Trigger Fast (8 page)

In Roylan’s store, Dusty heard the girl’s excited words. So did the hired gunman, heard them and read their true meaning. He came up with a hand fanning his side, reaching for his gun. ‘You’re not—!’ he began.

Dusty wasted no time. Nor did he rely on his guns to stop the man. He came forward and left the floor in a bound, right, foot lashing out into the gunman’s face. The man’s body slammed backwards into the counter and clung there. Dusty landed on his feet and threw a punch the moment he hit the floor. His right fist shot out, the gunman’s head snapped to one side. He went clear over the cracker barrel, landed flat on his back and did not make another move.

Before Roylan could catch his breath, long before he could get over this unexpected turn of events. Dusty faced him, a Colt lined on his chest.

‘You go help your pard, mister,’ Roylan said quickly. ‘I’ll take care of this here unfortunate feller as was supposed to be protecting me. I’ve got the note from Mallick to cover me.’

Without a word Dusty hurled himself from the building, holstering his Colt as he went. He saw the crowd along the street and headed towards it on the run. Roylan caught Freda by the arm as she started to go after Dusty.

‘Who is he?’ he asked, sounding real puzzled. ‘What happened and what’s coming off, Freda, gal. How the hell did he make that kick and down the gunny. Where’d you get the note from?’

‘He’s Dusty Fog and helping us!’ the girl replied as she tore free from his grip and raced after Dusty.

She answered two of Roylan’s questions, but not the third. Freda did not know of the small Oriental man down in the Rio Hondo. A man thought to be Chinese by the unenlightened majority, but known to be Japanese by his friends. To Dusty Fog alone this man taught the secrets of karate and ju-jitsu fighting. They stood Dusty in good stead and helped him handle bigger men with considerable ease as had the karate flying high kick Dusty used to set up the deputy for a finish in a hurry.

Along the street Elben drew back his foot and made sure of his balance, the better to savour the forthcoming kicking. He heard the thunder of hooves, saw his men scatter and fell back to avoid being trampled by two horses which raced at him. He opened his mouth to bellow curses and his hands dropped towards his sides.

The taller of the riders unshipped from his saddle, landing between Mark and Elben. He stood tall and slim, almost delicate looking. His clothes were Texas cowhand except for the brown coat he wore, its right side stitched back to leave clear the ivory grips of his low tried Army Colt. His face looked pale, studious almost yet the pallor was tan resisting, not one caused by sitting indoors or through ill health. His right hand made a sight defying flicker and the Colt seemed to almost meet it in midair, muzzle lining full on Elben’s middle and ending his move almost as soon as it began.

‘Back off,
hombre
!’ ordered the slim man.

His pard wheeled the big horse between his knees, halting it and facing the deputies. He held a Winchester rifle in his hands, lining it full on them and ending their attempts to draw weapons. In appearance he was as much a Texas cowhand as his pard. Stocky, capable and tough looking, with rusty red coloured hair and a face made for grinning. Only he did not grin now, his eyes flashed anger and he looked like he was only waiting for any excuse to throw lead.

‘Is Mark all right, Doc?’ asked the rusty-haired cowhand.

‘He’d best be,’ replied the slim man called Doc, watching Elben’s hands stay clear of the guns as he backed away.

‘This’s law matter you’ve cut in on!’ Elben snarled, trying a bluff.

It failed by a good country mile.

‘Kicking a man when he’s down!’ Doc growled back. ‘That’s about the way of a yellow cur-dog like you, Mister, happen you’ve hurt Mark bad you’d best go dig a great big hole, climb in and pull the top on you.’

At that same moment Dusty arrived. He came on foot, but he came real fast. Halting before the gun-hung deputies he looked them over. He clearly recognized the two riders for he did not ask how they came into this affair, or even spare them more than a single glance.

‘You lousy scum!’ Dusty said quietly, his grey eyes lashing the men. ‘All of you and they whip you down, put half of you in the street.’

‘Just a minute, you!’ Elben snarled, seeing Dusty’s lack of inches and getting bolder. ‘I’m taking all of you in.’

‘You and how many regiments of Yankee cavalry, loud mouth? asked the rusty haired cowhand. ‘This here’s Dusty Fog and that’s Mark Counter you started fussing in with.’

