by J. T. Edson
While Stiggins had been correct when assuming the small Texan had not been able to see the faces of the attackers in the alley with any clarity, he had assessed their general appearances. He was aware that, despite being dressed differently, the three men who were approaching possessed the general physical requirements to be his former assailants. Two of them also fitted another point. On learning what was wanted of him on his mission, he had been informed that the beneficiaries with most to lose if delivery of the documents was successful were twin brothers. Added to that, he was aware of how much pain was inflicted by the kind of stamping kick he had delivered to free himself from the first of his assailants. Noticing the slight limp affecting the gait of the man on the left gave further support to his suppositions.
Lastly and most significant to Marsden’s way of thinking, was the way in which each man had his right hand concealed from view!
Having drawn his conclusions quickly, the Texan was alert to the possibility of there being another attempt to relieve him of the documents!
However, although Marsden had given no sign of it during the previous encounter, he was far from being as defenseless against an armed attack than was envisaged by the would-be robbers!
The moment Stiggins gave the order, the Texan began to discredit the misconception with great rapidity!
Rising and working with the smooth co-ordination which told of considerable practice, Marsden’s left hand grasped the near side lapel of the baggy jacket and drew it open so the right could disappear beneath it. Making a twisting motion, the latter emerged almost immediately grasping a short barreled Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver. The moment that the British-made weapon was clear, the left hand released the jacket and joined its mate on the butt. Brought to shoulder height and extended at arms’ length, the Webley was sighted and the double-action trigger depressed to send the .455 caliber bullet on its way in less than a second of the draw being commenced.
Selected as the most dangerous of the trio, as it was he who had instigated the attack, the book-keeper was hit between the eyes a split second before his weapon could be turned into alignment on the small Texan. Thrown backwards and killed instantly, he was prevented from getting off a shot.
Nor did either of the brothers fare any better!
Turning while the double handed hold was counteracting the far from inconsiderable recoil kick, seemingly of its own volition, the mechanism of the Webley functioned again and sent lead into the center of Rudolph’s chest. Even as the elder brother was going down, Marsden was once more swinging his revolver. His actions were those of an exceptionally competent gun fighter.
Although Aaron had been granted an opportunity to bring around and point his weapon, two things combined to unnerve him!
In addition to the devastatingly effective gun play being witnessed by the younger brother, in some strange way, the Texan ceased to strike him as being small and insignificant. Rather Marsden appeared to have grown until looming far larger than him. Startled by this apparent metamorphosis, which he realized later must have been produced by the strength of Marsden’s personality, he fired. His haste caused him to miss. There was no chance to try and correct his aim. For the third time, the British revolver—designed for ease of concealment—moved and thundered. Struck in the right shoulder, Aaron twirled on his heels. The handgun fell from his grasp and, shrieking in pain, he collapsed against the wall.
‘Seems like I’ve been doing all you good folks an injustice,’ declared the young man who had introduced himself as ‘Edward Marsden’ on the train, as he entered the cell block of the jailhouse accompanied by the town marshal of Newton, ‘I thought one pair or the other of you-all was set on stopping me delivering some documents I’d collected from Counselor Greenslade in Kansas City. Only we’ve just been told different by one of the jaspers who were trying to do it.’
The words were directed at Sarah Grimston and Margo Defayne as they sat in adjoining cells. Until they saw who had entered, they had been glowering through the bars at each other. Both were disheveled, scratched and bruised. Their badly tangled hair and torn clothing still clung wetly to them. This had come about as a result of the soaking from two buckets of cold water poured over them by the Texan and the house detective at the Columbus Grand Hotel in order to end what had been a long, very rough and not yet concluded fight. Brought to the scene by the shooting in the passage, the marshal had arranged for the women and their husbands to be taken to the jailhouse. Although something over half an hour had elapsed, such was the extent of their injuries, the men were still receiving medical attention from a doctor.
‘Don’t give me that shit!’ the blonde screamed, rising to grab and shake at the bars of her cell’s door in anger. All trace of upper class elegance had left her, even her accent having coarsened. ‘You know why we were after you, damn it. You’ve got the “mother-something” Zebra!’
‘“Zebra”, Your Ladyship?’ Marsden repeated, looking puzzled. He no longer conveyed an impression of naive insecurity. As had been the case with Aaron Chufnell, he appeared to have become larger, somewhat older and far more mature, exuding an air of command which had not previously been in evidence. ‘I’ve heard tell of them, I’ll admit. But I’ve never seen one, much less—!’
‘Don’t try to weasel out of it, you bastard!’ Sarah interrupted. Too furious to draw any conclusions from the change which had come over the Texan, she failed to appreciate how it gave confirmation to her suspicion that he might not be what he seemed on the surface. ‘I dropped the bloody thing in your jacket pocket at the railway station in Kansas City and you found it while you were in the lavatory!’
