Longhorn Empire (5 page)

Abruptly the turmoil inside the saloon hushed to a tense silence that endured for a crawling instant of suspense, then was
shattered by the roar of gunfire. A moment later Marshal Carney reeled out, his body shot through and through, dying on his
feet. Norman Kane sprang forward, caught the marshal’s sagging body as he fell. He half carried, half dragged him beyond range
of door and windows and eased him to the ground. Then he straightened up with a bitter curse and ran back. A gun in each hand,
he plunged through the door, brought up short and stared in incredulous amazement.

Austin Brant, a smoking gun in one hand, was handcuffing two prisoners together, one wounded. In a circle around him lay three
grotesquely sprawled forms. Directly in front of the menacing
gun muzzle stood two men with their hands raised high.

Brant slanted a flickering glance sideways. “Put your cuffs on those two hellions,” he directed Kane, gesturing slightly toward
the hand-lifted pair with his gun muzzle. “Did they cash in the marshal?”

“I’m scairt they did,” Kane replied as he manacled the scowling pair. “He looked like a dead man to me when I laid him on
the sidewalk.”

Brant bent his icy gaze on the prisoners for a moment, then he turned to where several cowboys, among them a glowering Cole
Dawson, stood stiffly beside the bar. “Look after the marshal,” he told them. “If he’s still alive, get a doctor pronto. Come
on, Kane, we’ll herd these sidewinders to the calaboose. Get going, you, and don’t stop, if you don’t want to stop for good.”

“Feller, why don’t you take that big red-faced horned toad along, too?” one protested. “He started all this trouble—knocked
Prouty down, busted his jaw.”

Brant favored Cole Dawson with an ominous glance. “I’ll take care of him later,” he promised. “Get going, you two.”

The prisoners sullenly obeyed. Brant and Kane marched them through the doors and onto the sidewalk, where a crowd had already
gathered. There were mutterings and curses as they shoved their captives along, but nobody attempted to bar their progress.

Word of the shooting of the marshal had spread like wildfire. When Brant and Kane arrived at the calaboose with their charges,
the city
judge and a clerk were standing outside the door.

“Good work!” applauded the judge. “Take ’em upstairs.”

They climbed the stairs and entered the office. The judge bent his gaze upon the prisoners. A gleam of recognition shone in
his eyes.

“Say, don’t you belong to Shang Pierce’s outfit?” he asked one.

The prisoner nodded sullenly. “And this feller beside me does, too,” he mumbled.

The judge and the clerk suddenly got their heads together. Brant and Kane heard fragments of muttered sentences—Biggest shipper
out of Texas—Bad for business—Might go elsewhere.”

The judge turned to Brant. “Was it either of these fellers plugged the marshal?” he asked.

“No,” replied Brant. “These fellers didn’t get going. The ones who plugged the marshal are still down Bridge Street, on the
floor. I figure they’ll stay there until somebody packs them away.”

The judge nodded, tugged his goatee. “Then I reckon,” he said, “these fellers ain’t guilty of anything but disturbin’ the
peace. I’ll fine ’em twenty-five dollars each and turn ’em loose. Give them their guns back, Mr. Clerk.”

Grinning, the prisoners paid their fine. The judge waved them out.

“Just a minute,” Brant said as they turned to go. His eyes were the color of windswept ice as they rested on the quartette.
“The only reason you didn’t pull on the marshal was because I had your owlhoot friends on the floor and the drop on you before
you could clear leather. I just want that straight for the record. Don’t belt those guns on
in here. Now get going, and don’t look back. Turn the next corner, and turn it fast!”

Brant followed them to the door. The four obeyed orders to the letter. Then Brant re-entered the room.

“Come on, Kane,” he said, “let’s get out of here.”

“Wait,” called the clerk, an unctious, pompous little man. “Judge,” he
said, “this young feller did a good chore just the same. I got a notion we could do worse than appoint him town marshal in
place of Carney. What say, young feller, want the job? Two hundred dollars a month is the pay.”

Austin Brant looked him up and down. “Dodge City, it seems,” he said, “figures marshals at twenty-five dollars a head. I figure
I’m worth a mite more.”

