a rack with three Henry rifles and four shotguns in it. The desk was dusty and the Marshal’s log book closed. Dusty opened it to find there were no entries since the recently-retired marshal took over. He looked around in distaste then opened the desk drawer. Three held empty whisky bottles, the fourth the keys to the cells. Taking these he went through the rear door and in a passage beyond was faced with four strongly built cells and a door. Opening the door he found a room with half a dozen beds in it. There were just the beds and mattresses but that did not worry him, for they all carried their bedrolls on their saddles.
He tested each bed and located the softest mattress then went back into the office to find he had a visitor. The man sat at the desk with his feet up on its scratched top. He wore the dress of a professional gambler and his face was mocking as he drew on his cigar. The Ysabel Kid and Doc Leroy lounged by the wall watching the man with eyes which showed amusement and curiosity.
Dusty walked forward, his hand coming round to knock the man’s feet from the desk top. The gambler looked up, an angry glint in his eyes. “Huh, so you’re the new marshal—”
“On your feet!” Dusty’s voice brooked no arguments.
“I ain’t—” the man began, but he did not get a chance to finish.
Dusty lunged forward, his hands bunching the man’s lapels up as he hauled him bodily from the chair. The gambler gave a startled grunt at the unexpected strength and started to strain back. That was what Dusty wanted. He shoved suddenly instead of pulling and the man crashed to the floor. Snarling a curse he tried to get his gun out from under his arm.
“Go ahead!” Dusty’s invitation was backed by the clicking as he eased back the hammer of his gun as it came into his right hand.
The man lay still, looking up into the yawning bore of the gun where no gun had been half a second before. He waited for the bullet to crash into him for he knew there were many lawmen who would not hesitate. “Don’t shoot,” he croaked. “I give it up.”
“Stand up!” Dusty ordered and the man rose fast. “Lon, take his gun. Then put him to work cleaning this place up.”
The gambler gulped but did not argue as the dangerous looking young Texan disarmed him. He had come with the express intention of showing Clint Fang how to handle the Texans but his intentions were changed rapidly. Leaving his prisoner working under the able care of the Ysabel Kid, Dusty returned to the living quarters and opened the door. Mark and Rusty were bringing up the horses and off saddling them at the corral of the civic pound. They hung the saddles on the corral rails for their owners to collect and put on the burros, the inverted V-shaped stands in the leanto at the rear of the jail. Out beyond the corral was Jenny’s brothel, a large red lamp swinging before the door. Beyond that the rest of the red light area extended until it joined Chinese Street where the homes of the Oriental mine-workers were crowded together. That was the area they would expect most trouble from, for it was the roughest part of town.
The jail itself was situated handily, only the gunsmith’s shop separating it from Bearcat Annie’s saloon and the town centre. Dusty waited for Rusty and Mark to join him and went back to find the gambler working hard, dusting the desk before he swept up the jail floor.
“Take him into the cells,” Dusty ordered.
Rusty and Mark escorted the gambler to the cells, the young Wedge rider grinning in delight. ‘I’ve never done this afore,” he said delightedly as he locked the gambler in.
Returning to the office they found Dusty handing out the deputy badges and pinned their own on. With hands raised they took the oath of office then were informed they were members of the Quiet Town police force and such places as Jenny’s were now out of bounds to them. Dusty took his seat behind the desk and looked at the others.
“Rusty, you
He tested each bed and located the softest mattress then went back into the office to find he had a visitor. The man sat at the desk with his feet up on its scratched top. He wore the dress of a professional gambler and his face was mocking as he drew on his cigar. The Ysabel Kid and Doc Leroy lounged by the wall watching the man with eyes which showed amusement and curiosity.
Dusty walked forward, his hand coming round to knock the man’s feet from the desk top. The gambler looked up, an angry glint in his eyes. “Huh, so you’re the new marshal—”
“On your feet!” Dusty’s voice brooked no arguments.
“I ain’t—” the man began, but he did not get a chance to finish.
Dusty lunged forward, his hands bunching the man’s lapels up as he hauled him bodily from the chair. The gambler gave a startled grunt at the unexpected strength and started to strain back. That was what Dusty wanted. He shoved suddenly instead of pulling and the man crashed to the floor. Snarling a curse he tried to get his gun out from under his arm.
“Go ahead!” Dusty’s invitation was backed by the clicking as he eased back the hammer of his gun as it came into his right hand.
The man lay still, looking up into the yawning bore of the gun where no gun had been half a second before. He waited for the bullet to crash into him for he knew there were many lawmen who would not hesitate. “Don’t shoot,” he croaked. “I give it up.”
“Stand up!” Dusty ordered and the man rose fast. “Lon, take his gun. Then put him to work cleaning this place up.”
The gambler gulped but did not argue as the dangerous looking young Texan disarmed him. He had come with the express intention of showing Clint Fang how to handle the Texans but his intentions were changed rapidly. Leaving his prisoner working under the able care of the Ysabel Kid, Dusty returned to the living quarters and opened the door. Mark and Rusty were bringing up the horses and off saddling them at the corral of the civic pound. They hung the saddles on the corral rails for their owners to collect and put on the burros, the inverted V-shaped stands in the leanto at the rear of the jail. Out beyond the corral was Jenny’s brothel, a large red lamp swinging before the door. Beyond that the rest of the red light area extended until it joined Chinese Street where the homes of the Oriental mine-workers were crowded together. That was the area they would expect most trouble from, for it was the roughest part of town.
The jail itself was situated handily, only the gunsmith’s shop separating it from Bearcat Annie’s saloon and the town centre. Dusty waited for Rusty and Mark to join him and went back to find the gambler working hard, dusting the desk before he swept up the jail floor.
“Take him into the cells,” Dusty ordered.
Rusty and Mark escorted the gambler to the cells, the young Wedge rider grinning in delight. ‘I’ve never done this afore,” he said delightedly as he locked the gambler in.
Returning to the office they found Dusty handing out the deputy badges and pinned their own on. With hands raised they took the oath of office then were informed they were members of the Quiet Town police force and such places as Jenny’s were now out of bounds to them. Dusty took his seat behind the desk and looked at the others.
“Rusty, you
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