by J. T. Edson
“That’s what I thought you thought, ma’am,” answered Biscuits. “You can’t miss the counsellor’s office. It’s next door to the Wells Fargo office, got his shingle hanging on it.”
Turning, Myra walked from the room. Her trip to town had not been wasted, nor had the bottle of whisky handed to the six men as they left the ranch. Wishing to study the opposition, she sent the six cowhands on ahead and knew how they would behave on their arrival. On her first sight of Biscuits, she took him for a dull-witted hulk hired for muscle alone—a mistake more than one person made. After a few moments conversation she knew her first impression to be wrong. A smart working brain operated in that big sleepy-looking head. The attempt at bribery, a spontaneous action, came to nothing. If the marshal had accepted her offer of an unofficial settlement, it would have opened the way for other such arrangements. Myra now knew that a smart, incorruptible man held office; which would necessitate a slight change in her plans.
Biscuits watched the girl ride in the direction of the justice of the peace’s office and rubbed a hand over his close-cropped head.
“Now who is it she puts me in mind of?” he mused.
Chapter Six – Dusty Fog Is Coming Here
THE MAN WHO had called himself Father Donglar drew a white silk shirt down over his sweat-slicked body and breathed heavily. While he enjoyed the company of women, he could not help thinking that his present situation carried things a mite too far.
Of course, if it came to a point, he had only himself to blame, he ruefully—if silently—admitted. Myra’s behavior ought to have given him a warning of what to expect from the distaff side of the Considine family. In fact, most men would have been more than satisfied with just her and steered clear of an entanglement elsewhere.
Not Donglar. He possessed the kind of ego that must make a stab at conquering any good-looking woman who came his way. Three days after the escape of Anthea Considine, disregarding the fact that he already carried on a surreptitious romance with Myra, he made his move and ensnared the elder sister. They had been staying at a ranch, the owner of which made more money hiding folk on the run than out of his cattle, and Myra went into town to pick up the latest news of moves to recapture Anthea. Ten minutes after Myra rode out, Anthea and Donglar lay on the bed in his room, and he learned that it ran in the family.
From then on Donglar found himself conducting two separate affairs, and struggling desperately to prevent either of the female participants learning of his interest in the other. Having put much time and effort into freeing Anthea, he wanted to see a return for his services—and not the kind handed out so freely by both sisters. In addition to taking her revenge on the people of Backsight, Anthea proposed to make a large sum of money. Donglar hoped to see a fair share of the profits coming his way. So he worked hard at persuading both girls that each must keep the other from becoming jealous and act as if nothing tender existed between her and him.
The scheme worked, although it grew daily more difficult to keep the true state of affairs hidden. It also proved a mighty exhausting business, satisfying the demands of a pair of lusty girls like the Considine sisters.
“Why the rush to leave, Charles?” asked Anthea, sprawled on the bed.
Turning he looked at her. Without her clothes, the hard firmness of her body showed to its best effect. A leather sheath strapped around her forearm, hiding the scar left by Maisie Randel’s bullet on the day Dusty Fog killed her brother and ended their evil schemes.
“Myra ought to be back from town soon,” he warned. “It wouldn’t do for her to see me coming out of your bedroom.”
“Why not?” Anthea hissed. “She’ll know about us soon enough when we announce our engagement. And I don’t see why we shouldn’t do that as soon as she comes back.”
“You don’t, huh?”
“No, I don’t. We can manage without her.”
“And who’ll meet visitors from town, act as a front for you?” Donglar snorted. “Those folk in Backsight, at least some of them, won’t have forgotten what you look like. They’d recognize you. So we need Myra here.”
“She’s beginning to annoy me, the way she keeps pawing you,” Anthea answered. “I don’t see why—”
“I’ve told you why. Myra’s only young and if she gets annoyed she might spoil the whole game.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Anthea sniffed. “But stay away from her, Charles.”