He turned his back on the two officials and walked to the door. As he stepped out, a hand touched his elbow. He turned to face
a tall blond man with a drooping mustache and the keenest and coldest blue eyes Brant had ever seen.

“Feller,” said the tall man, his deep rumbling voice reminding Brant of a lion’s growl, “you did a first rate chore, and you
made a first rate answer. Congratulations! You’re a man to ride the river with!”

“Much obliged,” Brant nodded and passed on, Kane strolling elegantly behind him. Brant was pleased with the compliment. He
would have been more pleased had he known that the man who paid it was the man who would later clean up Dodge City and make
it safe for decent folks, just as he cleaned up Ellsworth and Wichita, the greatest peace officer the West ever knew—Wyatt
Berry Stapp Earp!

Outside the building, Brant and Kane paused. “Well,” said the latter, “after all the excitement, I feel I can do with another
drink. But not down here. Let’s go up to Front Street, where we can down our likker without havin’ to stand back to back.”

Brant agreed and they crossed the tracks and entered the Alamo Saloon. When they pushed through the swinging doors, conversation
in the big room abruptly ceased. Eyes slanted and heads wagged in their direction.

“Didn’t take long for the news to get around,” Kane muttered. “Feller, you’re a marked man in this town.”

“Not much to brag about,” Brant grunted disgustedly. “Reckon the only way to get noticed is to plug somebody. Not that there’s
anything particularly outstanding about that. I’ve a notion there’s hardly a hellion in this pueblo who hasn’t shot somebody
at one time or another.”

“But they didn’t down three of Dutch Harry’s bunch at one settin’,” Kane replied. “Well, here’s how!”

As Brant and Kane quietly discussed their drinks, conversation gradually resumed. By the
time they left the saloon, it was in full uproar again. They decided to call it a night and headed for the Dodge House. They
found John Webb seated in the lobby with several oldtimers. Webb bent a searching gaze on Brant, nodded cordially to Kane.

“Come here, Austin,” he called to his foreman. “Want you to get to know Shanghai Pierce. Reckon you’ve heard of him.”

Brant had, along with most everybody else in the cow country.

Abel Pierce, better known as Shanghai or Shang Pierce, was the most unusual and the most striking in appearance of all the
cattle barons of the West. He was not a Texan, but a transplanted Connecticut Yankee. Long association with the Southwest,
however, had stamped him with its characteristics. When he went about buying cattle, he rode a splendid black horse rigged
out with all the accouterments dear to the cowhand. He was accompanied by a Negro servant who led a pack-horse loaded with
gold and silver. He would empty the money on a blanket and pay it out to the stockmen when the cows were delivered. His cows
became known from the Rio Grande to the Canadian Line as Shanghai Pierce’s sea-lions.

The things he did were startling, sometimes outrageous, often mirth-provoking. For instance, when Nebraska was busted, he
offered the local government a ten thousand dollar annual payment for the exclusive privilege of dealing monte on railroad
trains within the state’s borders. The legislators didn’t know just how to take it, and while they were debating the question,
Shanghai amended his proposition and offered the same
money for the right to deal the game against only such passengers as professed to be clergymen or missionaries. The Frontier
roared, but the legislators couldn’t see the humor of the situation and turned Shanghai down. Whereupon Shanghai, bound to
spend his ten thousand dollars some way, got rid of it by setting up a bronze statue, forty feet high, of himself in cowboy
rig on his Rancho Grande headquarters at Tres Palacios.

This was only one of many of Shang Pierce’s humorous doings, but his drives were the largest to hit the Chisholm Trail, and
other owners had a habit of following where Shang went. Which made him rather more than welcome at any shipping town.

Pierce was six feet four in height and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. He had a full beard and snapping eyes. When
he stood up to shake hands with Austin Brant, those eyes were about on a level with Brant’s.

“Heard about you, son, heard about you,” he boomed. “Heard you did a good chore down on Bridge Street. Hauled in a couple
of my young hellions too, eh? Wait till I clap eyes on ’em. They’ll hear from me proper—mixin’ up with the Dutch Harry bunch.
Didn’t either one of ’em do any of the shootin’, though, did they?”

