A Town Called Yellowdog Read online

  JT

  EDSON

  A TOWN CALLED

  YELLOWDOG

  SENTENCE OF SHAME

  The citizens of Moondog, Texas, stood staring at the small, blond, insignificant cowhand — only he seemed to be the biggest man present, towering over his two companions, and neither of them lacked size. Cold fury worked on Dusty Fog’s face as he pointed to the signboard announcing the name of the town.

  “My brother came here because you begged for help,” he told them. “Danny put his life on the line and you hadn’t the guts to back him. So he died. The name of this town’s all wrong and I aim to see it put right. You!” His finger stabbed at the Blue Bull Saloon’s bartender. “Take your paint brush and cover over ‘Moondog’ on that sign. Put ‘Yellowdog’ in its place. Yellowdog, hombre. That’s what your town is — it and everybody in it.”

  Slowly, his head hanging in shame, the bartender obeyed; for he and every man in the crowd knew that Dusty spoke the bitter truth.

  “WE HAVE TO TEACH MOONDOG A LESSON IT WILL NEVER FORGET,” said Stella. “Not for allowing Dusty Fog to half-kill Harry but so that they won’t dare oppose my will again.”

  “You’re a smart woman Stella,” grinned Wigg. “But we can’t do it unless we get Fog, Counter and the Kid.”

  “I know,” admitted Stella. “Go and fetch Pedro, please.” Wigg left the room and returned a few minutes later with Pedro on his heels.

  “You have keys to the hotel, Pedro ?“ Stella asked without any preliminaries.

  “Si, senorita. I can get into any room.”

  “Then I want you to go there, find Dusty Fog . . . Cut his throat and bring me his ears.”

  A TOWN CALLED YELLOW DOG

  A CORGI BOOK 552 07962 6

  Originally published in Great Britain

  by Brown Watson Ltd.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Corgi edition published 1968

  Corgi edition reprinted 1969

  Corgi edition reprinted 1972

  Corgi edition reprinted 1976

  Copyright © 1966 by Brown Watson Ltd.

  Copyright © 1968 by Transworld Publishers Ltd.

  This book is set in 9pt. Times

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers Ltd,

  Century House, 61—63 Uxbridge Road,

  Ealing, London, W.5.

  Made and printed in Great Britain by

  Hunt Barnard Printing Ltd, Aylesbury, Bucks.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Scent of Fear

  “YOU are about to enter MOONDOG, a quiet, friendly town. Enjoy your stay.”

  Riding his big sabino past the old scrub oak, Danny Fog read the words on a sign nailed to the gnarled trunk. Despite the welcome extended by the citizens of Moondog, San Augustino County, Texas, he wondered if he might be making a bad error in tactics. One man, even a Texas Ranger, had limitations. There were things he could not, should not even, try to do alone.

  Unfortunately no other help had been available and the news from Moondog demanded an immediate investigation. Maybe the first letter received from the town had been a mite exaggerated, folks tended to multiply their troubles when writing to ask for assistance from the Texas Rangers. Yet it held a note of authenticity strong enough to make Danny’s commanding officer, Captain Jules Murat, dispatch two good men to investigate. That had been three weeks ago, and no word came from the two Rangers; which surprised nobody at company G’s headquarters, for the wearers of the star-in-the-circle badge did not go in for sending reports when on a chore. However, a second letter, in the same neat handwriting as the first, reached Headquarters; a hot, angry letter demanding to know why the first request for assistance had been ignored.

  Only two Rangers were present on the arrival of the letter, and the second still used crutches as a result of an outlaw’s bullet. Captain Murat had taken a well-earned furlough and every other man rode scattered over their enormous jurisdictional area working on some case or other. So Danny made a decision. The two men sent in answer to the first request had had much experience in their work. By the end of three weeks they ought to have made their presence felt in the town. If they had not, then somebody must go and learn why.

  Taking the precaution of sending a long telegraph message to Murat, Danny rode from headquarters in the direction of Moondog. Even if his two friends still worked undercover, he might be able to help them by bringing another unsuspected factor into the game they found themselves playing.

