‘Naturally you won’t receive all the money right now,’ Stubel put in.

  ‘We won’t?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘No. That’s not the way Government deals are made. I needn’t explain why to a man of the world like you.’

  ‘Reckon not,’ Dusty answered, acting impressed by the flattery. ‘How do we get it?’

  ‘Two hundred dollars now,’ Stubel replied, watching his ‘victim’s’ face and ready to add money should he read signs of objection to the price. Seeing none, he continued, ‘And the rest when you deliver a notice of sale to the Land Office in Mulrooney.’

  ‘Mulrooney!’ Dusty yelped. ‘Trail End’s a whole heap closer.’

  ‘But not the kind of town you’d care to take your charming wife into—’

  ‘We wouldn’t be there for long—’ Dusty started to say more but Calamity decided to intervene.

  ‘In and out’s all,’ she said. ‘And more’n enough with that town.’

  Clearly Stubel had come prepared to deal with any insistence to visit Trail End.

  ‘I agree, my dear young lady,’ he said in his most winning manner, then leaned towards Dusty in a confiding manner. ‘This is in the strictest confidence, Mr. Hudson, but it will be to your advantage to go to Mulrooney. The Government is offering some choice sections of farm land for sale near there. If you mention that you lost your home this way, I’m sure you can take first whack at it. The price will be reasonable. I bet you get a better place than this for—well one thousand dollars at most.’

  ‘It’s Mulrooney for us then,’ Dusty enthused.

  ‘A word of warning, not that a man of your experience needs it of course,’ Stubel went on. ‘If I was you, I wouldn’t say a word about this sale, even to any of your neighbors if you meet them on the trail. There’s only a limited amount of land offered for sale and it is all very desirable. The less who know, the better your chances of obtaining a section.’

  ‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty promised.

  ‘Here is your two hundred then,’ Stubel said, counting off the money from a thick pad taken out of the case. ‘I’ll write a note for the Land Office in Mulrooney, authorizing them to pay the rest of the price to you, and you can sign the bill-of-sale for me.’

  ‘I don’t write neither,’ Dusty pointed.

  ‘Your mark, witnessed by U.S. Marshal Chambers here, will be sufficient.’

  ‘If it suits you, it suits me.’

  Sensing that the affair was drawing towards its climax, Calamity sought for a way to reach her gun. To her annoyance, she saw that Dobley’s movements on the table had caused the towel to slip. The Colt’s ivory butt showed plainly and, although concealed by the man’s body, would be in view if he stood up. So she could not ask him to leave the table. Cursing the female garments which prevented her from toting the bull whip, Calamity looked around for some other weapon. Among the cooking utensils hung on pegs along the wall behind the stove was an iron skillet.

  ‘There,’ thought Calamity, ‘is what I call real thoughtful of Susie.’

  With that in mind, she moved along the stove and started to readjust the hanging pots and pans. At the same time she kept her attention on what was being said and done at the dining table.

  Producing a pen from his case, Stubel took a small inkpot out of his vest pocket. The note he wrote and passed to Dusty claimed to give J. Hudson the right to collect the sum of eighteen hundred dollars from the Mulrooney Land Office, to complete payment for all title to his property in the Deccan Valley.

  Once again Dusty felt impressed with Stubel’s efficiency. Written in the correct legal terms, the note might have been genuine and would strike an unsuspecting person who read it as being above board. The ink dried a normal blue-black color and Dusty wondered how long would elapse before the chemical reaction caused the writing to disappear. Probably not for some hours as Stubel would want as much time as possible before the disappearance was discovered.

  ‘Whatever you do, keep that safe,’ Stubel warned, handing the paper to Dusty. ‘Without it, you won’t get paid the rest of the sale price.’

  ‘I’ll take real good care of it,’ Dusty assured him.

  While pretending to concentrate on folding the paper and putting it into his pocket, Dusty surreptitiously watched the chubby man. Swiftly Stubel scooped the inkpot into his case and brought out another identical in appearance. That told Dusty how the ink on the letter disappeared, but not that upon the bill of sale.

  ‘And now, Mr. Hudson,’ Stubel said, placing three papers before Dusty in a neat pile. ‘If you will sign these. They are the bill-of-sale for your farm.’

