The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Page B

on. He had come to the end of the trail, and he knew it.

9
    Miguel was an ancient Mexican with a withered and seamed countenance. His tall frame with shrunken and cadaverous and his wispy hair showed silvery-white when he lifted a shapeless felt hat to greet Dusty politely. He showed some yellow snags of teeth in a wide smile, and his black eyes gleamed with curiosity as they lingered on Dusty’s costume and on the gunbelt slanting across his hips.
    He went to the head of the team and caught them by the bridles when Dusty pulled them up in front of the big barn. When Dusty dropped the lines and stepped down, he asked, “You are the new patrón, señor? ”
    Dusty said, “Sort of. Yeh. That is, I’m plannin’ to take hold here. But I ain’t the man Miss Katie was lookin’ for.”
    â€œNo, señor? ”
    â€œHe didn’t come. Got killed on the Marfa stage.”
    The old Mexican said, “So? And you weel work here, señor? ”
    â€œCall me Dusty.”
    â€œ Bueno . I am Miguel, Señor Dusty.”
    Dusty nodded and held out his hand. The Mexican shook hands with him gravely and replaced his hat on his head. “I am glad you are come, señor . The Katie, she ees need man bad.”
    â€œYou’re the only one left, Miguel?”
    â€œ Sí . My mujer , Juana, she ees cook for Mees Katie. And I am tend the barn. I am too old for the riding much no more.” He shook his head sadly and went around to unhook the traces.
    Dusty stayed at the heads of the palominos, held them until the traces were unfastened from the double-tree, then led them a step forward and let the tongue out of the neck yoke, dropped it to the ground. Miguel hurried around to help him unhook the neck yoke, protesting, “I weel feex the team, señor . Eet ees not for you.”
    â€œI want to get the low-down on some things.” Dusty walked beside him as he led the team into the cool barn. He busied himself helping unharness while he plied the old man with questions.
    â€œBeen here a long time, Miguel?”
    â€œ Sí . A long time. Since the Señor Rollins built thees house.”
    â€œHow many riders did he usta keep on the pay roll?”
    â€œThree men, she are work steady. In roundup there are work for more. Ten, maybe, or twelve.”
    â€œAnd he didn’t have no trouble with rustlers?”
    â€œNo, señor . He ’ave no trouble.”
    â€œWhy do you reckon it started right after he died?”
    The old man shrugged his stooped shoulders. “Mees Katie ees tal the men they are not for wear guns. Across Border are many bad hombres afraid for steal while Señor Rollins ees here. After he die they no more ’fraid. Find out queek Katie riders no more got guns.” He spread out gnarled hands expressively. “Ees much bad now.”
    â€œBut she tells me Lon Boxley has been sending his X L riders over to help out.”
    A shadow crossed the Mexican’s face. “They come sometimes,” he admitted stiffly. They had the harness off the palominos and hung on wooden pegs in the wall. He stripped the bridles off and stepped aside to let the horses trot past him through the barn and out the back door to a feeding pen.
    â€œBut they don’t do much good, huh?” Dusty drawled.
    â€œI theenk, señor , they are not want to do the good. I theenk maybe they make, what you call it, the pretend for try.”
    Dusty nodded and mused, “Pullin’ the wool over her eyes so she won’t hire no real gunhands while the rustlin’ goes on till she gets plumb desprit.” He drew in a deep breath. “I reckon it’s in the cards for me to have a talk with Mister Boxley.”
    â€œHe ees bad man weeth gun, Señor Dusty.”
    â€œFast, huh?”
    â€œ Sí. Muy pronto . He ’ave kill todos los hombres w’at ’ave try for shoot weeth heem.”
    The gentle ringing of a bell drifted