  Moondog was a small town, no different in appearance and lay-out from a hundred such towns Danny had seen across the Texas plains. Most of the town’s businesses lay along the straggled main street and in the homes of the citizens scattered in the background. Nothing out of the ordinary no fine large houses, only wood or adobe cabins. However, one thing caught Danny’s eye, a most unusual sight in Texas at that time. Not one of the men he saw in the streets wore a gun. Of course all appeared to be town dwellers, but even so, a man without a gun was a rare sight in the Lone Star Sate.

  All the time as he rode, Danny was conscious of eyes studying him. He did not fear detection, for a Texas Ranger carried his badge of authority concealed and nothing about his dress or appearance set him apart from any of the thousands of young men following the cattle trade in the state that grew out of hide and horn. A low-crowned, wide-brimmed J. B. Stetson hat of Texas style sat on his curly, dusty blond head and threw a shadow on his handsome, intelligent, tanned face. Tight-rolled and knotted at his throat, a green bandana trailed long ends over his blue flannel shirt. He wore his levis pants cowhand fashion, outside his high-heeled, fancy-stitched boots and with the cuffs turned back. Maybe not every cowhand wore a gunbelt with matched staghorn butted 1860 Army Colts in fast-draw holsters, but in those days of percussion-fired hand-guns enough carried a spare weapon at the waist for a two-gun toter to be no novelty. Nor did the method of wearing the guns look out of the ordinary—the butt of the right side Colt pointed to the rear, that on the left turned forward to be available to either hand—for it was common enough among men who learned to shoot only with the right hand, yet wished to have a reserve weapon available. He rode a double-girthed, low-horned saddle of conventional pattern, rope strapped to the horn, Winchester Model ‘66 rifle booted at the left side and butt pointing to the rear, bedroll fixed to the cantle. While the sabino, a light red roan with a pure white belly, looked a fine animal, it bore a large brand as complicated as a skillet of snakes, and came from below the Mexican border, so gave no clue as to his identity. Tough and competent as he might look, nobody could say from his appearance that he rode as a member of the finest law enforcement organization in the world.

  Although Danny studied the few horses tethered at hitching rails along the street, he saw no sign of his two friends’ mounts. Ahead lay the open doors of Bescaby’s Livery Barn, the name of the owner painted proudly and decoratively above its door. Danny noticed that much of the town’s sign-work bore the same decorative touch, an unusual thing in Texas at that time. In particular, he observed the front of the Blue Bull Saloon. While the building itself was not impressive, being a one-storey adobe structure, its sign sure caught the eye. Standing rampant in the position Danny knew all too well, an exceptional likeness of a longhorn bull glared its defiance at the world. However, one never saw a bull of such a bright shade of blue.

  “Always heard artists were different from folks, old hoss,” he remarked with a grin. “Looks like I heard true.”

  Instead of calling in at the saloon and satisfying his curiosity about the unusual colouration of the bull, Danny continued on down Main Street in the direction of the livery barn. He wanted to make contact with the other two Rangers as soon as possible, and figured the livery barn would
be a good place to make a start. Livery barn owners ran barbers a good second when it came to spreading gossip and handing out news, maybe even licked the barbers for a lawman’s purposes, for they saw more comings and goings than did their shop-bound rivals.

  The doors of the Blue Bull opened and a tall young man stepped out, staring with envious eyes at Danny’s big sabino. While the young man wore a dress of a range-country dandy, he did not have the look of a hard-working cowhand. Few cowhands spent so little time out of the elements that their faces retained the pallor sported by the slim young man. A fancy Navy Colt, with what looked like solid silver Tiffany grips, hung in the young man’s fast-draw holster and his right hand hovered by it. His face, handsome in a fashion, had sullen, sneering lips and bore a thinly hidden hint of real cruelty. To a student of human beings, the young man appeared spoiled, pampered, weak-willed, arrogant and vicious. Such a combination out West meant either he could handle a gun real well, or was backed by somebody who was capable in pistolero matters. After watching Danny ride by, the young man turned and spoke to somebody inside the saloon, then swung his gaze once more to the sabino.

