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He met them in the town of Rustic Springs. It was the first place they had tried to kill him.
Seven buildings, and one of them a lopsided stable, made up the town. All were built of raw wood planking, much weathered and warped now. All sitting on the same side of the dusty trail that crossed this bright arid stretch of country.
Far beyond the jerrybuilt town, blurred by the yellow heat haze of the day, a ridge of blue-green mountains sawtoothed along the horizon.
Down the dusty roadway, on foot, a long, lanky young man came walking. He was dressed in a loose-fitting, much-laundered shirt, and similar-looking pants. On his head was a wide-brimmed flat-crowned stetson. A haversack swung from a strap over his shoulder. He wore no shoes....and no gun.
The dry heat of noon seemed to bother him very little. His name was Ji-Hoon Robinson. He was half American and half Korean and he was, he hoped, following a trail that would lead him to his half-sister, Penny Robinson.
The third building in the row had three words----Eat, Drink, Cheap---lettered in wobbly whitewash on its windowless wooden front. From its doorless doorway drifted thin whorls of smoke, the mingled odors of spilled whiskey and urine. Four dust-speckled horses were hitched to the fence pole which bordered on the place's buckled wood sidewalk. The animal on the far right, a bigfoot sorrel, was the pack horse.
Stopping beside the pack horse, looked towards the doorway of the ramshackle cafe.
"Keep them hands right where they are, slope," suggested a nasal voice from inside.
A man showed up in the smoky opening. He was small, sharp-featured, with long soot-colored hair. He wore hightop mule-ear boots, dirt-splotched trousers, held up with wide red suspenders, and a leather vest over his wool shirt. The vest had once been decorated with fancy beads, but most of those were gone now, leaving just the ghost of the original intricate designs. His hair was high-crowned. With one hand he pushed at his wire-rimmed spectacles. His other hand held a nickel-plated.45 revolver.
After studying the man for a few seconds, Robinson stepped up onto the wooden sidewalk. He crossed it, moving towards the cafe's narrow entrance.
"Was you figurin' on dinin' here, slope?" asked the small man, adjusting his spectacles once more.
Robinson replied, "I only want information."
"Oh," said the small man, whose name was Smokes, "you won't get none of that here."
"I'd like to find that out for myself."
Smokes continued to act as a blocking door. "Whyn't you just trot on to the next town, slope?"
The lanky Robinson suddenly began to move very rapidly.
A half-moment later he was inside the dim cafe.
Smokes was sitting, wide-legged, on the bare plank floor. His spectacles hung by one loop, his glistening .45 lay a yard to his left. He held his head cocked far to the right while he rubbed his neck.
"Aw, shucks," said a tall sunburned man who was sitting across the room. He bit down on his thin black cigar. "How do you imagine that happened?"
There was no serving bar in the musty room. Just a long homemade table, with legs of unequal length, on which rested three green whisky bottles, and two half-full glasses.
The suntanned man---his name was Craig ----was in a right-leaning chair in front of the table. "Aw, shucks," he repeated as Smokes ceased rubbing his neck and arose.
Next to Craig, sitting on what looked like a milking stool that had sprouted long legs, was a bulky fat man dressed in a suit of ancient buckskin. "How abouts did you manage to land Mr. Smokes on his hind end like that?" he asked Robinson.
Ignoring him, Robinson walked to the other end of the long table. Behind it stood a one-armed Mexican holding a half-loaf of moldy bread. "I would like some information," Robinson said to the cafe owner.
The Mexican's right arm was missing from just above the elbow on down. Up in the armpit, he held a long rusty knife. Setting the bread atop the table, he let the knife fall into his only hand. "Perhaps."
Smokes, his gun again in his possession, came striding straight for Robinson's back. "Slope, I don't think you understood me proper. I meant to suggest that you wasn't welcome here."
"He ain't a nice fella," observed Hopalong, the fat buckskin-clad man. "Course, maybe where this varmint comes from---wherever the hell that is---a fella who dumps people flat on their backside's thought t'be nice."
To the Mexican, Robinson said, "I am trying to locate a man called Morrison."
"I don't suppose," said Craig, after a slow careful sip of his whisky, "we'd be out of place if we showed our new visitor a little something about bein' nice t'folks."
"It'd be," said Hopalong, "doing him a distinct favor actual. Him probably bein' a newcomer to these parts 'n all."
"Do you know this man Morrison?" Robinson asked the one-armed Mexican.
