Although Ella Watson did not come to the bar, but stood talking with Wren and casting interested glances at Danny, the other girls swarmed forward, eager to hear the news. Tommy looked them over, apparently seeking for one particular face and not finding it.
“Where’s Dora?” he asked. “I’ve something to tell her.”
“She’s upstairs, taking a bath,” replied a buxom, tough-looking brunette. “Was that young Sammy you brought in?”
“Yeah,” Tommy replied.
“What happened?” put in another girl excitedly. “Who shot him?”
Before Tommy could answer, the batwing doors swung open and a tall young man swaggered into the room. Danny studied the newcomer in the bar mirror, not liking what he saw even though the other wore a deputy sheriff’s badge. Unless the deputy possessed money of his own, he dressed a whole heap too well and fancy for a junior peace officer in a moderate-sized Texas county and not a rich county at that. From hat to boots, the deputy wore the rig of a cow-country dandy. If the truculent assurance on his sullenly handsome face, the cocky air about him, and the low hanging brace of ivory-handled 1860 Army Colts be anything to go on, he reckoned himself to have something extra special in his presence.
Crossing the room, the deputy halted behind the two cowhands and jerked his thumb contemptuously over his shoulder toward the door. A hard expression, or what he fondly imagined to be hard, came to his face as he snapped out an order.
“All right, cownurse. Un—The Sheriff wants you at his office pronto!”
Normally Danny would have obeyed a member of the county law and reserved his comments on the other’s impolite mode of address until away from the view of the local citizens, so as not to weaken the other’s authority and standing in the community; but for once he did not. Aside from his dislike for the manner in which the deputy spoke, Danny had a part to play in Caspar County. He saw a good chance presented for him to establish his character before the woman who might possibly be behind the cow stealing in the county.
“I’ve not finished my drink yet,” he answered without turning.
Hearing the sniggers of the watching girls, the deputy scowled. He longed to have the kind of reputation which inspired fear, if not respect, in the hearts of all who saw him. So, wishing to grandstand before the girls, he made a mistake. Shooting out his left hand, he caught Danny by the arm and dropped his right hand to the butt of the off-side Colt.
While training as a deputy under his father, Danny was taught never to lay hands on or threaten a man and that he must only place his hand on the butt of his gun when the situation warranted drawing and using the weapon. To Danny’s way of thinking other law-enforcement officers should respect the same rule. He did not like the slit-eyed manner in which the deputy studied him, and pegged him as being the kind of hawg-mean show-off who would gun down an unsuspecting man just to be able to claim he had made a kill.
So Danny did not aim to give the deputy a chance. Pivoting around, Danny threw the hand from his sleeve and tossed the remainder of his drink full into the deputy’s face. Caught unawares, the deputy took a hurried step to the rear, entangled his spurs and sat down hard on the floor. Although partially winded, the laughter of the watching girls drove the deputy to worse folly.
“Why, you——!” he began and clawed at the right-side Colt once more.
Instantly Danny drew his off-side gun and threw down on the deputy, his thumb cocking back the hammer and forefinger depressing the trigger as the Colt’s seven-and-a-half inch barrel slanted down into line on the deputy’s body. At the same moment Danny saw Ed Wren move. Give him due, the gunman had speed. The fancy Remington licked out of his sash in around three-quarters of a second—which explained how he came to fail against Dusty who could cut a good quarter of a second off that time. However, Wren could handle a gun faster than Danny and the young Ranger admitted the fact without shame.
“Drop it, cownurse!” Wren ordered.
“Don’t see how you can down me without I get to put lead into the deputy at the same time, hombre,” Danny answered, making no move to obey the man’s order.
Which statement was true enough. Even a head shot could not save the deputy from taking lead; in fact, one would ensure he did get a bullet in him. Danny held his Colt with the hammer drawn back and trigger depressed. No matter where the lead hit, should Wren shoot, the impact would cause Danny’s thumb to release the hammer. From then on the gun’s mechanical processes would automatically take over, firing the charge in the uppermost chamber of the cylinder and expelling a bullet through the barrel which lined on the deputy’s favorite stomach.
Rank fear etched itself on the deputy’s face as he remembered that Wren showed considerable interest in becoming a member of the sheriff’s staff on his arrival in town. However, Uncle Farley hired only one deputy and could not take on another, even one of Wren’s standing. The gunhand now had a remarkably good chance of creating a vacancy in the sheriff’s office by shooting the newcomer.
“Just hold everything!” snapped Ella Watson, stepping forward but keeping out of line of fire. “Ed put up your gun right now.” Not until Wren obeyed her order did she turn her eyes to Danny and continue, “And you, cowboy, if you know what’s good for you. I know Clyde there acted a mite hot-headed and foolish, but he is the sheriff’s nephew.”
From the woman’s tone, Danny could not decide if she gave warning that the sheriff bore strong family ties and would strenuously object to his nephew going home with a .44 caliber hole in his stomach; or that she merely figured any relation of the sheriff could not help acting foolishly. However, Danny reckoned he had made his point and could rely on the woman to prevent any further need of his Colt. Wren had already returned his gun to the sash, so Danny lowered the Colt’s hammer on to a safety notch between two of the cylinder’s cap-nipples and spun the gun into its holster. Instantly the deputy let out a snarl and reached toward his off-side Colt. Ella Watson stepped between Danny and the deputy, standing squarely in front of the young Ranger and glaring down at the deputy.
“Now that’s enough, Clyde. You asked for what you got and if you want to take in the cowhand under arrest, I’ll send for Dean Soskice to act for him.”
Just who the hell Dean Soskice might be Danny did not know; but the name appeared to have a mighty steadying effect on the deputy. With a menacing scowl, the deputy took his hand from his gun and rose to his feet. Once again he jerked his thumb toward the door.
“You’re still wanted down at the jail,” he said.
“Why sure,” Danny replied. “I’ll come right now. My drink’s gone now, anyways.”
“I’ll come with you, Danny,” grinned Tommy, eyeing his new acquaintance with frank admiration. “The boss said for both of us to go along. See you after we’ve done, honey.”
“I’ll be here,” Mousey promised.
“After you, deputy,” drawled Danny as they reached the door. “I was raised all polite and proper.”
Still scowling, but with none of the cocky swagger which marked his entrance, the deputy preceded the others from the saloon. Ella Watson watched them go and returned to the gunhand’s side.
“Well?” she asked.
“Naw. It’s not him. That kid’s not better than fair with a gun and Dusty Fog’s a whole heap faster. Still he looks a whole heap like Fog, except that he’s some smaller and not so hefty built.”