That put a different complexion on things. Elben knew the names well enough. From the way the big Texan fought he could most likely be Mark Counter and where Mark Counter was Dusty Fog mostly could be found. He could read no sign of humour in the rusty headed cowhand’s face, only deadly serious warning.

Whatever Elben may have thought on the subject his deputies acted like they sure enough believed this small man really was Dusty Fog. They crowded together, those who could, in a scared bunch. One of them indicated the two new arrivals.

‘That’s Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy of the Wedge!’ he whispered in an urgent, warning tone.

This gave the others no comfort. Not only were the two men named prominent as members of the Wedge trail crew, they also had long been known as good friends of Dusty Fog and Mark Counter. The Wedge hired hardy cowhands, men who could handle their end in any man’s fight and the names of Rusty Willis and Doc Leroy stood high on the roll of honour of the crew.

Freda arrived, dropping to her knees by Mark, trying to help him to rise. She steadied him with her arm and gasped, ‘Are you all right, Mark?’

That clinched it. The girl gave any of the bunch who might have doubted them proof that the two Texans were who Rusty Willis claimed them to be.

Slowly Mark forced himself up towards his feet, the girl helping him. He pointed towards where Morg lay groaning. The young cowhand had taken a worse beating than Mark, due mainly to his being less skilled in the fistic arts than the big Texan.

‘See to him, gal,’ he ordered.

Turning Mark walked towards Elben, fists clenched. Dusty caught his arm, held him back as Elben drew away.

‘Leave it lie, Mark,’ he said. ‘Rusty, fetch that buckboard from down there by the store. Bring the hosses with it. And watch the door, there’s one inside who might be on his feet again.

Rusty turned his horse without wondering at Dusty’s right to give him orders. On the way to the store he substituted the rifle for his Dance Bros. copy of a Colt Dragoon revolver. He guessed that more than a dispute with the local law enforcement officers caused the trouble here. This town did not need all the number of deputies who had been in the fight.

‘I’ll take that loud-mouthed fighting pimp now, Dusty,’ Mark said, loosening his gun as he gave Elben the Texans’ most polite name for a Kansas lawman.

‘You’ll get on your hoss when it comes and ride out,’ Dusty answered, then turned his attention to Elben’s men. ‘And you bunch’ll go down the jail and stay there. If I see one of you between now and leaving town I’ll shoot him on sight. Not you though, marshal. You’re staying here. Happen any of them have smart ideas you’ll be the first one to go.’

Kneeling by the groaning cowhand Freda looked down at his bruised and bloody face. She felt helpless, scared, wondering if the young man might be seriously injured. The cowhand called Doc Leroy dropped to his knees by her side and reached out a hand. She watched the slim, boneless looking hands moving gently, touching and gently feeling. Doc Leroy looked up towards Dusty, showing relief.

‘Nothing that won’t heal in a few days,’ he said. ‘Have to ride the wagon for a spell.’

By this time Rusty was returning with the buckboard and horses. He had seen the man he took to be owner of the store calmly club down a groaning deputy who tried to rise from by the counter.

Bringing the buckboard to a halt by the party Rusty leapt down, helping Doc get the groaning Morg on to the seat by Freda’s side. Morg clung on, then pointing to a pair of dun horses which stood hip-shot at the hitching rail, gasped they were his string.

‘Rest easy,
amigo
,’ drawled Rusty. ‘I’ll hitch them on behind.’ Dusty and the others mounted their horses. The small Texan jerked his carbine from the saddleboot and looked down at Elben. ‘We’re leaving, marshal,’ he said. ‘You shout and tell those boys of your’n that the first shot which comes our way brings you a lead backbone. See, you’ll be walking ahead of us until we reach the city limits.’

‘And then we’ll go back and tear your lousy lil town apart board by board,’ Rusty warned.

Freda needed no telling what to do. She started the buckboard moving forward with Mark, gripping his saddlehorn, kept by her side. Elben shouted louder than he had ever managed before, warning his men not to interfere. He spent the walk to the edge of the town sweating and hoping that none of the others wanted his post as town marshal for they would never have a better chance of getting it. All they would need to do was to pull a trigger and he’d be deader than cold pork.

All in all Elben felt relieved when he reached the edge of town and obeyed Dusty’s order to toss away his matched guns. He prided himself in those expensive Remingtons, but they could be recovered and cleaned later, whereas he possessed but one life which could not be recovered if lead caught him in the right place.

