The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Page A

cowboy weaving his way out of a saloon and across the boardwalk to his mount. There was enough moonglow to light the scene with some distinctness.
    Pat stayed there at the window a long time, looking downward, but he wasn’t thinking about what he was looking at. He was remembering a hundred other western cowtowns at night, the adventures that had come to him in those towns; other nights of long ago when he had been young and wringy like Dusty Morgan.
    And he knew what Dusty was thinking about right now. Dusty was too hotheaded to take the sensible course. He didn’t care anything about Rosa. Pat knew that. Rosa was just a symbol of youth. The sort of girl a man thinks he wants when he is very young and the red blood runs hot in full veins.
    Rosa wouldn’t hold Dusty here in Marfa until past midnight. She had ceased to be important when she flung herself in the sheriff’s arms. But Dusty would stay. Pat Stevens knew that. And he knew he was powerless to prevent whatever was destined to happen. Ezra was right. They couldn’t protect Dusty from his destiny. Dusty didn’t want protection.
    Pat sighed deeply and withdrew from the window. He sat down in the chair and pulled off his boots, then padded over to the washstand in his socks and turned the lampwick very low. He left the door of the room wide open, went around to the other side of the bed and lay down beside Ezra. In a few moments, the big man’s rhythmic snoring lulled him to sleep.
    He came awake suddenly, in full and complete command of his senses. A single shot had wakened him. A second blast followed the first as he sat upright in bed and listened. Both shots had come from a short distance away.
    Ezra kept on snoring.
    Pat got up and went silently to the window. The moon was higher, shedding more light on Main Street. Most of the saloon lights were out and most of the saddled horses had disappeared.
    Silence followed the two shots. The saloon doors remained closed and no one appeared on the street.
    Then Pat’s ears caught the faint thud of running feet coming from the left. Hard bootheels resounded on the boardwalk below his window, and a loud shout came echoing through the night from the direction of the previous shots.
    The running feet pounded into the hotel lobby. Men were beginning to emerge from saloons, gather in little groups on the street.
    The running man was coming up the stairs, three at a leap.
    Pat turned from the window and saw Dusty Morgan slither to a stop in front of number seventeen, jerk the door open and fling himself inside the room.
    Another man was running toward the hotel, shouting hoarse words which Pat could not distinguish. Men trotted across the street toward him, toward the hotel.
    Pat shook the bed and Ezra sat up with a grunt. Before he could ask any questions, Pat directed quietly, “Go to the head of the stairs an’ keep everybody down below. Anybody starts up, throw some lead at the landing where they turn. That way, you can keep ’em where they can’t get a bead on you.”
    Ezra had taken queer orders from Pat too often before to question this one. Though not more than half awake, he obediently trotted out of the room and stationed himself at the head of the stairway with drawn six-gun.
    Pat followed him out, but stepped across the hall to the open door of Dusty Morgan’s room. The young gunman had lighted a lamp and was leaning over a bulging valise on the bed, desperately trying to buckle the straps.
    He whirled about with his hand on his gun when he heard Pat on the threshold. He stared for a moment, then said, “Oh, it’s you.” In the yellow lamplight, his face looked yellow. He seemed older, not a reckless youngster any more but a grimly determined man.
    Pat said, “Yeh. It’s me.” He added casually, “I heard a couple of shots. Then you came running.”
    â€œThat’s right.” Dusty bent over the valise again. He said soberly,