“No,” Brant replied, a trifle grimly, “they didn’t.”

Pierce didn’t miss what Brant’s tone of voice implied. His answer sounded enigmatical, but Brant also understood. “Uh-huh,”
Pierce nodded, “men who work for me usually are sort of lucky.”

His voice abruptly became serious—and kindly.

“
But take an old man’s advice, son. Watch your
step.
From now on you’re a marked man. The Dutch Harry bunch is bad. They’ll be out to even up the score. To even it up with you
and that big feller who is with your outfit, what’s his name— Dawson? They blame Dawson for starting all the trouble, and blame
you for finishing it. They won’t forget, and they won’t let up. In fact, it would be better if you were both out of this hell
town. Something’s got to be done about it. I talked with the mayor and the city judge a little while ago. We’ve taken one
step to help. We got Billy Brooks to take the job of chief marshal, and he’s picked a couple of salty deputies. Brooks has
a long list of killings to his credit, all in fair fight. I’ve a notion he’ll do something toward cleaning up the pueblo.

“We tried to get Wyatt Earp to take the job, after you turned it down, but he just laughed and said, ‘That young feller Brant
gave my answer before I got a chance to say it. Maybe later, after they elect some town officials with guts, I may take the
chore. But not now, Shang, not now. I got other things to do.’ Understand he’s headin’ south. Well, good-night, Webb, don’t
forget the things I told you. And goodnight, son. Don’t forget what I just told you, either.”

The jovial cattle baron and his cronies took their departure and stamped off to bed. Webb immediately requested a first-hand
account of the happenings in the Bridge Street saloon. He shook his head when Brant finished.

“I don’t like it, son,” he said. “I don’t like it. I’ve been hearin’ things about Dutch Harry
and his bunch. There’s about twenty more of ’em maverickin’ around this section, and they won’t ever forgive you for downin’
three of their sidewinders. They’ll be out to get you. What happened to night made up my mind for me on somethin’ I been figgerin’
about. This town ain’t no place for you right now, and the quicker you get out the better. I figger to hang around a spell,
until I dispose of the rest of the cows. Shang Pierce lined me up on somethin’. There’s a buyer headed this way from Deadwood.
They need meat bad at that gold camp and will pay almighty high prices for it. Old Shang sort of took a shine to me, I reckon,
for he offered to tie me up with that buyer. It’s too good a chance to miss. He’ll be here some time tomorrow. Also I aim
to sell the remuda. Can get a fancy price for them cayuses. It may take a little time, but I figure it’ll pay me to stick around
till I do it.”

Brant nodded. Webb was silent for a moment, apparently turning something over in his mind.

“So you see I can’t very well pull up stakes right away,” he added. “But Wes Morley of the Bar M has a banknote to meet and
I promised him the money to pay it off as soon as I got back from this drive. The way things are shapin’ up, it looks like
I won’t get back in time to do him any good. So I figure to send you home with the dinero I got for the cows I sold today and
what I’ll get from the Deadwood buyer tomorrow. Figure you can start day after tomorrow. Wish I was goin’ with you. Wish we
were all gettin’ out of this hell town pronto. I’m scairt somebody will get into trouble.”

Webb’s fears were well grounded. Somebody did get into trouble, very serious trouble, and as might have been expected, it
was blundering, belligerent Cole Dawson. The Dutch Harry crowd didn’t forget.

The whole senseless business started over practically nothing. There was a poker game in the Half Acre saloon, south of the
tracks. Cole Dawson was losing, and he didn’t like it. Cole could hardly be called a good loser.

Poker is a funny game. A man who can’t win himself, may even be losing, is like as not walloping the socks off another unfortunate,
and passing his winnings on to others. One of the players was a storekeeper, a quiet, inoffensive man named Cullen Brady.
He wasn’t winning. In fact, he was losing a bit. But every time he tangled with Cole Dawson in a pot, Dawson dropped his eye
teeth. The fact that Brady immediately lost what he raked in to somebody else didn’t soothe Dawson’s feelings. Brady was the
player primarily responsible for Dawson being way behind the game. His wrath focused on the inoffensive storekeeper. He rumbled,
growled and favored Brady with venomous glances. Brady said nothing and went on playing his game.