Not until Dusty’s party had passed out of sight did Elben return to the town. He found the owner of the saloon, Jackieboy Disraeli, nursing a swollen jaw and in a fit of rage.

‘What happened out there?’ Disraeli screamed, sounding more like a hysterical woman than a dangerous man. ‘Why didn’t you smash those men to a pulp for what they did to Knuckles and me?’

‘That was Dusty Fog and Mark Counter, boss,’ Elben replied, hating having to call the saloonkeeper by such a name, but knowing better than to fail while Knuckles still lived. ‘They had that Lasalle gal with them and two of the Wedge crew. The girl was in to buy supplies.’

Elben’s voice shook. On the way back to town an awful thought struck him. He suddenly realized just what a risk he had taken. If his kick had landed on Mark Counter he likely wouldn’t be alive now to think about it.

‘So Lasalle’s girl bought supplies,’ Disraeli hissed. ‘Then she must have sold out.’

At that moment Roylan arrived with his story about how the deputy had been felled by Dusty Fog who then terrorized him and got away. The storekeeper tossed Mallick’s note before Disraeli.

‘Freda Lasalle had this and your deputy didn’t say who Dusty Fog was,’ he said. ‘So I served her.’

In this Royland cleared his name before blame could be fixed. He did not fear Disraeli and Mallick, but knew they could ruin him, so didn’t aim to give them a chance. They had no proof of what happened in his place and he doubted if the deputy could say anything that might give the lie to his story.

Disraeli headed a rush for Mallick’s office where they broke open the door and released an irate Mallick and his men. It took some time before the Land Agent could talk. He slumped in his chair, stiff and sore, glowering at Elben.

‘We bring extra men to help handle the town and four cowhands ride all over you,’ he snarled, after hearing the story. ‘Elben, you’re a— Hell-fire and damnation! They took that map I tore up and threw into the wastepaper-basket.’

‘I thought you destroyed it,’ hissed Disraeli. Only he, Mallick and Elben now stood in the office. Why didn’t you?’

‘Because I didn’t get a chance. They came before I could. Now there’s only one thing to do. Get to Lasalle’s place and kill every last one of them — and fast!’

CHAPTER EIGHT

A SMALL drifting cloud of dust on the horizon down to the south warned the Ysabel Kid he had somebody on his trail. He drew rein on top of a hill and looked along his backtrail. He saw the following rider at a distance where most folks could have made out only a tiny, indistinguishable blob. The Kid not only saw the man, but could tell he had two horses along. This in itself meant nothing for many men took their own string of horses along with them. The direction from which he appeared told a story. He came from the Double K area and the Kid knew few riders would get across without being halted by the hired guns and turned back in their tracks.

‘He’s after us, ole Nigger hoss,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Dang my fool Comanche way of telling the truth when I’m questioned polite-like. I should remember I’m a paleface, most times, and that as such I can be the biggest danged liar in the world without worrying.’

The big white snorted gently, wanting to be moving again. With a grin the Kid started Nigger on his way again.

‘Wonder what he wants?’ he mused, talking to the horse, but never relaxing his wolf cautious watching of the trail ahead of him. The man was still too far behind to cause any menace. ‘Must be one of that bunch from this morning and looking for evens. Waal, he can have his chance when he comes closer.’

Only the man did not seem to be pushing his horse to close up, nor riding the two mounts in rotation, travelling relay fashion. The Kid knew he could make his tracks so difficult that he could delay the man — if he happened to be following the Kid’s trail. The Kid told that pair of hired guns back on Double K where he headed and the following man would not waste time in tracking, but by riding straight for Bent’s Ford could be on hand when the Kid arrived. With that thought in mind the Kid decided to continue to Bent’s Ford, making sure he arrived before the other man and so be able to keep a wary eye on all new arrivals.

The sun was long set when the Kid saw the buildings, stream and lake known the length of the great inter-state cattle trails as Bent’s Ford. The main house showed lights and even where he sat the Kid could hear music from the bar-room so he did not need to worry about disturbing the other guests by his arrival.

Why Bent’s Ford had such a name when there appeared to be nothing of fordable nature has been told elsewhere.
¹
The place served as a stopping off and watering point for the trail herds headed north across the Indian Nations. On this night however no herd bedded down near at hand. There were horses in the corrals, two big Conestoga wagons standing to one side, teamless and silent, the normal kind of scene for Bent’s most any night of the week.

