Quiet Town Read Free

his Beals forward in what he hoped was a threatening manner but which more resembled a schoolboy holding out his hand for the teacher to cane. His voice was cracked as he said, “I got a gun in my hand.”
    “Drop it!”
    The voice came from behind the men, at the door they had just entered. It was a deep, southern drawl, a voice with authority. The voice of a man who stood behind a cocked and lined gun.
    Dropping his gun as if it was redhot the Marshal looked at the bar mirror to see who this newcomer was. Anger flooded to his whiskery and dirty face as he saw the reflection. The batwing doors were pushed open and leaning his shoulder against the jamb was as fine a looking specimen of manhood the marshal had ever seen. Full three inches over six foot he stood. On his head a costly lowcrowned white Stetson with a silver concha decorated band. His hair was a rich, golden blond, his face almost classically handsome. Around his neck was a tight rolled, long red silk bandana, flowing down over the expensive tan shirt which was tailored to the great spread of his shoulders and slender waist. A wide, brown leather gunbelt was around his waist, in the low tied holsters a matched brace of ivory handled Colt Army revolvers. His hands held nothing more dangerous than a half smoked cigarette.
    In sudden fury the marshal bent to grab up the Beals again, but the handsome blond giant moved forward to stand on the other flank of the man called Dusty.
    “Leave her lie, hombre,” the newcomer ordered. “You don’t need her one lil bit.”
    He moved forward slightly and kicked the gun to one side with a contemptuous foot, then fell back again to flank his friends once more. The marshal never made a move either to stop or interfere with the big cowhand.
    It was the young dude who’d spoke up who made the next move, trying to prod the marshal into action. “Do your duty, marshal.”
    The marshal gulped, looking at those three tanned and efficient men who stood before him. Unlike his backing party he knew the West and knew cowhands. Those three were as handy as men could be. His hand went up to rub his face as he gasped out, “I don’t feel any too good.”
    The words were greeted by an angry rumble from the men at his back and their spokesman snapped, “You never do when there’s trouble. That’s why we’re living in this sort of town. We’ve got to stop these killers.”
    “Then you stop them, Mr. Bigmouth Kennet,” the marshal replied as he removed his badge and hurled it on the floor. “I’m not getting killed. You take them!”
    Kennet watched the marshal blunder past him, then glanced at the other fresh faced dudes. He turned and squared his shoulders back though he still did not lift his shotgun from under his arm. “All right. I’m making a citizen’s arrest. I’m taking you in on a charge of murder.”
    “Hey, Doc!” Rusty Willis spoke up, taking everything in. “We ain’t going to stand here and watch them fierce ole Yankees abusing these poor defenceless lil ole Texas boys, now are we?”
    “Ole Stone’d be right mortified with us if we did and the rest of the boys wouldn’t talk to us for a month,” Doc replied. “So with Cap’n Fog’s permission I reckon we’ll sit in with him.”
    “Cap’n Fog?” Irish Pat and the rest of the City Council were watching and listening. It was the Irishman who spoke. “Holy mother of god, Matt. You’ve got to stop this or your banker boy’ll get hisself and his friends killed. I know who they are now. The tall blond boy’s Mark Counter, the dark one the Ysabel Kid.”
    “Then you mean that small man’s Dusty Fog?” McTavish asked.

CHAPTER TWO
    The Man Gillem Sent For
    THE GROUP of twelve townsmen, their shot guns held under their arms, faced the five young Texans, not knowing who or what kind of men they were matched against. If they had known they might have thought twice before attempting their folly.
    Dusty Fog, the small insignificant looking young man,