The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Page A

they narrowed into a deep gorge cut by the river, but all along here there was a varying expanse between the base of the rimrocks and the placid river.
    Dusty led the sorrel back along the road where he couldn’t be seen from below and slid the bridle off his head. He said, “Go to it, boy,” and gave him a light whack with the reins. The sorrel snorted and trotted forward down the road, over the rimrocks and down toward the village.
    If the people in Hermosa didn’t already know about the holdup and stage wreck, Dusty knew they’d do some speculating when the sorrel came trotting in, unharnessed and alone. Even if he wasn’t recognized as one of the six-horse team, the collar and harness marks were plain on him and they’d know he was running away from something.
    Instead of following the horse down, Dusty turned off the road and went back on foot along the jagged rim, keeping out of sight of the town until a bulge gave him chance to get down undetected.
    It was pretty steep going, and he let himself down cautiously from handhold to foot grip, then lost control and slid the last fifty feet.
    He got up and dusted himself off, sauntered down to the rimrock road following close along the bank of the river, and plodded along it toward the town.
    There were three buildings on Hermosa’s Main Street. The nearest one as Dusty approached was a saloon. Four saddled horses stood at the hitchrack outside, and four men stood in a small group and curiously watched him approach head down and limping a little.
    Observing their curious glances from under the brim of his black Stetson, Dusty couldn’t repress a rueful little grin. He didn’t blame them for being curious. He knew he must look plenty funny. Any man on foot is a marked man in the cow country, and his city suit and striped shirt must look mighty funny in Hermosa.
    He took a deep breath and tilted his hat up as he approached the four men in front of the saloon. They all wore dusty range clothes and all carried guns. There wasn’t anything remarkable about three of them.
    The fourth was a head taller than the others, a rangy man with a big nose flattened down above a wide mouth. He wore a buckskin jacket that was decorated with fancy Mexican silver trinkets, and his holster was on his left hip instead of the right. It carried an ivory-handled .45 with the butt turned forward, hi position for a right-hand draw across the body. It was the first time Dusty had ever seen a gun carried in that manner, but he’d heard about men who claimed it was the fastest draw. He had always hankered to find out. Now, looking at the tall, hawk-faced stranger, he had a feeling that he’d have a chance to find out before very long. He just naturally didn’t cotton to the man’s looks.
    But he stopped in front of the group and grinned at them all impartially, and asked, “Whereabouts could a man buy a hawse?”
    The tall man spat a stream of tobacco juice into the dusty street and asked, “Walked far, stranger?”
    â€œNot far. My hawse got snakebit down the road.”
    â€œWhere was you ridin’ from?”
    â€œIs that,” asked Dusty softly, “any of yore damned business?”
    The other three punchers stiffened and quietly stepped aside, leaving Dusty and the fourth man facing each other.
    A queer light flickered in the tall man’s eyes. His expression did not change. He studied Dusty’s city suit and the striped shirt, slid his gaze down to the slanting gun-belt and the holster that showed beneath the bottom of his coat. He spat into the street again and rumbled, “Sorta ringy, ain’t yuh?”
    â€œSort of,” Dusty agreed bleakly.
    There was a chill in the air as though a heavy cloud had blanketed out the sun, though the morning sky was cloudless. Glasses clinked inside the saloon and there was no other sound on the main street of Hermosa.
    â€œNo need,” the rangy man said,