the word went out. Then he remembered the woman he had taken from the stagecoach and the boy he had tried to turn into a vicious killer like the rest of the Calhoun clan. The hair on the back of old Bronco Calhoun’s neck rose as he remembered Dayton Calhoun, looking at him after a whipping and saying, “One day I’m going to kill you.”

The man at the jail could not be Dayton. The boy was dead. Left afoot, his mother dead and likely his head broke by the gun barrel, he could not be alive. The Sioux were out and the boy must be dead. If he was not—. Bronco Calhoun felt a cold hand on him. He remembered that boy very well, remembered thinking what a deadly fighting man young Dayton would be. There was something about that boy, even then, that Bronco could recognise. That deep capacity for hating which made a man a killer.

The corral was ahead now and he could see the horse standing where he had left it saddled and waiting for him. The horse snorted as he came nearer, his pace quickening and for once his usual wolf caution deserted him. The shooting ended behind him and he knew his absence would be noted by those Texan boys who ran the law. He did not know if he had been seen but it was not a good time for a man to wait round to find out. He was unfastening the reins when a voice from off to his right said. “Riding out, paw?”

Calhoun twisted round. A tall, buckskin-dressed young man came from where he had been standing concealed by the corner post of the corral. The young man shoved back his Union campaign hat with his left hand, the right never moving from where it hung by his gun butt. There was something in his eyes that made Bronco Calhoun pause and study the young man, reading more than just a friendly greeting in the words. Letting loose of the reins Calhoun turned to face the newcomer, an ingratiating grin coming to his face. It was the grin which had disarmed a young sheriff one time. Bronco Calhoun left the sheriff on the floor with a bullet through his stomach.

“Who be ye, son?” he inquired, knowing this was no chance meeting.

“I’m Dayton, remember me?”

Dayton. The word hit Calhoun like a club. He had almost been sure who this hate-faced young man was. Now he knew for sure and for the first time in his life really felt scared.

“I mind ye, boy. But it’s been some time since I saw you last. Sorry I can’t spend time talking to you. I’m in a smidging of a hurry. You knows how it be with a man like me?”

“I know how it is,” Happy answered. “I know real good. But you’re not going any place. That’ll be the boys getting shot, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about, boy.” Calhoun lifted his left hand to the saddlehorn.

“You know all right. You’ve left your bunch at the bank. They’ll be going under now. Or have gone under. You’re the only one left.”

“That’s right, boy. I’m the only one left. So I’ll be headed out afore they know I’m gone.”

Happy looked at the man who had whipped the skin from his back more than once and his voice dripped hatred. “Like I said, you ain’t going no place.”

“You won’t let them Johnny Rebs get me, will you, boy?” There was a whine in Bronco Calhoun’s voice which was not entirely acting. He was afraid now, more than at any other time in his life. “They’d hang me for sure, boy. You can’t let them do it to me, boy. Not to your own father.”

“You’re not my father. And they won’t hang you.”

“They sure will.” Calhoun watched Happy’s face, trying to locate some sign of mercy. All he could see was the bitter, cold hatred which had turned an amiable youngster into a merciless hunter, seeking out his prey. “You know what them Rebs are.”

“Sure I do. Alvin Travis was one of them. He found me when you’d pulled out. He taught me everything I know.” Happy’s hand moved, the fingers crooked slightly, ready to lift the gun out. “Fill your hand.”

For an instant Bronco Calhoun thought of accepting the challenge. Then he noted the stance, that relaxed yet so-ready way of standing. It told him that whatever Dayton might be he was a skilled man with a gun. He was in a class which the wily outlaw did not intend to match in a fair fight. “I’m not stacking out against you, boy. I’m an old man, wouldn’t have no chance against you.”

Slowly Calhoun lowered his left hand, keeping it well clear of his gun butt. He unbuckled the gunbelt and allowed it to fall to his feet. Happy watched, his hand working, the fingers moving slowly, not with nervous tension but with controlled and deadly rage. He knew and Bronco Calhoun knew, that he could not shoot down an unarmed man.

“My mother didn’t have a chance against you. I’m going to kill you, old man. Just like I killed Deke.”

“It was you killed Deke, was it?” Calhoun growled, for a moment his anger almost taking control of him. “Why’d you do it?”

“To stop him backshooting as square a man as ever walked. Mark Counter licked Bert fair enough. That’s all you Calhouns were good for, backshooting.”

Bronco Calhoun held down his anger. “You killed your half-brother,” he hissed, watching for a chance to escape.

“I’d do it again. Those Texans played square with me. They gave me a chance to remember there were decent men alive. A man hunts lobo wolves all the time he gets to forget there’s other animals. Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid helped me remember that. I prayed you’d try and get Mark for killing Bert, but you didn’t. You stayed back and let them handle the dirty work, just like you always did. Like today. I knew you’d pull out and leave the rest when the shooting started. So I got a hoss and come round the town looking for your hoss. Then I stayed here and waited.”

Bronco Calhoun’s face did not change expression. He knew there was no way out but to kill this young man. He meant to kill Happy anyway, such a dangerous young man would never leave his trail. While Happy was alive Bronco Calhoun would never know a peaceful moment again.

“You going to kill me, boy?”

“One way or another.”

“Then let me pray first.”

“You pray?” There was disbelief in Happy’s voice.

“I led a bad life, son.” The whine was in the voice again, an old man begging for a favour. “Let me make my peace.”

Happy hesitated; he had heard of men repenting when death was close to them but did not believe it. He watched Bronco Calhoun remove his battered old black hat and hold it in front of his body, while his right hand slipped under it. Happy Day knew Bronco Calhoun well, very well. That was why he had circled the town and found the hidden horse, then waited. He knew Calhoun would try and escape, that was why he did not go with Dusty Fog and the others. Dusty was a fighting man, a very intelligent one at that. He did not know the way of Calhoun, the wily, savage old wolf. Happy did, he knew it very well.

For all his knowledge Happy was making a bad mistake. He was ignoring one of the rules Dusty had pressed on his deputies by allowing Bronco Calhoun to put a hand out of sight. It was a real bad mistake. There was one thing which Happy Day did not know about Bronco Calhoun. It was a thing which had cost other men their lives and was now likely to cost Happy Day his.