tall, lithe gambler with a keen, tanned face that was at odds with his profession. On the vingt-et-un layout, near his right hand, lay a Colt Army revolver. At the right of the table, face down and still, lay the body of a short, heavily-built man, a Smith and Wesson revolver clutched in his right hand, a pair of glasses by his side. There was not a mark on the man to show how he came to die.
“Tell it, one of you!” Dusty ordered, glancing at the window behind the gambler and the star-shaped hole where a bullet went through.
“He lost some,” the gambler replied, indicating the body. “Was a poor loser. Started yelling that the deck was marked and went for his gun. Got off a shot and missed. I didn’t.”
“That’s right, marshal,” a storekeeper who Dusty knew slightly agreed. “This’s Frank Derringer, he’s a straight gambler.”
“Call my deputy up here,” Dusty ordered, looking at the small, light calibre Smith and Wesson then at the Army Colt. His eyes went to Derringer as a man left to carry out his orders. “Open your coat, Mr. Derringer.”
The gambler opened his coat. He did not wear a gunbelt but under his arm was a device Dusty knew of although this was the first he had seen. The shoulder clip was made on a leather harness and with two U-shaped metal clips which would hold the chamber and the barrel of the gun. One glance told Dusty the clip was made for the Army Colt. Also that the harness would not fit the other man, so Derringer could not have changed weapons.
Doc Leroy came in, followed by Bearcat Annie. The woman looked around then snapped, “Keep your mouth shut, Frank. I’ll get a lawyer here.”
Dusty ignored her, pointing to the blue backed deck of cards on the table. “Check the cards, Doc.”
“I run a straight game here, Marshal!” Bearcat Annie objected and there was no doubting her sincerity for once.
Ignoring her, Doc took up the cards, holding them to the light and looking at the backs. He tossed three cards on to the table by Dusty’s hand. “They’re marked. Look at the centre, the ink’s darker there. It’s real hard to see unless you look real careful.”
Taking up the cards Dusty examined them. At first he could see nothing, then he made out the slight darkening in the centre. A man would have to be real keen eyed to see those marks unless he knew where to look.
“That’s what they call daubing, isn’t it?” Dusty inquired. “Hold out your hands, mister.”
Obediently Derringer held out his hands, showing the fingers for, although he was honest, he knew how daubing was done. He also knew how easy a dauber could be identified. Dusty glanced at the thumbs, they were clean and unmarked so he went and rolled the body over, glancing at the bullet hole in the chest. Then he turned the left hand, on the thumb was a faint blue stain. Doc Leroy picked up the glasses, the lens were powerful, too powerful for any normal use. Handing the glasses to Dusty he pulled the man’s waistbelt and exposed a thimble-sized metal pot filled with a thick blue paste.
“This’s the dauber, Dusty,” Doc said and went on to the gambler, “Reckon I was wrong about you, mister. I’d heard that Smith & Wesson go off first and when I saw the bullet hadn’t gone through this hombre I figured you’d swapped guns with him afore we got here so it’d look like he started throwing the lead.”
“So did I, at first,” Dusty admitted. “Then I figured you’d not be using a full powder charge in your Colt, Mr. Derringer.”
The gambler was at a loss to know what to make of Dusty. When he had seen the arrival of the marshal, Derringer expected either to be thrown in jail or run out of town. He knew his boss was not the best friend Dusty Fog possessed in town and would have expected the Texan to take advantage of this to get back at her. Instead Dusty seemed to have been working just as hard to find him innocent and justified in defending himself. He never loaded his Colt with