The Smoking Iron (9 page)

It was pretty steep going, and he let himself down cautiously from handhold to foot grip, then lost control and slid the last fifty feet.

He got up and dusted himself off, sauntered down to the rimrock road following close along the bank of the river, and plodded along it toward the town.

There were three buildings on Hermosa's Main Street. The nearest one as Dusty approached was a saloon. Four saddled horses stood at the hitchrack outside, and four men stood in a small group and curiously watched him approach head down and limping a little.

Observing their curious glances from under the brim of his black Stetson, Dusty couldn't repress a rueful little grin. He didn't blame them for being curious. He knew he must look plenty funny. Any man on foot is a marked man in the cow country, and his city suit and striped shirt must look mighty funny in Hermosa.

He took a deep breath and tilted his hat up as he approached the four men in front of the saloon. They all wore dusty range clothes and all carried guns. There wasn't anything remarkable about three of them.

The fourth was a head taller than the others, a rangy man with a big nose flattened down above a wide mouth. He wore a buckskin jacket that was decorated with fancy Mexican silver trinkets, and his holster was on his left hip instead of the right. It carried an ivory-handled .45 with the butt turned forward, hi position for a right-hand draw across the body. It was the first time Dusty had ever seen a gun carried in that manner, but he'd heard about men who claimed it was the fastest draw. He had always hankered to find out. Now, looking at the tall, hawk-faced stranger, he had a feeling that he'd have a chance to find out before very long. He just naturally didn't cotton to the man's looks.

But he stopped in front of the group and grinned at them all impartially, and asked, “Whereabouts could a man buy a hawse?”

The tall man spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dusty street and asked, “Walked far, stranger?”

“Not far. My hawse got snakebit down the road.”

“Where was you ridin' from?”

“Is that,” asked Dusty softly, “any of yore damned business?”

The other three punchers stiffened and quietly stepped aside, leaving Dusty and the fourth man facing each other.

A queer light flickered in the tall man's eyes. His expression did not change. He studied Dusty's city suit and the striped shirt, slid his gaze down to the slanting gun-belt and the holster that showed beneath the bottom of his coat. He spat into the street again and rumbled, “Sorta ringy, ain't yuh?”

“Sort of,” Dusty agreed bleakly.

There was a chill in the air as though a heavy cloud had blanketed out the sun, though the morning sky was cloudless. Glasses clinked inside the saloon and there was no other sound on the main street of Hermosa.

“No need,” the rangy man said, “to get yoreself bowed up like a rodeo bronc.”

“I reckon there ain't,” Dusty agreed.

The big man got the makings from his pocket and tore a brown paper from the book. He handed the small packet to Dusty. The morning air was warm again.

He sifted tobacco into his creased paper and offered the open sack to Dusty. “No need for you to buy a hawse neither,” he went on casually. “I'm Lon Boxley, roddin' the X L. I can put a man like you on the pay roll.”

“No matter where I'm ridin' from?” Dusty caught one of the yellow strings of the tobacco sack and pulled it shut, eyeing Boxley gravely.

“Don't matter much where a man's ridin' from,” Boxley countered easily. “It's where he's headed.”

“What makes you think I want a job?”

Boxley shrugged and lit his cigarette. “Save you buyin', a hawse.”

A rider was galloping headlong down the road from the top of the rimrocks. He pulled up in front of the saloon in a cloud of dust, and shouted, “There's hell to pay back down the road. Stagecoach turned over the hill. Driver's dead an' a passenger an' four of the hawses.”

“Any other passengers?” Boxley demanded.

“Nary a one.” The rider shook his head and mopped his face. “They was both shot. Two of the hawses, too.”

“A hold-up,” Boxley exclaimed. “Looks like it awright.

“The stage agent was right,” Boxley said, “about the sorrel that come trottin' in while ago.” He turned to Dusty swiftly. “You don't know nothin' about it?”

Dusty shook his head placidly. “I come up the rimrock road.”

There was another interruption. A pair of splendidly matched palominos came galloping around a bend at the other end of the block. They were harnessed to a buckboard driven by a girl who was standing up behind the dashboard sawing on the lines. She was hatless and her brown hair was flying in the wind.

