preservation. The second significant fact to Danny’s mind being the powder burning and blackening around the two bullet wounds in the body. Whoever shot Gooch had been close, real close. As the shooter appeared to have been lying on the ground, Gooch must have been bending; no, that would have put him too high to catch the burning effect of the other’s weapon’s muzzle blast. Which meant either the other had been allowed to rise, or that Gooch knelt by his killer’s side.
Only Gooch would never have allowed the other to rise, or knelt by the fallen cow thief’s side, without holding his gun and being sure he could shoot at the first wrong move. Gooch knew gun-fighting and had more sense than take such chances with any man under such circumstances.
And there, Danny figured, he had touched the answer to Gooch’s apparent folly. On approaching the fallen cow thief, Gooch would have not only held his gun but would most likely to have sent a bullet into the other just to make good and sure there was no danger to his bounty hunting hide—unless he saw something to make him figure he would not need such precautions.
Something that told him the shape on the ground be a woman, not a man.
Maybe Captain Murat’s information about the identity of the brains behind the Caspar County cow stealing had been correct after all!
Chapter 7 THE LAWMEN OF CASPAR COUNTY
CASPAR CITY LOOKED LITTLE DIFFERENT, NOR HAD any greater right to such a grandiloquent four letters after its name, than a hundred other such towns that existed on the Texas plains for the purpose of supplying the cowhands’ needs for fun and the basic necessities of life. It consisted of at most forty wooden, adobe, or a mixture of both, buildings scattered haphazardly along half a mile of wheel-rutted, hoof-churned dirt going by the title of Main Street. However, Caspar bore the supreme mark of solidarity and permanency which so many other towns lacked; a Wells Fargo stage station and telegraph office stood proudly on Main Street between the adobe county sheriff’s office building and Ella Watson’s Cattle Queen saloon.
To Danny Fog’s way of thinking as he studied the town, those silvery telegraph wires contained a menace to his well-being in that they could be used to obtain information about him far more quickly than by using the mail services.
The coming of Danny’s party, each man leading a horse bearing a stiff, unnatural, yet easily recognizable burden, brought people from the various business premises along Main Street. Questions were tossed at Jerome, but for the most he ignored them, saving his story to be told to Sheriff Farley Simmonds.
Among others, some half-a-dozen women and a couple of men emerged from the batwing doors of the Cattle Queen, attracting Danny’s attention. At least one of the women caught his eye. Even without being told, he knew that black-haired, beautiful woman in the center of the group to be Ella Watson, female saloonkeeper and maybe the boss of the cow thieves plaguing Caspar County. No ordinary saloon-girl could afford such a stylish, fancy light blue gown; a garment more suited in cut and line to a high-class New Orleans bordello than in the saloon of a small Texas town. The dress did little to hide the fact that its wearer’s five-foot-seven figure would be something to see. Cut low in front, it showed off a rich, full bosom, clung tightly to a slender waist, then spread out to eye-catchingly curved hips, although concealing the legs from view. Her face, beautiful yet imperious, carried a look of authority which none of the others showed and set her aside as one above the herd.
“That’s Ella Watson, runs the Cattle Queen,” Tommy confirmed, waving his hand to a small buxom, pretty and scared-faced blonde girl who stared in wide-eyed horror at the scene.
“You look like you could use a drink,” Danny replied. “Soon as we’ve seen the great siezer, we’ll go get one.”
“I can use it,” Tommy stated.
The great siezer, the cowhand’s disrespectful name for the county sheriff, was not in his office; having gone along to the Bon Ton Cafe with his deputy for a meal, according to one of the gathering crowd of onlookers. Throwing a glance at his two hands—he had hired Danny on the way into town—Jerome gave instructions.
“Go get that drink, but keep it to one or two at most. I’ll send word if Sheriff Farley wants you.”
Leaving Jerome to take care of the bodies. Danny and Tommy fastened their horses to the sheriff’s office hitching rail and then walked back toward the sturdy wooden front of the saloon. The little blonde girl came running from among her fellow workers, making for Tommy.
“What’s happened, Tommy?” she gasped. “Who—what——”
“Easy, Mousey,” Tommy answered gently, taking the girl by the arms. “Sammy and Pike ran into trouble.”
Danny studied the girl. Wide-eyed horror showed on her pretty, naive face. She was a fluffy, shapely, if a mite buxom, little thing, wearing a short green dress, black stockings and high-heeled shoes. Maybe not too smart, she looked like she would be happy, merry and good company under normal conditions—and clearly Tommy regarded her as something extra special.
“They were in last night,” the girl said.
“Who with?” growled Tommy.
“Sammy was with Dora, but he left with just Pike,” answered the girl, turning curious eyes in Danny’s direction.
“Mousey, this’s Danny Forgrave,” Tommy introduced, taking the hint. “He’s come to ride for Bench J. Danny, meet Mousey, she’s my gal.”
“Howdy, ma’am,” Danny greeted.
“Call me ‘Mousey’,” she told him. “My real name’s Mildred, but I like Mousey better.”
“Then Mousey it is,” Danny replied.
At the same time as he spoke to the girl, Danny became aware that one of the men standing with Ella Watson studied him carefully. The man wore a low-crowned white Stetson shoved back on his head and a scar ran across his skull just over the right ear, the hair growing white along its line and in contrast to the blackness of the rest. Standing around six foot, the man wore a black cutaway jacket, frilly-bosomed shirt under a fancy vest, black string tie and tight-legged white trousers. Instead of a gunbelt, the man had a silk sash around his waist, a pearl- handled Remington 1861 Army revolver thrust into the left side so as to be available to the right hand. Cold, hard eyes in a fairly handsome, swarthy face, took in every detail of Danny’s dress, with due emphasis on the way he wore his guns. For a moment the man stared, then whispered something in Ella Watson’s ear, bringing her eyes to Danny.
“Let’s go get that drink, Danny,” Tommy suggested. “Come on, Mousey, gal.”
Taking Mousey’s arm, Tommy escorted her into the saloon and Danny followed. Inside he studied the place with interest. For a small cow town, the Cattle Queen sure looked mighty elegant. There were tables and chairs around a dance space for use of the customers; chuck-a-luck, faro and blackjack layouts, the usual wheel-of-fortune stood against one wall. A long, fancy bar with a big mirror behind it offered a good selection of drinks and was presided over by a tall, burly man with side-whiskers and bay-rum slicked hair. The bartender nodded to the new arrivals as they came to the bar and laid aside the glass he had been polishing.
“What’ll it be?” he asked.
“Beer for me ’n’ Mousey,” answered Tommy. “How’s about you, Danny?”
“Same’ll do for me,
“What’s all the fuss outside?” the bartender inquired as he poured the three beers with deft hands.
“We just brought in Sammy Howe, Pike Evans and Gooch,” Tommy explained.
“Whooee!” ejaculated the bartender. “What happened?”
“How the hell would I know?” snapped Tommy, the tensions of the day putting an edge into his voice.
A dull red flushed into the bartender’s cheeks at the words and his hand went under the counter toward his favorite bung-starter; a most handy tool with dealing with cowhands who forgot their menial position in life.
“I thought Gooch maybe——” he began.
“Thinking’s bad for a man,” Danny put in quietly. “Especially when you’re talking to a feller who’s just lost two good friends.”