Before Donglar could think up an answer, they heard hooves drumming outside. Crossing to the window, Donglar carefully eased back one side of the curtains and looked down. With something like relief, he saw that the riders below were not Myra and the cowhands she took to town.
“It looks like some of the guns we need have just arrived,” he said. “I can’t see Baines with them, but his pard, Coffee’s there. You’d better stay up here and out of sight while I go and deal with them.”
“Don’t I get a kiss before you go?” Anthea purred, rising and walking across the room in the man’s direction.
At that moment Donglar seriously considered becoming a Trappist monk. After almost a solid hour of varied love-making, he could barely raise any enthusiasm or desire for more. However, having seen something of the Considine temper when crossed, he wished to avoid any discord. Taking Anthea in his arms, he kissed her and felt her arms lock around him, crushing and digging fingers into his flesh. At last he managed to free himself and escape from the room.
“Whew!” he gasped, mopping his face and heading for the stairs. “There must be easier ways of earning a dollar.”
In its day, the big house had belonged to a Mexican haciendero, being the winter residence used to escape the heat of the southern range. Fernandez took little care of the building during his brief period of occupation and it had been left untouched since his death at the hands of Dusty Fog. However, on first being approached by Myra, almost a year before, Donglar saw the advantages of such a base for operations. The property lay in Coconino County and went cheap to defray the loss of taxes it incurred. Avoiding Backsight, so as to escape notice, Donglar imported servants and had the place made habitable.
Walking down the wide flight of stairs, he decided that he had done his work well. The house would make a jim-dandy home and was the kind of place he always dreamed of owning. If it did not have the disadvantage of containing the two Considine sisters—however, time might offer him a cure for that.
On crossing the big entrance hall, he pushed open the main doors and stepped on to the porch. The six men in the act of dismounting threw interested glances in Donglar’s direction and he studied them, gauging their quality.
“Where’s Baines?” he demanded, looking at the short, stocky man whose panic had caused the hurried departure from the wagon train.
“He won’t be coming back.”
“Why not, Coffee?”
“He’s dead.”
“And how did he die?” growled Donglar.
“We ran into some fuss back towards the New Mexico line and a Texan made wolf bait of old Baines,” Coffee explained, then to avert the wrath which he expected. “There’ll be nothing come of it.”
“Tell me what happened,” ordered Donglar.
Knowing something of the way of the handsome man before him, Coffee started into an account of the hectic visit to the small wagon train. In doing so, he tried to put himself and his companions in as good a light as possible. To hear Coffee’s version, Baines led them to the wagons with the purest of intentions, only to be attacked by a bunch of ten or so Texans for no reason. One important omission to the story was the desertion of Brown. During the ride to the Whangdoodle, Coffee and the men decided it might be best for all concerned if they kept secret that fact that they left a wounded man behind.
While guessing that Coffee lied, Donglar did not force the issue. Baines had been a useful man, possessing many good contacts—and numerous faults. However, the gunman had served his purpose and become an expensive luxury. Word would be spreading over the pra
irie telegraph that men with guns could find employment at the Whangdoodle, Baines had seen to that. So his death meant no more to Donglar than a saving of money.
“Take the men to the bunkhouse, Coffee,” he said. Studying Donglar’s frilly-bosomed shirt, town style trousers and shoes, a stocky, scar-faced man made no attempt to follow Coffee’s lead at departure.
“Just one thing, mister,” the scarred man said. “We haven’t talked about why we’re here—or about money.” All the men halted, turning their attention first to the speaker, then in Donglar’s direction. Throwing a startled look at the two men, Coffee opened his mouth, but Donglar beat him to it.
“You’re here to take orders. Like Baines told you, the pay will be between fifty and seventy-five and found.”
“That’s what Baines said, Scar,” Coffee put in.
Ignoring Coffee, Scar still faced Donglar. “Just what orders do we take?”
“Any I choose to give.”
