Free The Smoking Iron by Brett Halliday Page A

he’d stayed behind. No matter what Pat Stevens said, there were some things worse than just dying. Looking into Katie’s eyes had made him realize that. If he’d ever known a girl like Katie he wouldn’t have been attracted by Rosa.
    But there wasn’t any use going back over things. What was done was done. He was a fugitive riding for his life; and a hopeful-eyed Katie Rollins was waiting at Hermosa for a dude from Colorado to come and help her out of trouble.
    Dusty grimaced and swallowed down a bad taste in his mouth, then rolled another cigarette. Ben Thurston remained silent. He began to snore softly after a little time. The stagecoach rocked along behind galloping horses, and there was still no sound of pursuit. After a time Dusty nodded and also slept.
    He slept fitfully in the bouncing coach, half-rousing now and then to listen for the sound of hoofbeats behind them, dozing off again after convincing himself there was no immediate danger.
    He came awake suddenly with the sound of revolver shots ringing in his ears. He heard a hoarse shout of alarm from the driver, and then his gun answering the shots.
    Dusty came out of his seat with his gun in hand. He figured that the posse had cut around in front to stop the coach, but he wondered why they were firing on the driver and why the driver was replying.
    The driver stopped shooting suddenly, and the coach lurched forward at a mad pace. Ben Thurston awoke and cried out excitedly, “What is it? What’s happening?”
    â€œHoldup, I reckon. An’ they got the driver. Hawses are runnin’ wild.”
    Two more shots sounded through the night and there was a shrill scream of agony from one of the horses. The coach tilted up precariously with one wheel on a rock, then overturned and went grinding and sliding down a steep hillside.
    Tangled in their harness, the six horses were carried along, kicking and struggling to be free.
    Dusty gripped a seat and remained crouched on the floor until the overturned coach reached the bottom of the hill. Ben Thurston began fighting his way toward the double doors which were now overhead, whimpering, “We’ll be killed. We’ve got to get out.”
    â€œWait,” Dusty said sharply. “Don’t open that door. They’ll be waitin’ outside.”
    A bullet crashed through the floor of the coach beside him as he spoke. He fired back, and a heavy voice shouted, “Come out through the door with your hands up an’ mebby you won’t get hurt. We only want one of you.”
    â€œHe’s talkin’ about me.” Dusty said quietly. “Lemme go …”
    But Ben was fighting the door latch, tearing at it with his fingernails. He thrust one of the doors open while Dusty was groping his way toward him, pushed his head and shoulders through the aperture and shouted, “I’m coming out. I’m Ben Thurston from Colorado and …”
    A revolver shot cut him short, the bullet smashing his words back into his mouth. As he sagged back to the floor, another bullet crashed through the top of his head, lifting the upper part away neatly.
    Dusty lunged forward to catch him, pushed his body aside, and peered over the edge of the door with his gun balanced in front of him.
    In the grim grayness of pre-dawn, he saw two mounted figures galloping away down a narrow draw into which the stage had toppled. He emptied his gun after the killers, but it was too far for accurate shooting. In a moment they were gone. Dead silence blanketed the scene, broken only by the frenzied breathing of trapped horses and their efforts to escape from the tangled harness.
    Dusty stood there a moment staring somberly after the fleeing men. They certainly weren’t members of the posse. But they didn’t act like holdup men either. It didn’t make sense. Killing the driver and wrecking the stage and then galloping off without any booty. He broke his gun mechanically and