The Black Muldoon Read online

  Copyright © 2010 by Golden West Literary Agency

  First Skyhorse Publishing edition published 2016 by arrangement with Golden West Literary Agency

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  “When Iron Turns to Gold” by George Owen Baxter first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (7/30/21). Copyright © 1921 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1949 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2010 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for its cooperation.

  “The Two-Handed Man” by George Owen Baxter first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (12/3/32). Copyright © 1932 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1959 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2010 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for its cooperation.

  “The Black Muldoon” by Peter Dawson first appeared in Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine (9/30/22). Copyright © 1922 by Street & Smith Publications, Inc. Copyright © renewed 1950 by Dorothy Faust. Copyright © 2010 by Golden West Literary Agency for restored material. Acknowledgment is made to Condé Nast Publications, Inc., for its cooperation.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Brian Peterson

  Print ISBN: 978-1-63450-741-7

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63450-742-4

  Printed in the United States of America

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  When Iron Turns to Gold I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  The Two-Handed Man I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  The Black Muldoon I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  About the Author

  When Iron Turns to Gold

  “Iron Dust,” an eight-part serial, was Frederick Faust’s fourth contribution to Street & Smith’s Western Story Magazine. It appeared under his George Owen Baxter byline, beginning in the issue for January 15, 1921, and is in book form as Iron Dust (Skyhorse Publishing, 2016). It is the story of a young blacksmith, Andrew Lanning, who is goaded into a fight with the town bully. Believing he has killed the man, Lanning takes flight and is pursued by a posse led by trigger-happy Bill Dozier. By the end of the serial, Andy has befriended Bill Dozier’s brother, Hal, who urges Andy to pursue Anne Withero, the girl he loves. The serial proved so popular that Faust wrote a sequel, “When Iron Turns to Gold,” which appeared in the July 30, 1921 issue of Western Story Magazine.

  I

  Even though the slope was steep and broken and cut with boulders, Andrew Lanning let the reins hang slack and gave the mare her head. But, in spite of the difficulty of the course before her, Sally gave only half of her attention to it. She was mountain bred and mountain trained, and accordingly, she had that seventh sense in her dainty feet to which only mountain horses ever attain.

  She knew a thousand little tricks. She knew that, when gravel began to slip beneath her, the thing to do was not to stop merely or to whirl and go back, but to spring like a cat to one side. For that small beginning might mean a landslide of no mean proportions. By that seventh sense on those small, black hoofs she understood the rocks; she sensed which of them were too slippery for acrobatics and which, for all their apparent smoothness, were so friable that she could get a toehold. She knew to a fraction of a degree what angle of a slope was practicable for a descent, and as for climbing, if she did not quite have the prowess of a mountain sheep, she had the same heart and the same calm scorn for heights. With this equipment it was no wonder that Sally went carelessly down the slope according to her own free will, sometimes walking, sometimes sitting back on her haunches and sliding, sometimes breaking into a beautiful, free gallop when she came onto a comparatively level shoulder of the hill.

  But, no matter how busy she was, from time to time Sally tossed up a head that had made the heart of many a horse lover leap, and regarded the valley below her. It was a new country to Sally, and about strange things she was as curious, as pryingly inquisitive, as a woman. Everything about Sally, indeed, was daintily feminine, from the nice accuracy with which she put down her feet to the big, gentle, intelligent eyes, and there was even something feminine in the way her pricking ears quivered back to listen when her master spoke.

  When he said, at length—“Ah, Sally, there’s where I fight my big fight and my last fight”—she came to an abrupt halt and raised her head to look down into the shadowy heart of the valley. From here one could plainly see the little village of Martindale and every winding of its streets. For the mountain air was as clear as glass. Having surveyed it to her own content, she turned her head and regarded the master from a corner of her eye, as one who would say: “I’ve seen a hundred towns, better or worse than that one. What the deuce is there about it to interest you?” But Andrew Lanning nodded to her, and she tossed her head again and started on down the slope with the same nervous, cat-like placing of her feet. Plainly these two were closely in tune. He was among men very much what she was among horses, with the same clean-cut, sinewy, tapering limbs and the same proud lift of the head and the same clear, dark eyes.

  But as they drew closer to the bottom of the valley, his face clouded more and more with thought. He even went the length of drawing his rifle from its case to examine its action, and then he tried his revolvers. Having looked to them, he was more at ease, as could be told by the way he settled back in the saddle, but still it was plain that he approached Martindale very much in doubt as to the reception that waited for him there.