"Si, I know of him, but...."
"Turn around and look at me, slope," said Smokes. "I want you to see this Colt before I ram it down your throat."
Robinson turned around, spinning fast. His foot swung rapidly upward at the same time, taking Smokes in the kneecap.
The small man yowled and chewed on air, a look of pain flashing across his face.
As he began to crumple to the floor, Robinson chopped the bright six-shooter from his grasp. Placing the gun beside a sticky spot on the table, he said, "Where might I find Mr. Morrison?"
"Shucks now," Craig, whose clothes, boots, and stetson were all shades of gray, jumped out from behind his chair. He spat away his cigar. From behind himself someplace he produced a hide-out derringer. Without further conversation, he aimed at the lanky young man and fired.
But Robinson wasn't there anymore.
He was beside the charging Craig. Catching the gray man's wrist, Robinson snapped the tiny gun out of it. Then he levered Craig around, slammed the ball of his foot into the man's tailbone, and shoved.
Craig made a dry sucking-in sound, folded in on himself, and toppled over.
His eyes on the fat man, Robinson walked to the fallen Smokes. After stooping to affix the small man's glasses back over each ear, Robinson dragged Smokes to the outside and left him spread-eagled on the wooden sidewalk.
"I'll get this one," offered Hopalong, pulling the still partially paralyzed Craig out into the bright day.
In a moment there was considerable muttering out there, then the snorting of horses, followed by the sound of horses galloping off.
"They won't forget you, senor, said the cafe owner.
Robinson placed Craig's derringer on the table beside the nickel-plated revolver. "Nor I them."
Licking his lips, the one-armed Mexican asked, "You are a friend of Morrison's, no?"
"I do not know him," replied Robinson. "But I have only recently heard that he might have been working a claim with my father. I heard also Mr. Morrison had left the claim for some reason and was seen in this area."
"You didn't hear the whole story, senor, by any means. Morrison, he came back, but not alone."
"Oh, so?"
"There was a dead man with him."
Robinson's dark eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"I think his name was Logan something." The Mexican paused. "Was that your father's name, maybe?"
"No."
"This Morrison, from all I know of him, is not the smartest of men," continued the amputee. "It was his story that this Logan had been murdered by someone else. He was not believed."
"And where is he now?"
The proprietor plucked a smeared glass from a rickety shelf behind him. Pouring himself a shot, he said, "Something for you maybe, senor?"
"No, thank you. About Morrison?"
"Ladron," said the Mexican, apparently referring to a dead horsefly that had poured out into his glass along with the whisky. "They have Morrison at the fort."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7sNOLC9zk8
"That would be Fort Lonestar?"
"Si, it lies ten miles to the south of us. He is said to be chained there like an animal."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡBFrusuV4Bp
"Is that the way prisoners are usually handled?"471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGmPxMP8cH6
"This one, I hear, is muy feroz---a wild man."
Nodding, Robinson said, "I will go there."
The one-armed man fingered the fly out of the glass. "You travel by foot?"
"Yes."
"Those three just now, how were you able to do what you did to them?"471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXUJC9A4JUc
"It is a form of self-defense you would not understand."
After trying his whisky, the proprietor said, "This is not a good part of the world, this country around here. It is only good for passing through." He drank a little more. 'You had better watch out for those three, and others like them, senor. And to the south, the Indians, the Ute tribe, are raiding again."471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡigKNH8EB1j
Robinson said, "Thank you for your help." He stepped out into the brightness of noon.
There was a hot heavy stillness all around. A lone dog slumbered, sprawled on its side, in the doorway of the ramshackle stable. Inside the building, a horse pawed at the ground.
Facing straight ahead, Robinson walked through the tiny town. He was aware of what was going on all around him. There was no sign of Smokes and his two companions anywhere in Rustic Springs.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVHoXu7h99K
Another minute and Robinson was clear of the town, another five minutes and it was as if the town had never existed. There was only flat dry land, pale orange and yellow in all directions. There was a scattering of cactus, squatty and barrel-shaped. High overhead an earth-colored sparrow hawk went gliding.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfsdotzgZeN
Robinson kept moving at an even pace.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡV7qnYWptQ8
Once, far tot he left, he saw a cloud of dry brown dust come swirling up. It might be horsemen. But the cloud soon grew smaller and died.471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7iAXNdqDeK
He reached the fort, two hours later, with no further difficulty.
471Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjGhack8cK7