‘I didn’t, ma’am,’ Marsden contradicted calmly, turning the pockets inside out to show they were empty. ‘And there’s nothing in them.’
‘Not now there ain’t!’ Margo conceded, having come to the door of her cell. Sharing the determination of the blonde to prevent the young man from making a profit out of their mutual misfortune, she went on heatedly, ‘You found it and’ve got it stashed away somewheres else!’
‘No, ma’am, I haven’t and—!’ Marsden commenced, then he looked down. ‘Hold hard, though!’
‘What’s up, Cap’n?’ the marshal inquired, looking at the Texan in a more respectful fashion than might seem warranted by external appearances.
‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to wear my gunbelt in Kansas City and, the reason I was going there, I didn’t take over kind to the notion of traveling naked. So I borrowed this jacket from Cousin Red because it’s baggy enough to hide my shoulder holster and Webley hide-out gun.’
While speaking, the young man was examining the lining of the right side pocket. Showing there was a hole in it, he removed and began to feel around the bottom of the jacket. Mutual exclamations of annoyance burst from Sarah and Margo as they realized what must have happened. Giving a grunt of satisfaction, Marsden enlarged the hole and reached through the gap.
‘Whee dogie!’ the peace officer ejaculated, staring at the Texan’s hand as it emerged. ‘Will you just take a look at those!’
The objects in question were a double string of matched and alternating black and white pearls!
‘So this’s what you call the “Zebra”, huh?’ Marsden said quietly.
‘You know damn well it is!’ Sarah confirmed, staring covetously at the necklace she and her husband had stolen the previous evening from the wife of a railroad tycoon, unknowingly circumventing similar intentions on the part of the Defaynes. Then, having turned a gaze filled with hatred at the small Texan, she directed her next words at the marshal. ‘Don’t tell me you believe he didn’t know the bloody thing was there?’
‘Do you know who this is, ma’am?’ the peace officer inquired.
‘He told us his name’s Edward Marsden!’ the blonde replied.
‘And so it is, ma’am,’ the young man declared. ‘I was baptized “Dustine Edward Marsden”. Only, not wanting to scare off any of you good folks until I was sure whether you
hadn’t got the notion of taking the documents I was toting away from me, I left off the “Dustine” and didn’t mention my surname, which’s “Fog”.’
‘So your real name’s Dustine Edward Marsden Fog,’ Sarah answered, wondering why she thought there was something significant about the information she had just acquired. Again she swung her attention to the marshal, ‘But that doesn’t mean he didn’t know the Zebra was there and intended to keep it.’
‘Yeah,’ Margo supported. ‘He knew it was there all right!’
‘He says he didn’t,’ the peace officer stated, as if considering the declaration closed the matter. ‘And the word of Cap’n Dusty Fog is good enough for me.’
Part Two – The Invisible Winchester
‘Well, we’re almost there at last,’ remarked Marvin Eldridge ‘Doc’ Leroy, nodding towards the open main gates of Fort Sorrel. Then, directing what appeared to be a glare of righteous indignation at his companion, he went on, ‘Now don’t you dare go laying the blame on me, you varmint. It was you, not me, said we should stop over for a spell and sit in on that friendly ’n’ honest lil poker game with Sandy, ’stead of coming straight here like you was told.’
‘Shucks, I’m not worrying at all over being a couple of days late,’ claimed the youngster whose only known name was ‘Waco’. ‘Fact being, as soon’s we get there, I’m going right up to Dusty all straightforward and honorable—and lie my god-damned head off over how come.’
‘It won’t do any use,’ Doc warned. ‘He’ll know you’re lying for sure.’
‘How?’
‘He’ll see your lips moving!’
‘Now was I to think some about that,’ Waco drawled, his accent—like that of his companion—proving birth and upbringing had been in Texas. ‘In two-three weeks at most, I’d maybe come up with the notion’s how you’re saying I tend to stretch the truth a lil mite once in a while.’
‘You’d be wrong,’ Doc contradicted. ‘I was saying that you do it all the time.’
Anybody who was conversant with the ways of Westerners in general and Texas’ cowhands in particular and had overheard the comments passing between the pair would have deduced they were good friends. Otherwise, the implication by one that the other was a liar would almost certainly have ended in gun play. However, there was no doubt left by their appearance and clothing—or the low horned, double girthed range saddles, each with a lariat strapped to the horn, bulky tarpaulin war bag and leather chaps fastened to the cantle and Winchester Model of 1873 rifle in the boot attached to the right side, butt forward to allow easy removal on dismounting—that they belonged to that hard-working, harder-playing section of the population.