Slowly the scarred man dropped his eyes to re-study the most important item of Donglar’s dress. Around the handsome man’s waist hung a gunbelt, although not of the normal type seen in the West. It rode high and the holster, though well-made and fitting the Merwin and Hulbert Army Pocket revolver correctly, slanted its tip to the rear in a manner which struck Scar as being awkward and impractical. No man could possibly make a fast draw from such a rig, Scar concluded; and he had a rooted objection to taking orders from a dude.
“And who’re—” he began.
“Choke off, Scar!” Coffee put it urgently. “The boys’re tired and hungry, Mr. Jarrod.”
Answering to one of the many names he used, Donglar nodded. “That’s the bunkhouse on the left. Put up your horses in the corral, you men. Coffee, on the way there call in and tell the cook to throw up a meal. And remember, all of you, don’t talk about anything, or anybody you see around the place when you’re in Backsight.”
“We’ll mind it,” Coffee replied, throwing a warning glance at Scar. “Let’s go, boys.”
After directing another scowling, defiant look at Donglar, Scar turned and slouched off after the rest of his party. Catching up with Coffee, he jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“You mean we take orders from that fancy-dressed dude?”
“Scar,” said Coffee sadly. “You ain’t pretty, you ain’t clean, but try to show the sense of a seam squirrel. Happen you sell him short, you won’t live long enough to learn how wrong you were.”
While speaking, Coffee wondered if he ought to have mentioned his suspicions as to the identity of the man whose lightning fast reactions brought about Baines’s death. He decided to leave things lie. Various factors pointed to Donglar’s wanting Dusty Fog dead and Coffee felt that his employer might take exception to hearing that the six men had been so close to the Rio Hondo gun-wizard without attempting to earn the reward poster’s bounty.
Donglar watched the men depart and a frown creased his brow. That mean, scar-faced cuss might need a lesson in manners, probably would. However, the lesson could wait until a larger audience gathered to benefit by it. A faint shudder ran through him as he turned towards the house. Going inside would certainly entail him in another show of affection from Anthea and he felt that he could stand no more that day.
Salvation, of a sort, came with the sound of approaching hooves. Donglar looked in the direction of the sound and saw Myra riding towards him along the town trail. With both girls on the premises he could count himself comparatively safe from either’s passions; but it was like walking about a gun-powder store tossing lit matches at the barrels.
Riding directly to the stables on the left of the building, Myra waved in a beckoning manner to Donglar. He thought of ignoring the gesture, but she repeated it with an angry, imperious movement. Rather than chance a scene in plain view of the house, Donglar walked towards the stables and Myra entered the building.
Two arms flung themselves around Donglar’s neck the moment he passed through the doors and a hot, hungry mouth crushed against his. Only by accepting and returning the kiss did Donglar manage to escape from Myra’s arms.
“What did you learn in town?” he asked, holding her at arm’s length.
“That straw looks so soft and inviting,” purred Myra. At that moment nothing looked less soft and inviting to Donglar, especially taken with what lying on it entailed.
“Sure,” he agreed, knowing better than express his thoughts. “But Anthea may have seen us come in.”
“What difference does that make?” Myra spat out. “When we’re married, it won’t make a difference what she thinks. She’s not my keeper—or yours.”
“We need her,” Donglar pointed out.
“Why do we? Both of us know enough about the plans to put them through.”
“Only we don’t know where she banks the money for carrying them out; and probably couldn’t get it if we did.”
“I still don’t see why we have to pretend—”
“It’s for the best, believe me,” Donglar answered, speaking the truth for once. “There’s nothing between Anthea and me. But she’s been in jail for a long time, kept right away from men. So she thinks that she loves me—I’ve given her no encouragement—but riling her might spoil everything for us. Come on, let’s go up to the house before she gets suspicious.”
With that Donglar turned and left the building, escaping before Myra could give him another show of her affections. Leaving her horse for one of the hands to off-saddle and deal with, Myra followed Donglar to the house. On arrival, she found her sister waiting in the hall.
“What happened in town?” Anthea asked.
“Let me get into the house first,” Myra snapped and swept by her sister into the sitting-room where she flung herself petulantly into a chair.