  ‘I’m only getting paid the once,’ Dusty protested.

  ‘Of course. But these others are copies of the transaction. One for the Army, showing they have right to build. One for the Land Office and the other for my own department. If you wish, I’ll read out what the papers say.’

  ‘Go to it,’ Dusty said.

  As Dusty expected, the legal terms sounded authentic. In fact they were such as would be used in a legitimate document by which the United States Army might purchase Hudson’s property.

  ‘The other two are exact copies of this one,’ Stubel finished, passing the papers across the table.

  While that proved to be true of the second sheet, as Dusty found on signing the first and passing it to the waiting Chambers, the third of the papers contained two major differences. Instead of the buyer being the United States Army, the name given was the Mid-Western Land Syndicate. Also the third paper stated that the price had been paid in full. Showing no sign that he had noticed the differences, Dusty used the pen again and pushed the paper to Chambers.

  Being a sufferer from hemorrhoids, Dobley found difficulty in sitting still on the hard top of the table. Wriggling his rump in an effort to ease the discomfort, he put down the empty plate. Feeling something hard against the seat of his pants, he reached behind to touch a familiar object and picked it up.

  The fact that there was a revolver in the house aroused no comment. Even its being hidden on the table could be put down to no more than a precaution taken until the callers had shown their intentions. So Dobley thought nothing of the matter until he actually saw Calamity’s gun. A rechambered Navy Colt with an ivory butt and Best Citizens finish seemed out of place in the home of a poor young farmer.

  At the same moment that Dobley opened his mouth to mention the find, Chambers also made a discovery. Shoving aside the first two papers, having witnessed the mark made by their ‘victim’, he reached for the third and most important page. For a moment he failed to realize what made it different from its predecessors. Then, with a sense of shock, he saw that the words, ‘D. E. M. Fog’ stood out where a simple cross should be.

  ‘What the—!’ Chambers began. ‘He can write!’

  At the words, Stubel began to rise with the same agility Dusty had noticed when he climbed out of the buggy. Being aware of the other’s potential, Dusty did not dismiss him as a factor in the forthcoming events. Giving the plate before him a shove, Dusty sent it spinning across the table to fall and dump its contents into Stubel’s lap. Although the stew had been out of the pan for some time, it retained sufficient warmth to be noticeable. Pure reflex reaction caused Stubel to jerk away from the glutinous mixture. In doing so, his legs became entangled with those of the chair which crumpled under his weight and dumped him on his well-padded rump.

  On hearing Chambers’ comment, Dobley sprang from the table. He realized that he held a weapon more readily available even than his bolstered revolver, so started to draw back the hammer of Calamity’s Colt. Equally aware of that fact, Calamity snatched the skillet from the wall at the first hint of trouble. Lacking the time to raise it, she gripped its handle with both hands and swung sideways at waist level. Coming around, the edge of the skillet sliced into Dobley’s belly with considerable force. With a strangled croak, the man doubled over. The Colt dropped from his fingers as both hands went instinctively to his pain-knotted belly. Stumbling rearwards, he turned and collapsed by the door.

  ‘That’ll teach you to fuss with Dusty Fog’s lil wife!’ Calamity yelled and turned her attention to the center of the room.

  Springing forward fast, Lip grabbed Dusty by the left upper arm, using both hands to haul him from his chair. Slightly slower, due to his surprise at learning their ‘victim’ could read and write, Chambers advanced along the other side of the table to lend his companion a helping hand. Fortunately for Dusty, neither of his attackers thought to draw their guns.

  Coming up faster than Lip tried to pull him, Dusty set about freeing his arm from the other’s grip. The position of Lip’s arms prevented Dusty from driving a blow into his body, so he wasted no time trying. Instead he brought his right arm around in a swinging arc and raked his stiff fingers across the other’s eyes. Pain and protective instinct caused Lip to lean backwards and jerk his head away from the danger, although he did not release Dusty’s arm. Not immediately anyway. Bending his right elbow at the end of its swing Dusty drove it down to crash into the center of Lip’s chest. Feeling as if a mule had kicked him, Lip lost his hold and stumbled away. He collided with the sidepiece hard enough to bounce the hat off the hidden Colt.