Brady shuffled cards expertly. His slim-fingered hands were a poem of movement as he flipped the pasteboards to the table. He
had just dealt when Dawson lost a particularly large pot he had
been sure of winning, to Brady. His face turned even redder with anger. He glowered across the table at the storekeeper.

“Feller,” he said, “you’re mighty handy with cards. That last riffle looked to me like a tinhorn riffle.”

There was a murmur of protest. Everybody present knew Brady played an absolutely square game.

The storekeeper looked at Dawson. He was no coward. He said flatly:

“You lie!”

Dawson’s face turned crimson, his eyes blazed. He reached across the table and slapped Brady across the mouth, hard, knocking
him from his chair. Again there arose an angry protest, louder this time.

Brady got to his feet, wiped the blood from his lips and looked at Dawson.

“I’m no match for you, and I’m not a gunfighter,” he said quietly. “I guess I’ll have to take it.”

He cashed in his chips and left the saloon, leaving a decidedly strained atmosphere behind.

Three men standing together at the bar saw it all. They had been watching the game with interest. One, a lean, lanky individual
with a crooked scar welting his cheek, turned to the others and said something in a low voice. The three heads drew together
for a moment, then the scar-faced man nodded and strolled out.

Dawson did not stay in the game much longer. The attitude of the other players was decidedly chilly. He cashed what few chips
he still held, slouched to the bar and ordered a drink. He was glowering at his empty glass when a man walked
in, glanced about and approached Dawson. He tapped him on the shoulder. Dawson turned an angry face in his direction.

“Dawson, you don’t know me, and I don’t know you, either, except by name,” the man said in low tones. “But I know your Boss,
old man Webb, real well. I like him and wouldn’t want something bad to happen to one of his hands.”

“What the hell you talkin’ about?” Dawson growled.

“I’m just giving you a little friendly advice,” said the other. “When you leave here, turn right, go down the street and around
the corner. Don’t go up the street. Cullen Brady and two of his friends are standing in front of the Montezuma Bar, right
up the street. I reckon they’re waiting for you to show.”

Dawson grew still angrier. He spat an oath. “Feller,” he rumbled, “do you figure I’m goin’ to put my tail between my legs and
trail my twine because of any blankety-blank that walks with the forked end down?”

“It’s not a case of puttin’ your tail between your legs, as I see it,” said the other. “It’s just a case of draw or drag,
and you Texas fellers ain’t fast and accurate enough for these northern gun slingers.”

That did it. Cole Dawson had plenty of faults, but lack of courage was certainly not one of them. And the slur at a Texan’s
gun handling ability touched him on the raw. He glared at the speaker, turned and pounded out of the saloon. When he got outside,
he didn’t turn down the street. He turned up it, still growling profanity.

Before he had walked half a block, Dawson spotted Cullen Brady. He was standing in front of the
Montezuma, all right, the light streaming through the windows gleaming on his white shirt. With him were two other men.

Hand on his gun butt, Dawson kept right on going. He was perhaps ten paces from Brady when a shot rang out. Not from where
Brady stood but from the shadows beneath a shuttered building across the street. Dawson felt the wind of the passing bullet.
With a bellow of rage he jerked his gun and fired two shots at the flash.

The gun from the shadows blazed again. Other shots sounded on Dawson’s side of the street. He jerked his head around.

Cullen Brady was lying where he had stood a moment before, prone on his face. A widening blotch dyed the back of his white
shirt crimson. The two men who had been talking to him had taken to their heels and were vanishing around the corner.

Sputtering bewildered curses, Dawson lumbered forward and bent over Brady, staring at his bloody back. He heard purposeful
steps behind him, but was so flabbergasted by it all he didn’t turn his head.

Something hard and cold jammed against his ribs. “Drop that iron!” said a voice.