  Not knowing the interest his horse had caused, Danny rode up to the double doors of the barn, swung from the saddle and entered. Only a few of the stalls had occupants and none of the horses present belonged to Danny’s friends. However, he did not doubt the barn offered accommodation in a corral at the rear of the building and so he decided to look there after settling the sabino comfortably.

  “Help you, mister?” asked a voice as he led the horse towards an empty stall.

  Turning, Danny looked at the medium-sized, stocky, grey-haired man who came towards him. “Reckon so,” he agreed. “I want to put up my horse for a spell.”

  “Sure thing,” the man said, showing less eagerness than one might expect from the owner of a business addressing a potential customer. “You working around these parts?”

  “Nope,” answered Danny, and caught a faint glimmer of a change in the man’s expression, but it went before he could read it and a watchful blank look replaced it. “Anybody hiring up this way?”

  “You could maybe ask Miss Howkins. She runs the Lazy H.”

  “She the only one doing any hiring?”

  Again the flicker of something and once more the blank veil came down. Clearly the man meant to watch every word he said. It all fitted in with the claims made by the writer of the unsigned letter which brought the Rangers to Moondog.

  “She runs the only spread around here,” the man told him. “But I—”

  The words died away as shadows fell across the room, stretching from the front doors. Slowly Danny swung on his heel, making like he examined the sabino’s saddle, but looking towards the door. A glance at the livery barn owner gave Danny a shock. Fear etched itself on the man’s face as he looked at the trio of shapes in the doorway. Yet Danny could see no cause for such fear. True, the two flank men bore all the signs of being professional hard-cases, hired bullies who sold their guns or muscles to the highest bidder, yet neither struck Danny as being anything exceptional. Nor, despite the fancy gun and fast-draw holster, did the slim young man. Danny knew most of the real fast men in Texas and could read the signs. No matter what kind of gun that slim, mean-faced cuss toted, he did not belong to the magic-handed group known as the top men of the lightning fast draw fraternity.

  Without as much as a glance at the livery barn’s owner, the slim young man walked forward. He came to a halt at Danny’s side and looked the sabino over from head to tail.

  “Nice horse, cowboy,” he replied. “How much do you want for it?”

  “It’s not for sale,” Danny replied.

  “Reckon you don’t know who I am, so I’ll overlook that until you’ve been told,” the young man hissed. “Tell him who I am, Bescaby.”

  “That’s Stella Howkins’ brot—,” the owner began.

  Swinging on his heel, the young man lashed out his hand, driving a bunched fist to Bescaby’s belly. Much to Danny’s amazement, the owner went back a couple of steps, clutched at his stomach, but made no attempt to defend himself. Howkins jumped forward, gripping Bescaby by the front of his vest and hauling him erect. At the door, the two hard-cases dropped their hands towards gun butts and grinned in Danny’s direction, as if taunting him, daring him to object. While not afraid, Danny made no move to intervene. Way he saw it, Bescaby out-weighed Howkins and ought to be strong enough to handle the slim, pallid-faced young man, so Danny did not feel called upon to take a hand.

  “Who am I?” gritted Howkins. “When I ask you that, don’t say I’m anybody’s brother.” He shook Bescaby savagely, although the man ought to have resisted the move with no great trouble. “You hear me. Bescaby?”

  Bescaby ran the tip of his tongue across his lips. “I—I hear you—”

  “You hear me, what?”

  “I—I hear you, Mr. Howkins.”

  “That’s better!” Howkins snarled and released his hold. “And so you don’t forget next time—”

  Again Howkins’ hand lashed out, the knuckles smashing into Bescaby’s cheek and staggering the man a couple of paces. Catching his balance, Bescaby threw a glance at the two grinning gunmen, then raised a hand to the corner of his mouth. He looked down at the red smear of blood on his hand but said nothing.

  Ignoring Bescaby, as if the man did not exist, Howkins turned once more to Danny.