  Free from Lip, Dusty prepared to handle Chambers. With his back to the hard case, Dusty knew he could not turn in time to stop him. Twisting his torso slightly, so he could see the man, Dusty leaned forward away from his clutching hands. Raising the left leg, Dusty drove it behind him. Chambers took Dusty’s foot in the pit of the stomach. When dressing for the deception, Dusty had retained his cowhand boots and chanced them going unnoticed. Designed to spike into the earth and hold firm against the pull of a roped animal, these boots made mighty fine kicking tools; as Chambers might have profanely testified had he been able to mention the matter. Bringing down his foot, Dusty pivoted around and lashed a bare-hand slap to the side of the man’s head. Spun around by the force of the blow, Chambers rushed in Calamity’s direction. Never one to miss entering into the spirit of things, she swung around the skillet. Metal rang on bone as the bottom of the skillet met Chambers’ head. Even without the girl’s attentions, he would have been out of the fight for a spell. Calamity made sure he would not be in any shape to come back at all.

  Showing a fair turn of speed, Stubel regained his feet and sent his right hand flashing to the short-barreled Smith & Wesson holstered under his left arm. Calamity yelled a warning, dropping the skillet and bending to pick up her Colt. Already Dusty was springing forward, his left hand sweeping around to the outside of Stubel’s right elbow. Pushing the arm to the left, he tried to block the draw. Stubel struggled against Dusty’s push with enough strength to warn that other measures would be needed to disarm him.

  Finding himself unable to hold the gun in its holster, Dusty slipped his right hand between Stubel’s right arm and body to grip the wrist on the inside. With the grip secured, Dusty slid his left hand down to close on the trapped wrist from the other side. Although Stubel had managed to get the revolver free and from under his jacket, he could not turn the barrel in his captor’s direction. Swiftly Dusty jerked the wrist down and to the rear, turning it against the joint of the elbow’s natural bend as he continued to move it up again. Pain and a desire to avoid a dislocated arm caused Stubel to open his fingers. The Smith & Wesson fell from them as his feet left the floor. Sailing over, he landed on his back, bounced twice and came to a halt in a corner of the room.

  About the same time Lip recovered sufficiently to become aware of the Colt lying close to his hand. Grabbing it up, he thrust himself around and away from the sidepiece.

  ‘Dusty!’ Calamity yelled as she scooped up her Colt and tossed it in his direction.

  Even as Dusty’s fingers closed around the ivory butt, he saw Lip lining his own Colt at him. Throwing himself aside, Dusty saw flame spark from the four and three quarter inch barrel and heard the slap of a close passing bullet. Then he landed on the floor facing the man and rolled on to his stomach. Holding an unfamiliar weapon, he did not dare try any fancy shooting. With the Colt’s trigger held back by his right forefinger, he brought the heel of his left palm around to the hammer spur.

  Stroking back the hammer, he released it and repeated the movement three more times. Fanning could not produce extreme accuracy even at close range, but it offered the fastest known method of turning lead loose from a single action revolver.

  And at that moment speed rather than bull’s eye accuracy was what Dusty wanted. Four times in less than three seconds the Colt roared, throwing a cloud of swirling powder smoke in addition to its bullets. Several years had passed since Dusty had last handled a revolver of so light a caliber as the Navy Colt and the recoil kick did not even approach the wrist-jolting slam of a Peacemaker. So he could control the gun with greater ease and sent its bullets in a close pattern. Four holes leapt into the center of Lip’s chest while he was still cocking Dusty’s Colt, slamming him back against the sidepiece. For a moment he hung there, his hand falling to his side and the Colt slipping to the floor. Then he flopped forward and down.

  Raising himself into a sitting position. Stubel looked around in a dazed manner. At the sight of the bone-handled Peacemaker by the sidepiece, he tensed and prepared to dive towards it. The click of a cocking Colt came to his ears followed by a quiet, yet menacing warning in a Texas drawl.

  ‘Leave it there, feller. You don’t need it at all.’

  Slowly turning his eyes in the speaker’s direction, Stubel found a transformation had come over the small, insignificant ‘victim’. In some way he looked bigger, more powerful and commanding. There was a significance in the competent manner he held the Colt. There stood a big man.