Dawson screwed his head around and stared into the ice-blue eyes of Marshall Billy Brooks.

“Drop it!” Brooks repeated. “And straighten up.” The click of his gun hammer emphasized the command.

Cole Dawson did not know Brooks personally, but he knew him by sight and knew of his reputation. He let his gun fall to the
ground and straightened up.

“What’s the big notion?” he demanded angrily.

“Shut up!” Brooks told him. “I’ll do the talking. This way, boys,” he called, raising his voice.

Two or more men came hurrying up. They were Jack Allen and Henry Brown, Brooks’ newly-appointed deputies, and just as salty
as the marshal himself.

“Give Brady a once-over,” Brooks ordered. “See if he’s heeled.”

“He isn’t packing any hardware,” Allen announced a moment later.

“He never did,” put in Brown. “Everybody knows that.”

“And shot in the back,” Brooks remarked grimly. “Take this sidewinder and lock him up.”

A deputy on either side, Dawson, still cursing and protesting, was led away. Brooks picked up Dawson’s gun and pocketed it.

“Some of you fellers rig up a stretcher or get a shutter and we’ll take Brady to the coroner’s office,” he told the gathering
crowd.

Word of what had happened got around swiftly, and the town boiled. Killings were one thing, but shooting an unarmed man in
the back was too much for even Dodge to stomach. It was a foregone conclusion that when the coroner’s jury brought in its
verdict, an example would be made of Cole Dawson.

“Well, I always said that loco jughead would end up stretching rope,” old John Webb observed resignedly. “Guess there’s nothing
we can do about it. Like asking for a necktie party yourself to side with Dawson.”

Austin Brant’s black brows drew together in a perplexed frown.

“Boss,” he said, “there’s something mighty
funny about this business. To my mind it just doesn’t make sense. There’s plenty wrong with Cole Dawson, granted, but Cole
Dawson wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man in the back, nor an armed one, for that matter. He just isn’t made that way.”

“Maybe not,” grunted Webb, “but Cullen Brady sure got shot in the back. There’s a hole in his back and none in his front.”

Brant’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Which means the bullet is still in his body.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Webb admitted. “Of course it might have been an accident, somehow.”

“A mighty convenient accident, seems to me,” Brant replied grimly. “And the bullet’s still in him. Let’s go down and see Dawson.”

At the jail they were admitted to Dawson’s presence. They found Cole surly and defiant. Brant didn’t waste time consoling him.

“Dawson,” he said, “you and me don’t always see things eye to eye, but we’ll pass that up. I want you to tell me, did you
shoot Brady?”

“Shoot him, hell!” Dawson exploded. “I didn’t even shoot in his direction. I shot two shots at somebody who was throwin’ lead
at me from out of the dark across the street.”

“You didn’t see anybody over there?”

“No! I told you it was dark. I just saw the gun flashes.”

“They could have been holed up behind something, then.”

“Could have been. I sure didn’t see ’em.”

“Did you see anybody else shooting?”

“I didn’t see anybody, but I sure heard somebody,” Dawson replied. “Somebody up the street. That’s when I looked around and
saw two fellers
runnin’ around the corner, and Brady layin’ on his face. I tried to tell the marshal that, but he just laughed at me. Reckon
the jury’ll do the same.”

“Most likely,” Brant agreed. “It does sound sort of loco. Now tell me one more thing. Were you packing your own gun last night?”

“I don’t ever pack no other,” Dawson growled. “And the marshal has it?”

“Reckon he has, he picked it up and stuck it in his pocket,” Dawson answered. “Why?”

“Nothing much, but if I get the break I’m hoping for, you can thank your lucky stars that there are mighty few Smiths, especially
the Russian Model, around in this section. Come on, John, I want to see the coroner.”

They left behind a profane and bewildered Dawson.

The coroner turned out to be a white-whiskered old frontier doctor with a truculent eye. Brant introduced Webb and himself.

“Doctor,” Brant asked, “where is the bullet that killed Cullen Brady?”

“Inside him,” replied the doctor, jerking his head toward a sheeted form in the back room.

