The Smoking Iron Read Online Free PDF Page B

From Colorado.”
    â€œAn’ mine’s Morgan,” the young man drawled. “Dusty, I’m mostly called. From down Pecos-way. Rode into Marfa this mawnin’,” he went on levelly, “with one lead hawse. You fellers lookin’ for a fair swap?”
    â€œWe sure are. Something that’ll carry us to Hermosa tomorrow.”
    Dusty Morgan nodded. “I’ve heard tell Hermosa’s a place lotsa men wanta get to fast,” he observed unemotionally. “I’ve never had to ride in front of the law, but that don’t mean I mightn’t be doin’ it some day. Bring yore lantern here,” he commanded Joe Baines.
    â€œNow, looky here, you!” Baines’ thin voice trembled with wrath. “Fer the las’ time I’m warnin’ you to git outta my stable.”
    â€œI paid hawse rent here,” the young man reminded him. He asked Pat, “You wanta see my hawses?”
    Pat nodded. He turned and held out his hand to Baines. “Gimme yore lantern.”
    Baines hesitated and Ezra moved toward him with an angry oath. Baines circled to avoid the big man, set the lantern on the floor, and stalked angrily toward the door.
    Dusty Morgan looked after him reflectively as Pat picked up the lantern. “Now, maybe I hadn’t ought to of horned in this-away,” he muttered. “Shore as God made horny-toads, he’s on his way to tell the sheriff ’bout you fellers. Maybe you better stop him an’ get my hawses saddled …”
    â€œNever mind him,” Pat muttered. “We ain’t worrying about no Texas sheriff. Where’s yore saddle stuff?”
    â€œRight here in these two stalls.” Morgan stepped back and pointed. “They’ve been rode easy an’ are rested up good. You could take ’em out tonight was you a mind to.”
    Pat and Ezra looked the horses over. A pair of good-looking sorrels placidly munching their hay, they looked strong and trail-wise and Pat nodded abruptly. “How much to boot?”
    â€œNothin’.” Dusty Morgan looked at him in some surprise. “I’m gettin’ the best of the swap. Yore hawses is only some gaunted from bein’ pushed hard. With some feed an’ a couple days’ rest I’ll be better mounted than when I rode in.”
    â€œIt’s a deal. But … it’ll make an enemy of the sheriff for you,” Pat warned him.
    The young man grinned and got cigarette makings from his pocket. “I’m not studyin’ about that. Don’t reckon I’ll be around here long enough to make friends with him anyways.”
    â€œWe’ll put our hawses up in the stalls here an’ then we’ll buy a drink,” Pat suggested.
    Morgan said, “Fair enough,” and lit his cigarette.
    When the trio went out of the livery stable a few minutes later, night had come on and the stifling heat of the day was receding. There were more saddled horses at the hitchracks than there had been when Pat and Ezra rode into town, and all the saloons along Main Street were blazing with light.
    â€œDown yonder at the Topaz,” Dusty Morgan suggested, “they got bigger bar glasses than most of the other saloons in town.”
    As they walked down toward the Topaz Saloon, Pat kept trying to size up the young man who had offered his help so freely to a couple of strangers who meant nothing to him.
    Dusty Morgan was about twenty, with slim hips and wide shoulders that swung along with a hint of arrogance. There was an attitude of calm certitude about him that was not usually found in youth—certainly not in the present generation, Pat thought to himself, wryly contrasting this man with Ben Thurston back in Powder Valley.
    Back in Pat’s day it had been different. Boys grew up faster. He remembered when he was twenty. He must have been a lot like this Dusty Morgan. Plenty sure of himself, and to hell with anyone who got in his