The Kid rode steadily down towards the buildings. He could almost swear the man following him had not managed to get ahead during the dark hours. For all that he did not leave his leg-weary white stallion in the corral. The horse stood out amongst others like a snow-drift and would easily be noticed. Also Nigger did not take to having strange horses around him and could be very forceful in his objections.

Using the prerogative of an old friend, the Kid took his horse to Bent’s private stables and found, as he hoped, an empty stall. He meant to attend to his horse before thinking of himself. With Nigger cooled down, watered and supplied with both grain and hay, the Kid left his saddle hanging on the burro in the corner. He drew the old ‘yellow boy’ from the saddleboot and headed for the bar-room.

Although busily occupied in wiping over a glass with a piece of cloth, the bartender found time to look up and nod a greeting to the new arrival.

‘Howdy, Kid,’ he greeted. ‘Looking for Wes Hardin?’

‘He here?’

‘By the wall there, playing poker with the boss.’

The bartender and the Kid exchanged glances and broad grins. The poker games between Wes Hardin, Texas gun-fighter, and Duke Bent, owner of Bent’s Ford, were famous along the cattle trails. In serious play and skill the games stood high for both men were past masters at the ancient arts of betting and bluffing known as poker. Yet neither had ever come out of a game more than five or so dollars ahead for they played a five to ten cent limit. This did not affect the way in which they played for they gave each deal enough concentration for a thousand dollar pot.

Before he crossed the room, the Kid looked around. The usual kind of crowd for Bent’s Ford looked to be present. A few cowhands who spent the winter up north and were now either headed home or waiting in hope of taking on with another trail drive. Travelling salesmen, flashily dressed, loud-talking, boastful as they waited for stage coaches. A trio of blue uniformed cavalrymen and a buckskin clad scout shared a table. None of them looked to have just finished a long, hard ride.

‘Anybody new in, Charlie?’ he asked.

‘You’re the first since sundown,’ the bartender answered.

‘Check this in for me then,’ drawled the Kid, passing his rifle to the other man who placed it with the double barrelled ten gauge under the bar counter.

With his weapon out of the way, the Kid crossed the room towards where Bent played poker. He stood for a moment studying Bent’s burly build, gambler style clothes and remembering the big man made this place almost singlehanded, brought it to its present high standard by hard work and guts. Bent had been a cavalry scout, one of the best. He’d also been a lawman, tough and honest. And Bent was all man in the Kid’s eyes.

With his back to the wall in the manner of one of his kind, Wes Hardin, most feared gunfighter in Texas, studied his cards. He was tall, slender, with a dark expressionless face and cold, wolf-savage eyes. Hardin wore the dress of a top-hand with cattle, which he was, he also wore a gunbelt which carried a brace of matched Army Colts in the butt forward holsters of a real fast man with a gun. He was that too.

‘I’ll raise you!’ Bent said, fanning his cards between powerful fingers.

Will you now?’ replied Hardin. ‘I’m going to see that raise and up it.’

The Kid watched all this, knowing the two men were completely oblivious of his presence. He moved around to see Hardin’s cards, a grin came to his face and he did something no other man in the room would dare to do.

‘Should be ashamed of yourself, Wes,’ he said, ‘raising on less’n pair of eights like that.’

Slamming down his cards with an exclamation of disgust Hardin thrust back his chair and glared at the Indian-dark boy before him. The customers at near-by tables prepared to head for cover when guns roared forth.

‘Hello, Lon,’ said Hardin, relaxing slightly when he saw who cut in. ‘What damn fool game you playing, you crazy Comanche. I was all set to bluff Bent clear out of the pot.’

‘Huh!’ granted Bent. ‘You didn’t fool me one lil bit.’ He raked in the pile of chips and started to count them. ‘Make it you owe me a dollar fifty, Wes.’

‘Bet you over counted, like always.’

The two men glared at each other. They began a lengthy argument, each man casting reflections on the other’s morals and general honesty. Things passed between them, insults rocked back and forwards, which would have seen hands flashing hipwards and the thunder of guns if spoken by a stranger.