  ‘It appears to be the advisable thing to do,’ Stubel admitted and went on in an aggrieved tone, ‘Where the hell is Salty?’

  ‘Likely he’s got troubles of his own,’ Dusty guessed.

  Which proved to be a shrewd assessment of the situation. Of course Dusty had the advantage of knowing of another unsuspected factor in the game.

  After satisfying himself that the hiding place selected by Hudson could be relied on to do its work, the Ysabel Kid left the farm’s owners to watch the horses. Picking his route carefully, he returned to the vicinity of the house. While the talking went on before the building, the Kid concealed himself behind the lean-to which sheltered the Hudsons’ buckboard. Following Dusty’s orders, he waited ready to throw the weight of his magnificent Winchester in should it be required.

  Hearing the commotion inside the cabin, Salty concluded he might be needed. So, drawing his revolver, he started towards the door unaware that the noise had attracted another person’s attention.

  ‘Let’s you and me stay out here a spell, hombre suggested the Kid, stepping from behind the lean-to.

  Skidding into a turning halt, Salty tried to line his revolver on the speaker, a foolish action as the Kid’s deadly Winchester was nestled in position against his shoulder and he was looking along its sights. Seeing Salty intended to fight, the Kid obliged him. However, recalling Dusty’s insistence on living prisoners who could be induced to talk, he pointed the rifle with care. A touch of the lightly adjusted set-trigger sent a bullet which plowed through Salty’s leg, tumbling him in a yelping heap to the ground.

  At the same moment guns roared in the cabin, their sounds merging with the Winchester’s bark. First a Peacemaker, then the rapid cracking of a lighter gun. Anxiety bit at the Kid. While Calamity could handle her Navy Colt with some skill, he doubted if she could get off shots that fast from it. Which could mean Dusty needed help in the worst kind of way.

  Bounding forward, he raced towards the cabin’s door. In passing he kicked Salty’s gun away from the man’s side. Nor did fears for his friends’ safety cause him to forget the basic precautions. No more shots came from inside, but that proved nothing. If Dusty was in command of the situation, he must be told a friend was entering the room. Should the small Texan be down—the Kid tried not to think of that. Instead he let out a Pehnane war whoop, kicked open the door and went through it fast. Halting, his rifle made an arc around the cabin and he took in the sights. It seemed that his fears had been groundless, for Dusty was in full control.

  ‘What’re you trying to do?’ Calamity demanded, glaring indignantly at the new arrival. ‘Deafen us. And take your hat off in my kitchen.’

  Seeing that both his friends had suffered no damage in the fighting, the Kid relaxed. Cradling his rifle on the crook of the left arm, he eyed the girl up and down for a moment.

  ‘Calam, honey,’ he said. ‘You sure look elegant and fetching in that there dress.’

  ‘One more funny out of you, Lon Ysabel,’ she yelled, reaching for the skillet, ‘and I’m going to raise lumps all over your Injun head.’

  ‘My ole pappy allus used to tell me never to sass a woman in her own kitchen,’ grinned the Kid. ‘See you got ’em, Dusty.’

  ‘How about the one outside?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Won’t be walking for a spell, but he’s alive like you wanted.’

  ‘It seems that I have been a victim of trickery and skullduggery,’ Stubel remarked. ‘From what I heard, you are Dusty Fog, sir?’

  ‘You’ve never been righter,’ Calamity told him.

  An expression of near relief flickered across the chubby features. ‘I’m pleased to know I heard a-right. The mortification would be too great if I’d been outwitted by some country bumpkin or Pinkerton sneak.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the practical Miss Canary. ‘If you’re so happied up about it, you can help me clean up the mess you’ve made.’

  After the cleaning up had been performed to Calamity’s satisfaction, the body removed, wounds tended to and the prisoners secured, Stubel sat with Dusty, Calamity and the Kid.

  ‘May I ask how you came to be on my trail?’ he inquired.

  ‘The Wilsons met Calamity on the way to Mulrooney—’ Dusty began.

  ‘Only I smelled a tricky fat rat and took ’em to see Cap’n Dusty at Trail End,’ Calamity interrupted.

 

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