  As if to hasten the conclusion, the moment the hoofs of Sally touched the smooth trail that slid down the valley floor, he gathered her to a fast gallop. She came up on the bit in a flash, eager to stretch out at full speed, and under the iron restraint of his wrist, her neck bowed. There was no suggestion of daintiness about her now. She was all power, all flying speed, all mighty lungs and generous heart, and she rushed down the trail with that deceptively easy, long stride that only a blooded horse can have. But, even in the midst of her joyous gallop, the mind of the master guided and controlled her,
not with the tug of the reins but with a word, and at his voice she canted her head just a trifle to one side, in the beautiful way that horses have, and seemed to listen and read his mind and his heart.

  “Not so fast, Sally,” he was saying. “Not so fast, old girl. We’re going into Martindale at full gallop, and we may go out again with twenty men and horses on our heels. Well, that won’t be anything new to us, eh?”

  The wind had picked up a little whirl of dust before her; she cleared it from her nostrils with a snort and then came back to an easier gait, smooth as flowing water; her rider sat like a rock. And so they came to the outskirts of Martindale. It was one of those typical mountain towns, weather-stained, wind-racked, with the huddling houses that gave a comfortable promise of warmth in the winter snows and of cool shade in the summer. Andrew Lanning called Sally to a walk and went slowly along the main street.

  If Martindale were awake, it only opened one eye at Andrew Lanning. There were no people at windows or on porches, so far as he could see, and very few sounds of life from the interiors of the shacks. The predominate sound was the dismal bellowing of a cow on a hillside pasture above the town, a disconsolate mother mourning for a son who had gone to make veal for the hungry. Not a particularly cheery welcome for Andrew Lanning, and his heart grew heavier with every step Sally took.

  His manner had changed the moment he came between the two lines of houses that fenced him in. He sat bolt erect in the saddle, looking straight ahead of him, but his eyes had that curious, alert blankness of the pugilist who looks into your eyes and is nevertheless watching your hands. Andrew Lanning was watching, while he stared straight down the street, every window, every door, every yard that he passed, and when a little girl of nine or ten years came out on the porch of a shack, a quiver ran through the body of the rider before he saw that the newcomer was harmless. He turned squarely toward the child, whose great eyes were staring at the beauty of the horse. Andrew brought Sally to a halt.

  “Hello, Judy!” he called. “Have you forgotten me?”

  “Oh, my! Oh, my land!” exclaimed Judy, clasping her hands after a grown-up fashion. “Oh, Andy, you did come back.”

  He chuckled, but his glance slipped up and down the street before he answered. “Don’t they expect me?”

  “Of course they don’t.”

  “Didn’t Hal Dozier tell ’em I was coming?”

  “He did, but nobody believed it. My dad said …” She stopped and choked back the next words.

  He leaned a little from the saddle. “Judy, you ain’t afraid of me?”

  Her hands were clasped again. She came toward him with slow, dragging steps, as though her curiosity were gradually conquering her timidity, and all the while she peered into his face. Something approaching a smile began to grow on her lips. “Why, Andy, you ain’t so much changed. You’re most awful brown and you’re thinner and you’re older, but you ain’t changed. I think you’re even a lot nicer. Is this the hoss that everybody talks about all the time? Is this Sally?”

  “This is Sally. Do you know where I got her?”

  “Did you … did you … shoot somebody for her?”

  His lips twitched. “A little boy gave her to me, Judy. What do you think of that?”

  “I don’t see how he could. I don’t really, Andy.”

  She stretched out her hand with the palm up—man’s age-old way of approaching a horse—and tried to touch Sally’s face. Under the smooth-flowing voice of Andy the mare tremblingly submitted, and discovering that the soft, little, brown hand of the girl did no harm, Sally began to sniff at it.

  “I know what she wants!” said Judy delightedly. “She wants apples or something. Ain’t that it? Oh, you beauty! Might I ride her sometime?”

  “Maybe. But what was it your father said?”

  A shade of trouble came in her face. “I don’t believe a single thing they say about you, Andy.”

  “Of course you don’t. You and me are old friends, Judy. But what does your dad say?”

  “He says that … that … inside a couple of days you’ll shoot somebody or get shot. That ain’t true, is it, Andy?”

  “Who knows, Judy?” he asked slowly. “But I hope not.”

  He sent Sally down the street again with a touch of his heel, and then, remembering, he turned with a sudden smile and waved to the child. She brightened at once and waved after him. It comforted Andrew immensely to know that he had this one small ally in the town. Everything, it seemed, had changed , except Judy. Little Judy had grown lanky—even her freckles were bigger—but, inside, Judy was the same.