Somehow the argument got sidetracked as, alternating between recrimination and personal abuse, they started to argue heatedly about a disputed call in a wild card game some three years before. Just what this had to do with the present disagreement passed the Kid’s understanding as neither of the men had held the disputed hand, in fact had not even been in the pot where it came up. A burst of laughter from the Kid brought an end to the argument and they turned their anger on him, studying him with plain disgust.

What’s amusing you, you danged Comanche?’ Hardin growled.

‘You pair are,’ answered the grinning Kid. ‘I’ve seen you both lose and win plenty without a word, in high stake games. Yet you’re sat here whittle-whanging over who won a measly dollar fifty.’

‘You wouldn’t understand it at all, Kid,’ Bent answered. ‘It’s all a matter of principles, which same you’ve got none of.’

‘Man!’ whooped the Kid. ‘Happen principles make folks act like you pair I sure don’t want any.’

Hardin’s face grew more serious, though only men who knew him as well as the Kid and Bent would have noticed it.

‘Where at’s Dusty and Mark, Lon?’ he asked. ‘I tried to make Moondog City, when I heard about Cousin Danny.’
²

‘We handled it, Wes.’

‘Cousin Dusty all right now? He felt strong about that lil brother of his.’

‘He’s over it now.’

From the way the Kid spoke both men knew the subject was closed. He did not intend talking about the happenings in the town of Moondog. The sense of loss he felt at the death of Dusty’s younger, though not smaller brother, still hung on. He did not offer to tell what happened when Dusty, Mark, Red Blaze and himself came to Moondog. They came to see how Danny Fog handled his duties as a Texas Ranger and had found him beaten to death. Danny Fog died because the town did not dare back him against Sandra Howkins’ wolf-pack of hired killers. The Kid did not care to think of the days when he, Dusty and Mark stayed in Moondog and brought an end to the woman’s reign of terror.

‘Been any sign of the OD Connected herd yet?’ asked the Kid, not only changing the subject but also getting down to the urgent business which brought him north.

‘Nope, we haven’t seen any sign of it,’ Bent replied. ‘You fixing to meet up with it here?’

‘Was. Only we got us a mite of fuss down below the Texas line. Might take us a spell to handle it and we don’t want Red Blaze coming down trail to help us, or waiting here for us to join up.’

Due to having been followed the Kid was more than usually alert and watchful. So he saw the man who entered the saloon and stood just inside the doors, looking around. One glance told the Kid this man had not been on his trail, for the trailer had been a westerner and the new arrival anything but that.

He stood maybe five foot eight, slim and erect. His sober black suit was well pressed and tidy, his shirt white and his tie of eastern pattern and sober hue. Though his head had lost some of its hair and his face looked parchment-like, expressionless, he carried himself with quiet dignity as he crossed towards where Bent sat at the table. Halting by the table the newcomer coughed discreetly to attract attention to himself.

‘Has Sir James’ man arrived to guide us to his residence, landlord?’ he asked in a strange sounding accent.

‘Nope,’ Bent answered, having grown used to being addressed as landlord by this sober looking dude. ‘Did you pass anybody on the way north, Lon?’

‘Nary a soul,’ replied the Kid. ‘You all expecting somebody, friend?’

Swivelling an eye in the Kid’s direction, the man looked him over from head to toe. The Kid had ridden hard all day and his black clothes did not look at their best, but he reckoned that to be his own concern. To the Kid it seemed this pasty-faced dude did not approve of him or his trail-dirty appearance. This annoyed the Kid, never a man to allow a dude to take liberties with him.

Bent knew this and cut in hurriedly, saying, ‘Mr. Weems here’s expecting one of the Double K to come and guide him and his folks down to the spread.’

At first Bent had not taken to Weems. Weems came down from the north with two big Conestoga wagons, each well loaded, but drawn by good horses of a type rarely seen in the west, great heavy legged and powerful creatures which Weems called shire horses. The two wagons had been driven by a pair of gaunt men dressed in a style Bent had never seen before. Two women rode in the wagons and, strangely to western eyes, they did not ride together. Bent suggested that the men shared a room and the two women another. The suggestion was greeted with horror by all concerned, the two drivers insisting it wouldn’t be proper to share a room with Mr. Weerns and the pretty, snub-nosed, poorly dressed girl stated firmly she could not possibly use the same room as Miss Trumble.