The team slowed to a trot, tossing their heads impatiently, and to a walk as they came opposite the saloon. Dusty let smoke dribble from each nostril and lounged against a post looking at the girl.

Katie Rollins was prettier than the picture of her in his pocket. Lots prettier. She was the prettiest thing Dusty had ever laid eyes on. Her body was slender but girlishly rounded in jeans and a woolen shirt; her eyes glowed with that same wishful look the picture had showed and her lips were upcurved even as she asked anxiously, “Is the stage in yet, Lon? The one from Marfa?”

Lon Boxley swept off his hat and stepped down in the dust to lean over the front wheel of her buckboard. Dusty narrowed his eyes and watched the glow go away from her eyes. She tightened her lips and sat down suddenly, as though a blow to the solar plexus had left her limp. Her softly tanned cheeks whitened a little, and she put up one hand as though to ward off Lon Boxley's words.

Boxley leaned closer, speaking in a low, persuasive tone. Katie Rollins began to shake her head, seeming to brace her lithe young body on the high seat.

“I'm not whipped yet, Lon.” Her throaty voice carried easily to Dusty, lounging on the boardwalk. “I'll find some riders somewhere …”

Dusty spun his cigarette away and stepped into the street. He stopped behind Boxley and spoke over his head to the girl:

“Beggin' yore pardon, Ma'm. I heard you say some-thin' about findin' some riders. I'm sort of footloose …”

Boxley turned on him with a snarl. “You're already hired. Get back there and shut up.”

Dusty was looking up into Katie Rollins' face, into the surge of hope that lighted her eyes when he first spoke. He watched the light fade away to hopelessness as she took in his city rigging and as she heard Boxley's statement.

“You can have him, Lon,” she said helplessly. “The K T needs … a
man.
”

Dusty dropped his gaze to Boxley's face. He said, “I ain't signed on to take orders from you.”

“You heard her say she needed a man.”

“Know where she can find one?” Boxley sneered.

Dusty grinned at him. A terrifying lopsided grin. He shrugged his shoulders to loosen the tight coat, let it slide off and drop to the ground. He said, “Maybe I can prove it to her,” and drove his right fist into Boxley's face.

The tall rancher staggered back under the impact. Dusty turned away from him and asked Katie, “Still wonderin' where you can find a hand.”

Her eyes dilated and she cried, “Watch out!” pointing behind him.

Dusty whirled, his hand streaking to his gun. A bullet tugged at his shirt sleeve as he whirled. Lon Boxley lay in the dust with drawn gun.

Dusty's muzzle covered the fallen man and his finger was tight on the trigger when Katie cried out, “No, no,” and kept him from firing.

He stepped forward instead and kicked the gun out of Boxley's hand. Then he turned to face the three punchers who were edging forward toward the fracas.

He holstered his gun and asked harshly, “Which of you wants some of this trouble?”

They stopped and began to back away.

Without turning, he ordered Katie gruffly, “Drive up here close.”

She let the team come forward, saying in a strained voice, “You shouldn't …”

Dusty turned and vaulted into the front seat of the buckboard. He snatched the lines from the astonished girl's hands and whooped at the palominos.

They swerved in a short arc and broke into a gallop as Dusty sent a couple of bullets over the heads of the three men in the street behind them.

He holstered his gun and laughed down into Katie Rollins' face as her fists pounded on his muscular forearm.

“You said the K T needed a man,” he reminded her. “All right. You've got one. Which way is home?”

8

“You fool! Oh, you
fool!
” Katie Rollins cried. “You've ruined everything now.”

Dusty Morgan's lips tightened. He held the lines lax and allowed the palominos to let off steam by plunging ahead at a fast lope. They left the little village of Hermosa behind them swiftly, following the road in the shadow of the rimrocks southwestward with the river on their right.

Katie sank back away from him on the seat. She folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead. Stealing a sideways glance at her, Dusty saw a tear stealing down her tanned cheek.

He jerked his gaze back and looked straight ahead also. Tonelessly, he said, “I'm sorry, ma'm, if I done wrong. Sounded to me like you was in trouble an' I only aimed to help.”

