Free The Rushers by J. T. Edson

reckon you’ll soon show him who’s the real bosses of Fort Tucker.’
    There came a muttered growl of agreement from the men at the words. Discipline, long enough lacking to have almost gone from the heads of a lot of the soldiers, would need to be thrust home hard and fast. Unless Dusty did it, or if he failed to do it fast, there’d be mutiny and worse at Fort Tucker.
    The notes of assembly sounded, coming to the ears of the celebrating soldiers. Some of them, in fact most, started to thrust back their chairs but Madlarn went among them like a hostess trying to revive interest in a flagging party. He poured drinks and shoved men into their seats.
    ‘Settle down, boys,’ he said. ‘Shucks, it’s Saturday afternoon. You show him that you know your rights as fighting soldiers. Go on, finish your drinks.’ He came to halt at one table where two corporals and a big, burly private still remained on their feet. It was to the private he spoke. ‘Sit down, Paddy. Didn’t they bust you at the Fort and for no reason. You show these boys you know your rights.’
    Mark and the Kid studied the big man, noting the darker patches on his sleeves where three chevrons had been for some considerable time and only recently removed. In size and heft he all but equalled Mark, although without the trimming down at the waist. His close-cropped red hair framed a face which proclaimed his nationality as clearly as if it were painted emerald green and had Ireland tattooed across the forehead.
    ‘That big hombre’s got a tolerable amount of pull,’ the Kid said, nodding to the burly ex-sergeant.
    Watching the way other men sat and relaxed when Magoon took his seat once more, Mark agreed with the Kid. Mark could guess at the big Irishman’s action. Magoon wished to see how the new fort commander acted, for a man must always prove himself before Paddy Magoon accepted him.
    Talk welled up again, with Madlarn passing among the crowd to keep up the feeling that they were within their rights. Magoon sat down once more, talking with the two oldish, tough-looking corporals in a low voice. The minutes crawled by and Madlarn stood in the centre of the room. He did not see the door open behind him as he announced:
    ‘There you are, boys. He knows you’re men who stand up for your rights. He’s not blown assembly again.’
    Somehow Madlarn got the idea his words did not quite make the impression he wanted. Talk died away throughout the room, men seemed to be staring towards the door in a most unnatural and uneasy manner. A glance taken in the mirror told Madlarn why.
    Dusty Fog stood just inside the door, his hands tucked into his waist belt, his captain’s bars glinting in the light of the room. For a long moment he stood there, then stepped forward to halt just before Madlarn. He turned and looked at the men, the disgust and anger in his eyes making them look any place but at him.
    ‘All right, you goldbricks,’ he said. ‘Out!’
    A big, burly soldier of Germanic origin pushed himself to his feet. He’d managed to raise a fair head of steam on the raw whisky sold by Madlarn and so leaned on the table, one palm against it, the other on top of a whisky bottle, giving the necessary support to stand erect.
    ‘This is not right,’ he began. ‘Wha—’
    Which was as far as he got, it having taken Dusty just that long to reach him. Dusty’s left hand came around, slapping the bottle from under the man’s palm and throwing him right off balance so his jaw came forward. Knotted into a hard fist Dusty’s right hand drove up to connect with the German’s thrust out jaw. The blow cracked like a pair of king-sized billiard balls coming together and the soldier snapped erect, crashed back into his chair, shattered it under his weight and landed flat on his back.
    Mark winced in sympathy as he saw the blow land. Once, in a wild burst of horseplay, at the OD Connected he’d walked into one of Dusty’s punches, thrown at much less power than the