  “Now you know who I am,” he said. “How much for the horse?”

  “The answer’s still the same.”

  Hawkins stared as if he could not believe his ears. Then a low hiss of fury left his lips and his face darkened with anger. Stepping forward, Howkins lashed out his fist, aiming it at Danny’s face. Faced by the young man, Danny felt even more puzzled why Bescaby allowed Howkins to rough-handle him. Certainly fear of Howkins’ fistic powers could not have brought the meek acceptance, for the blow came slowly and telegraphed.

  And this time Howkins struck at a man who learned self-defence from masters of the ancient art of rough-house brawling.

  Up came Danny’s hands, catching Howkins’ wrist as it drove forward. There were a number of ways in which Danny might have handled the attempted attack, all highly effective and very painful for the recipient, but he had the two hard-cases’ presence to consider. Danny knew he must handle Howkins in such a manner that he could also protect himself from the slim man’s bodyguard.

  A look of shock came to Howkins’ face as he realized that Danny did not aim to stand and be hit. Much the same expression crossed the two hard-cases’ features and for a vital moment they hesitated, unable to make their thoughts work in the face -of such an unusual happening. Then thought and realization came—a good five seconds too late.

  On catching Howkins’ wrist, Danny twisted it downwards and behind the other’s back. He expected some resistance from Hawkins, but found the arm he held to be puny and weak. A squeal of rage and pain left Hawkins’ lips as his arm went up behind him. Pain held him motionless except for his voice.

  The two hard-cases started to move forward, hands dropping again to their guns. Releasing the trapped wrist with his right hand and finding no difficulty in holding Hawkins with the left, Danny drew his off-side Colt. He cocked the weapon as he brought it up, thrusting the barrel under Hawkins’ chin, gouging the muzzle in painfully.

  “Hold it!” he ordered.

  Always a fair judge of character, Danny figured this to be the best method of handling the situation. Without danger to himself, Howkins might have ordered the two men to make a play, gambling their lives in the hope that they downed Danny before he got them both. Such a gamble could have come off, for while he might drop one, the other would surely get him. Only with the gun under Howkins’ chin such an order was certain to end with the young man dead.

  A series of hand-claps sounded from the doors of the building and a feminine voice said: “Neatly done, cowboy. Now let him go!”

  Without offering to obey the order—for orde
r it had been—or give up his advantage, Danny turned his eyes towards the two men and a woman who stood just outside the barn’s front doors. One quick glance showed Danny his wisdom in refusing to obey the order.

  Take that jasper standing at the right of the woman, there stood a fair man with a gun. Maybe not top-grade stock, but still fast enough to make Danny regret any mistake in tactics. Tall, well-built, dandy-dressed and with right hand hovering the butt of one of his brace of low-tied Remington Army revolvers, that man spelled trouble to eyes which knew the West.

  A slight frown creased Danny’s brow as he looked towards the other man. Despite a neat brown beard, Danny recognized the man. Until a couple of months back Wally Greenwood had been a member of Company G. Then ugly rumours began to come in, tales of a Ranger who used his badge to extort money from saloon and brothel keepers. Captain Murat investigated but found no certain proof, which explained why Greenwood stayed alive and free. Although unable to prove anything, Murat discharged Greenwood as unsuitable for Ranger duties. From all appearances, the ex-Ranger had done well for himself. He wore expensive clothing and belted a low hanging Army Colt and, like his colleague, kept his hand close to it. Recognition was mutual as Greenwood’s eyes met Danny’s and a mocking sneer flickered across the ex-Ranger’s face.

  Ignoring Greenwood after one glance, Danny gave the woman a long, searching scrutiny. She stood maybe five foot eight, with a slim, but mature build, that a costly, travel-stained, frilly-busted blouse and a doe-skin divided skirt could not hide. A J. B. Stetson hat rode on the back of her shoulder long, honey-blonde hair. While one could not say she was beautiful, her face had strength but an imperious coldness killed any charm it might possess. She stood slightly ahead of the two men, a riding quirt tapping her leg impatiently.