Katie didn't reply for a time. The spirited team began to slow down, and Dusty brought them into a high-stepping trot with a gentle pressure on the lines.

“I am in trouble,” Katie Rollins admitted after a long silence. “I suppose you were trying to help out, but you picked the wrong way to do it.”

He could feel her eyes upon him and he held himself from turning to meet her gaze. “It was my fault,” the girl admitted honestly. “I shouldn't have said what I did about … about not wanting you because the K T needs a
man.
”

“No'm,” said Dusty. “I reckon you shouldn't of less'n you wanted it proved different.”

“But how was I to know?” She hesitated. “Those clothes of yours …”

“I reckon I did look funny in Hermosa,” Dusty agreed. “But what I wanta know is how-come I ruined things?”

“By having a run-in with Lon Boxley. You humiliated him in front of his men and me. You made a bitter enemy … and a dangerous one.”

Dusty shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “He had it comin' to him.”

“That's neither here nor there,” she cried. “He's been my only friend since dad died. Without his help there wouldn't
be
any Katie ranch. And after what you did this morning he'll kill you on sight if you stay around.”

Something in her voice made Dusty turn to look at her. “You sound like you'd care,” he marveled.

She glanced away quickly, a telltale spot of crimson burning in her cheek. “It means that you can't stay and work on the K T even if I wanted to hire you,” she told him primly. “A dead hand won't be any good to me.”

“Other men have tried to kill me,” Dusty told her.

“But Lon Boxley isn't other men. Did you notice the way he carries his gun?”

“Yeh. I noticed.”

“There's no man in the Big Bend that can go up against his draw. It looks awkward, but … it's dynamite.”

“I've heard about men that carried their guns that-away,” Dusty told her carelessly. “Always hankered, sort of, to see it in action.”

He felt her probing eyes on him again and turned to look at her. This time, she didn't turn away. She studied his face for a moment, then shook her head helplessly. “I don't understand you at all.”

“Just put me down for a driftin' waddie that don't like to get pushed around.”

“In those clothes?” There was an impish sort of chuckle in her voice.

Dusty looked down at himself and grinned. “I'll tell you about these clothes, ma'm. There was another feller that, well, he sort of got into a little trouble on account of this outfit. An' he wanted to get rid of it so we traded. I aimed to get some more first town I come to, but I got sort of hurried in Hermosa an' done neglected it.”

Katie seemed to accept his explanation at face value. “Even if you're not afraid of Lon,” she went on candidly, “he'd never forgive me if I gave you a job. And no one man could replace the help he's given me.”

“You've got me plumb curious,” Dusty told her. “What kinda trouble are you in an' what kinda help has Boxley been givin' you?”

“I'm Katie Rollins. Since dad died I've been trying to run the Katie ranch.”

Dusty nodded. “I've heard of the K T spread. An' I've been wonderin' whereabouts it lay. Ridin' into the Big Bend I ain't seen no good cow country. Have you got a breed of stock that's trained to graze on greasewood?”

Katie laughed softly. “Just you wait. I'll show you a real ranch.” Her young voice throbbed with pride, then became wistful: “That is, it used to be. Right now I'm only half-stocked … and losing more cattle every day.”

“Rustlers?”

She nodded. “I couldn't believe it at first. Dad never had any trouble with rustlers. And when my hands wanted to start wearing guns, I wouldn't let them. I didn't … I don't believe in bloodshed.”

“No man believes in it,” Dusty told her shortly. “It's somethin' that has to be sometimes.”

“I'm beginning … to realize that,” Katie admitted unsteadily. “But I wouldn't at first. And my hands began drifting away. They refused to stay and ride the range unarmed while my cattle were being rustled. And they … I think they resented having a girl for a boss.”

Dusty looked at her evenly. “That don't make sense. I'd think every man in the Big Bend would be honin' to ride for a boss as purty as you.”

She blushed under his intent gaze but caught her lower lip between her teeth with a rueful frown. “A lot of them did try to make love to me … and got mad and drew their pay when I said no. Anyway, my last hand quit over a month ago. And my herds are melting away.”