The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Page B

“to get yoreself bowed up like a rodeo bronc.”
    â€œI reckon there ain’t,” Dusty agreed.
    The big man got the makings from his pocket and tore a brown paper from the book. He handed the small packet to Dusty. The morning air was warm again.
    He sifted tobacco into his creased paper and offered the open sack to Dusty. “No need for you to buy a hawse neither,” he went on casually. “I’m Lon Boxley, roddin’ the X L. I can put a man like you on the pay roll.”
    â€œNo matter where I’m ridin’ from?” Dusty caught one of the yellow strings of the tobacco sack and pulled it shut, eyeing Boxley gravely.
    â€œDon’t matter much where a man’s ridin’ from,” Boxley countered easily. “It’s where he’s headed.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I want a job?”
    Boxley shrugged and lit his cigarette. “Save you buyin’, a hawse.”
    A rider was galloping headlong down the road from the top of the rimrocks. He pulled up in front of the saloon in a cloud of dust, and shouted, “There’s hell to pay back down the road. Stagecoach turned over the hill. Driver’s dead an’ a passenger an’ four of the hawses.”
    â€œAny other passengers?” Boxley demanded.
    â€œNary a one.” The rider shook his head and mopped his face. “They was both shot. Two of the hawses, too.”
    â€œA hold-up,” Boxley exclaimed. “Looks like it awright.
    â€œThe stage agent was right,” Boxley said, “about the sorrel that come trottin’ in while ago.” He turned to Dusty swiftly. “You don’t know nothin’ about it?”
    Dusty shook his head placidly. “I come up the rimrock road.”
    There was another interruption. A pair of splendidly matched palominos came galloping around a bend at the other end of the block. They were harnessed to a buckboard driven by a girl who was standing up behind the dashboard sawing on the lines. She was hatless and her brown hair was flying in the wind.
    The team slowed to a trot, tossing their heads impatiently, and to a walk as they came opposite the saloon. Dusty let smoke dribble from each nostril and lounged against a post looking at the girl.
    Katie Rollins was prettier than the picture of her in his pocket. Lots prettier. She was the prettiest thing Dusty had ever laid eyes on. Her body was slender but girlishly rounded in jeans and a woolen shirt; her eyes glowed with that same wishful look the picture had showed and her lips were upcurved even as she asked anxiously, “Is the stage in yet, Lon? The one from Marfa?”
    Lon Boxley swept off his hat and stepped down in the dust to lean over the front wheel of her buckboard. Dusty narrowed his eyes and watched the glow go away from her eyes. She tightened her lips and sat down suddenly, as though a blow to the solar plexus had left her limp. Her softly tanned cheeks whitened a little, and she put up one hand as though to ward off Lon Boxley’s words.
    Boxley leaned closer, speaking in a low, persuasive tone. Katie Rollins began to shake her head, seeming to brace her lithe young body on the high seat.
    â€œI’m not whipped yet, Lon.” Her throaty voice carried easily to Dusty, lounging on the boardwalk. “I’ll find some riders somewhere …”
    Dusty spun his cigarette away and stepped into the street. He stopped behind Boxley and spoke over his head to the girl:
    â€œBeggin’ yore pardon, Ma’m. I heard you say some-thin’ about findin’ some riders. I’m sort of footloose …”
    Boxley turned on him with a snarl. “You’re already hired. Get back there and shut up.”
    Dusty was looking up into Katie Rollins’ face, into the surge of hope that lighted her eyes when he first spoke. He watched the light fade away to hopelessness as she took in his city rigging and as she heard Boxley’s