  However, the town was different; it was more drab and shrunken, more hopeless. His discontent grew as he approached his destination, Hal Dozier’s office. Rounding the bend of the street, he came in sight of it, and he also came in sight of the commercial district of the town, namely the hotel and store and the blacksmith shop. The hotel veranda, that social gathering place of the mountain towns, was filled with idlers. They stared at Andrew with casual interest, but when they saw the full beauty of Sally, their interest quickened. A buzz went up and down the length of the veranda, and every man came to his feet. Andrew knew then that they had recognized him.

  Every nerve in his right arm began to tingle, as though it possessed a life of its own, and that life was endangered, and every nerve in his body called on him to whip out his gun. But he checked the impulse and fought it down with a great effort. Not a gun had shown on the veranda. One man or two had stepped back through the door, to be sure, but otherwise each man remained rooted to his place.

  Andrew rode on, deliberately turned his back on them, and dismounted in front of Dozier’s little town office. The big Dozier Ranch was far out of town among the hills, but Hal, who acted as a federal marshal, had written that he would be in town in his office. He rose with a brief, deep-throated shout at the sight of Andrew Lanning. Sally had been attempting to follow her master into the office, but the shout of the marshal drove her back. She slipped over to the window and cautiously put her head through the opening to overlook this interview and see that no harm came to her rider.

  “I gave you up yesterday,” said Hal Dozier as he wrung the hand of Andrew Lanning. “Gave you up complete. Did you get my letters … both of ’em?”

  “I’ll tell you why I waited for the second letter,” said Andrew frankly. “I wanted to give you time to find out from the men around town how they would take my return. When you wrote in the second letter that you thought they’d give me a square deal and a chance to make good, I decided to come in. It wasn’t that I distrusted you … not for a minute. I knew that you’d be better than your word. You’ve got the governor’s pardon for me. That was the first big thing that gives me a chance to live like an honest man and hold up my head. But my job is to win back the trust of these people around here.”

  The marshal shook his head. “I know what you want to do. And when I wrote to you and told you that they were willing to give you a fighting chance, I meant what I said. Just that and no more. You see, Andy, these blockheads have it fixed in their brains that if a man is a killer once, he’s a killer forever. I’ve tried to point out to them that you never were a killer, that you killed just one man, and that you killed him under excusable conditions. It makes no difference. They think the fever is in you, and that it will break out in gun talk, sooner or later.”

  “They’re probably right,” said Lanning sadly.

  “Eh?” asked the marshal.

  “I mean it. Look here.”

  He took the sheriff to the back window and pointed to the upstepping ranges of the mountains, ridge after ridge pouring into the pale-blue sky.

  “That’s been my country for these past few years,” said Andrew softly. “I’ve been king of it. The law has fought me, and I’ve fought the law. A hard fight, and a hard life, but a wonderful one. Do you know the kind of an appetite it gives you to eat in a house surrounded by people who know there’s a price of ten thousand dollars on your head? Do
you know what it is to sleep with one ear open? Do you know what it is to go hungry for days, with towns full of people and food in plain sight and easy reach, but fenced away from you with guns? It’s hard, but there’s a tang to a life like that. I say I’ve lived like a king. My gun was my passport. It was my coin. It paid my debts and my grudges. And now I’ve stepped out of my kingdom, Hal, and I’ve come down to this.”

  He gestured despairingly toward the front of the little room at the street beyond. “Martindale! A rotten place for a grown-up man. No, Hal, it’s hard to make the change. I’m going to fight hard to make it. I’m going to fight like a demon to be an honest man and work for my living, but every night I’ll dream about the mountains and the freedom. And that’s why I say that maybe they’re right. Maybe I’ll break loose before long. I’ve gone without roping for a long time. Maybe I’ll jump the first fence I find in my way and land on another gent’s property, or his toes.”

  Hal Dozier listened to this speech with a frown. “Then go away from Martindale. You know there’s one place where you’d be welcome, a place where nobody has heard of you.”

  Andrew Lanning changed color. “Have you heard from her?” he asked huskily.

  “I have.” He handed Andy a letter, and the latter unfolded it slowly, breathing hard. He found written in a swift freehand:

  I know he is up for a hard battle, but he’ll win. He has too much true steel in him to lose any fight he really wants to win. Will you tell him that for me? And will you ask him to write?

  “Well?” said Dozier as Andrew handed back the letter. “Will you do it? Will you write to her?”

  “When I’ve earned the right to.” He wandered slowly toward the door.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to find out for myself. I’m going to learn if those gents yonder on the veranda want me to stay or want me to go back to the mountains. They can have their way about it.”

  Hal Dozier attempted to stop him, but he brushed the restraint aside and walked slowly across the wide street toward the hotel. Dozier, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, looked after him, and Sally trotted after her master until she had reached his heels and then followed like a dog, reaching out and trying to catch the brim of the wide sombrero in her teeth, for Sally still kept a good deal of the colt in her makeup.