Face showing anger, Anthea followed Myra and sat facing the girl, but neither spoke until Donglar joined them and was seated.
“Where’re the men who went into town with you?” asked Anthea.
“In jail. On the way in I did what you suggested. They had a few drinks and started to show me how a real cow crew went to town. By the time I arrived, they were in jail. That dull-witted, slow clod of a marshal proved to be something of a surprise, sister dear.”
“I never saw any sign of it while I was here last,” Anthea cut in viciously. “But I’m not—”
“You reckon he’s smart enough to make trouble?” Donglar put in hurriedly.
“Let’s say he’s efficient enough. And he won’t take bribes.”
“You didn’t—” Anthea began.
“If you mean, did I walk in waving a handful of money and saying, ‘Can I bribe you?’ the answer is no. I handled everything with tact.”
Anthea sniffed, but once again Donglar spoke up to prevent an open clash.
“What happened then?”
“I visited the local justice of the peace to bail the men out. Unfortunately one of the men had almost ridden him and his wife down as he galloped through town and the justice refused to release them until morning.”
“So you accomplished nothing there, either,” purred Anthea.
“Only to meet a number of the town’s prominent females, including Mrs. Louise Ortega,” hissed Myra with such concentrated fury that Donglar began offering up silent prayers for assistance. “I’ve a number of invitations to visit formally and issued a few myself.”
“To come out here?” Anthea snapped.
“Of course. Where else would I give a house-warming party?”
“It’ll be all right, Anthea,” Donglar put in. “You’ll have to stay in your room, but the servants won’t talk.”
Using his specialized knowledge, Donglar imported a staff of Chinese house servants. Only one of them spoke sufficient English to make conversation—although most of the others understood conventional orders—and he, as their leader and a member of one of the criminal tongs, could be relied upon to keep the rest in line.
“We’ll have to get rid of the marshal,” Myra state
d.
“That’s true,” agreed her sister. “The essence of our plan to stir up bad trouble between the ranch crews and townsfolk depends on our men treeing the town. Once one ranch crew does it, the others will want to try. They always want to do better than their rivals. But if they know there’s a marshal who won’t stand any nonsense—and can back his play—they’ll behave in town.”
“We hire men who can handle him, don’t we?” asked Myra.
“Baines can,” agreed Anthea.
“Baines is dead,” Donglar informed them. “I was told a pack of lies, but it comes down to how Baines’s bunch saw a small wagon train and went in to help themselves. Only the men of the train fought back and Baines died.”
“Will that affect our plans?” Anthea asked worriedly.
“He was good with a gun, but my man Edwards is as good. He’ll be on his way here from Hammerlock with the equipment to reopen the Alamo,” Donglar replied, then saw a perfect way out of his difficulties. “I know how to handle the marshal. The best way, and the safest.”
“How?” asked both girls at the same moment.
“Randel is going to be shot, tonight.”
“Do you plan to send one of the men after him, Charles?” Myra inquired.
“No. I aim to handle it myself. Shooting a lawman, even a small-town hick marshal, is a serious business. While our men might chance it, we don’t want any of them in the position to be able to hold it over our heads.”
“That’s true enough,” purred Anthea.
“So I’ll leave now. Ride to Backsight and be there after dark. When Randel makes the rounds, I’ll deal with him. Then I’ll get my horse, make a circle around to the Hammerlock trail and follow it until I meet Edwards. I’ll come in with him, present myself at the bank with proof of my identity as the new owner of the Alamo. That way nobody will suspect that I’ve been in Backsight before.”
While neither girl wanted to see Donglar leave, they knew that their plans called for him to be in town and running the Alamo Saloon. The deal to purchase the saloon had been carried out, by mail, through the bank and without Donglar entering Backsight. Once established, the Alamo could become a spawning-ground for cowhand trouble—but not while Biscuits Randel kept a tight hold of the law’s reins. Removing the marshal as Donglar suggested offered the best and safest answer to the problem.