It took Bent a short time to understand the social standing so firmly ingrained in these English travellers. They did not live by the same standards as the men of the West. To the girl, Weems called her a ‘tween maid, it was unthinkable that she should room with so exalted a person as Miss Trumble who appeared to be a housekeeper of some kind. So he arranged for the girl to use a small room while Miss Trumble and Weems took two of his expensive guest rooms and the two men insisted on spending the night in the wagons.

‘You-all work for Keller, mister?’ asked the Kid, his voice sounding Comanche-mean.

‘I am
Sir James
Keller’s man,’ replied Weems haughtily and laying great emphasis on the third and fourth words.

‘Never took you for a gal!’ answered the Kid, getting more riled at the thought of a dude trying to make a fool of him.

Once more Bent intervened in the interests of peace and quiet. ‘Mr. Weems is a valet, Lon,’ he said.

‘A valley?’ asked the Kid, sounding puzzled and wondering if Bent was joining in some kind of a joke.

‘V-a-l-e-t, not v-a-l-l-ey,’ Bent explained.

‘A gentleman’s gentleman,’ Weems went on, as if that would clear up any doubts the Kid still held.

‘Like Tommy Okasi is to Uncle Devil,’ Hardin put in, helping to clarify the duties of a valet in a manner the Kid understood.

‘Never heard ole Tommy called anything as fancy as a valet,’ drawled the Kid although he knew now what Weems did for his living.

‘There’s not likely to be anybody up here today,’ Bent told Weems. ‘If your boss hasn’t anybody here in the morning you could send a telegraph message to Barlock and let him know you’ve arrived here. Or you could see if there’s anybody going down trail who’ll act as a guide. But you won’t be able to start until the morning either way.’

‘Thank you, I yield to your greater knowledge.’

With that Weems turned and walked towards the bar. Bent looked down at the cards, then raised his eyes to the Kid’s face. The struggle between possible financial gains at poker and his keenness at quartet singing warred for a moment and music won out.

‘Say, Lon,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can get up a quartet and have us some singing.’

Always when the Kid visited Bent’s Ford on his way north or south, Bent expected a session of quartet harmony. He possessed a powerful, rolling bass and enjoyed throwing it into the melody, backing the other singers. The Kid stood high on Bent’s list of tenors and the Kid was always willing to oblige. Knowing Dusty did not expect him to return before morning, the Kid could relax and enjoy quartet singing in good company.

‘Let’s go and find us some more singers,’ drawled the Kid.

‘Got us a baritone,’ Bent replied. ‘Whiskey drummer over there. Now all we want is another tenor. How about you, Wes?’

‘Never took to singing since pappy used to make me get in that fancy lil suit and go into the choir back home.’

‘I’ll get around and ask, Lon,’ Bent said, as Wes Hardin refused to be drawn into the quartet.

The Kid and Hardin headed for the bar while Bent made a round of the room looking for a second tenor without which no decent quartet could exist. The two Texans took beer, further along the bar Weems leaned with a schooner of beer in his hand looking off into space and speaking with nobody.

‘Not another tenor in the place,’ said Bent in a disappointed tone, joining the other two at the bar.

His words carried to Weems who walked towards them.

‘I suppose there is no chance of getting started for the master’s residence tonight?’ he said.

‘Nope, none at all,’ Bent answered.

‘Then may I join your quartet?’

The other men showed their surprise for none of them thought Weems to be a likely candidate for joining in a quartet.

‘You?’ asked the Kid.

‘One sings occasionally,’ replied Weems calmly. ‘I recollect the time Sir James’ butler and I formed a quartet with the head keeper and head groom. Of course they weren’t in our class, but we felt the conventions could be waived at such a time. Without boasting, we made a pretty fair quartet.’

The meaning of Weems’ words went clear over the heads of his listeners. Not one of them understood the strict hierarchy of servants in upper-class households. Nor were they greatly concerned with such things as conventions, being more interested in getting buckled down to some singing.

One problem might present itself, the choice of songs. Weems could hardly be expected to know old range favourites.

‘Shall we make a start with
Barbara Allen
?’ asked Weems.

‘Take the lead, friend,’ replied the Kid.

It took them but the first verse of the old song to know Weems could handle his part and was no mean tenor in his own right. The room fell silent as the customers settled back to listen to real good singing.