“I’d like for you to dig it out.”

The old doctor bristled. “What’s the sense in that?” he demanded. “There ain’t no need for an autopsy in this case. No doubt
as to the cause of Brady’s death.”

“So I gather,” Brant nodded. “You’re certain, then, that Brady’s death was caused by the bullet now lodged in his body?”

“Of course I’m certain,” answered the doctor. “Why do you want me to remove that slug?”

“Because,” Brant said quietly, “by doing so you may save an innocent man from being hanged.”

The coroner stared, started to argue, then apparently changed his mind.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

He got out his instruments and went to work, while Brant and Webb sat in the outer office and smoked. In a short time the doctor
came out, wiping something with a cloth. He held forth a bid of lead.

“Here it is,” he said. “Not battered much, either. Went through the soft tissue of the heart and ended up in the big muscle
that runs alongside the spine.”

Brant took the slug and turned it over in his fingers, his keen eyes narrowing as they concentrated on the object. He looked
up to meet the coroner’s expectant gaze.

“Not hard to see, even with the naked eye,” he remarked. “But I suppose you’ve got a magnifying glass handy? Put the glass
on it. I guess you know considerable about guns. Remember Dawson was packing a Smith & Wesson.”

The doctor procured his glass and peered through it at the bullet.

“See them?” Brant asked, revolving his finger in a spiral motion.

“By gosh son, you’re right!” exploded the coroner. “How in hell did you come to think of it?”

“It just sort of came to me,” Brant deprecated. “You see, what happened didn’t fit into the picture with Cole Dawson, that’s
all. He’s ornery as hell in some ways, but he didn’t size up to this sort of thing.”

“Well, he can thank the Good Lord that somebody felt that way about him,” said the coroner. “You’ll be at the inquest, of
course—two hours from now?”

“I will,” Brant promised. “Bring the slug along. And have Marshal Brooks bring Dawson’s gun. Keep quiet about this, Boss,”
he cautioned Webb.

As the inquest got under way, things looked bad for Cole Dawson, and as it progressed they looked blacker. To all appearances
it was an open-and-shut case. Marshal Brooks told how he found Dawson standing over Brady’s body, the smoking gun in his hand.
The poker game row was cited in detail, as a motive for the killing. Impartial observers agreed that Dawson had been violently
angry with Brady; that later he had stalked out of the saloon, his face working with rage, his hand on the butt of his gun.
The shooting in the street was heard a few moments later. Nobody came forward who had seen the actual killing. It was plain
the jury considered Dawson’s story fantastic. The faces of the jurymen were set like stone when Austin Brant arose and requested
leave to address the jury. Doc McChesney, the coroner, readily granted the request. His expression betrayed a trace of sardonic
amusement.

“Gentlemen,” Brant began informally, “I’ve a notion I’m safe in assuming that you all know considerable about guns.” He paused,
expectant. There was a general nodding of heads.

“So,” Brant continued, “I’d like to ask you a question. How are Colt revolvers rifled?”

The jury looked surprised, then the foreman spoke up.

“They’re rifled with a left-hand twist and six grooves.” The others nodded agreement.

“And how about Smith & Wesson revolvers?” Brant asked.

There was a stir of excitement in the crowded courtroom. Some folks were beginning to get the drift.

“How about Smith & Wesson?” Brant repeated. Again the foreman spoke up.

“A Smith is rifled with a right-hand twist and five grooves.”

“All except one model, the Texan,” Brant corrected. He turned to the crowd, raising his voice.

“Anybody want to argue with what’s been said?” he asked.

There was a general shaking of heads.

“Okay,” said Brant. “And I guess everybody will admit that it’s easy to spot the riflings on a bullet that’s been fired, if
it isn’t badly smashed up.”

Again there were only nods of agreement.

Brant turned to the coroner. “Doctor McChesney,” he said, “will you please produce
the bullet that killed Cullen Brady, the bullet you removed from his body in the presence of myself and John Webb? Thank you.
Please hand it to the jury foreman, and to make it easier for him, let him use your magnifying glass.”