Taller and younger of the riders, Waco was in his late teens. Wide shouldered, lean of waist and with a powerful physique, he was blond haired, clean shaven and handsome. From the low crowned, wide brimmed black hat on his head, through a red bandanna, dark blue shirt, brown and white calfskin vest and Levi’s pants, to the boots on his feet, with Kelly spurs on their heels, his attire signified he was a son of the Lone Star State. Around his middle, a well designed brown buscadero gunbelt carried a brace of staghorn handled Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker revolvers in holsters intended—provided the wearer possessed the requisite skill to utilize the quality, which he did—to allow them to be brought out with great speed. Although it would have been inadvisable for anybody other than an expert horseman to take such a liberty, he sat a big paint stallion bearing the CA brand of Clay Allison’s ranch in a seemingly relaxed fashion.
At around six foot, lacking some two inches of his companion’s height, and about five years older, Doc was more slender in build although far from being skinny or puny. His good looking face suggested a much more serious mien than was the case. However, while pallid, this was because his skin resisted tanning rather than through leading a sedentary and indoor existence. His hair was black, recently trimmed as was the neat moustache which graced his top lip. With one exception, he was dressed in the same general fashion as the blond. Instead of having a vest, he had on a loose fitting brown jacket. Its right side was stitched back to offer unimpeded access to the ivory butt of the solitary Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the holster of a black gunbelt, also intended to permit the very rapid withdrawal of the weapon. The easy way in which he sat his large black horse was indicative of a similar competence in matters equestrian. There was a small black bag, of the kind in which doctors carry the tools of their profession, suspended from his saddle-horn on the opposite side to the coiled lariat.
Regardless of the comments they had been exchanging, neither Texan believed there was any reason for concern over the delay in their arrival!
When Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog heard what had led to the decision to stay at the ranch owned by a friend of long standing, Sandy McGraw, iv he would raise no objections. They had learned of losses being incurred by the rancher and had joined in a poker game where their combined knowledge of crooked gambling had established that the play was less than friendly and far from honest. In fact, the message received by Waco as he was preparing to leave at the successful conclusion of his duties as temporary deputy sheriff of Clinton County had merely been to tell him where he could join the other members of the OD Connected ranch’s floating outfit. v
By a fortunate coincidence, Doc had also brought to an end the private business upon which he had been engaged. This had led to a reunion with the blond youngster and was now allowing them to travel together. However, after he had called at Fort Sorrel to pay his respects to Dusty, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid, he planned to go in search of the outfit for which he worked. Instead of delivering cattle to the shipping pens of the rail-road in Kansas, (under their contract to small ranchers lacking sufficient stock to send a trail herd individually, vi ) the Wedge were handling something so unusual he was eager to play a part in it. vii
Even without the inducement of an opportunity to renew his acquaintance with three more good friends, Doc had been far from averse for having a reason to visit Fort Sorrel. Over the past few weeks, one topic had started to receive prominence in newspapers and general conversation everywhere his travels had taken him. Knowing how the Wedge might be affected should the outcome develop as was all too frequently being suggested, he felt sure his employer, Martin Jethro ‘Stone’ Hart, would be only too pleased to be told all he could find out regarding the situation.
Reaching the gate of the Fort, a need to explain the reason for their visit to the sentry brought an end to the light-hearted conversation before anything more could be said upon the subject which the two young Texans were discussing.
‘Why howdy there, Paddy!’ Waco greeted, as he and his companion were allowed to pass through the main entrance. While speaking, he raised his right hand in a gesture of friendly salutation to the ruddy featured, tall and burly Cavalry non-commissioned officer who left the group on the porch of the guardhouse. ‘You’ve come up in the world a mite since the last time our trails crossed.’
‘Sure now and wasn’t it all done by. good and sober living?’ replied Sergeant Major Seamus Patrick ‘Paddy’ Magoon, his promotion having been achieved since the last occasion which had brought himself and the blond youngster into contact. viii Glancing behind the newcomers, he frowned and continued in his rich Irish brogue, ‘And where might Cap’n Dusty, Mark and the Kid be?’
‘You mean they aren’t here?’ Waco asked.
‘That they aren’t,’ Magoon confirmed. ‘And it’s impatient Himself’s getting—!’
‘Blast it, Doc!’ the blond youngster ejaculated, without even wondering to which ‘Himself’ the non-com was referring, but glaring with what appeared to be wrath at the slender, pallid featured Texan. ‘Didn’t I say’s how there wasn’t no need for us to rush off from Sandy’s place, ’cause they wouldn’t’ve made it here yet?’
‘You didn’t,’ the Wedge hand replied. ‘Which I don’t reckon for even a moment’s going to stop you trying to lay the blame
on poor innocent lil ole me!’
‘It won’t,’ Waco asserted, his manner unabashed. ‘That’s what poor innocent lil ole friends’re for, isn’t it?’
‘Why don’t you rest them comfortable armchairs’s you Texans call saddles?’ Sergeant Major Magoon suggested, before Doc Leroy could reply to the blond youngster’s question. ‘And I’ll take you to my Company’s lines, so’s you can put up your hosses.’
‘Gracias, Paddy,’ Waco assented, dismounting and glancing around. ‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
‘It’s not much,’ the non-com answered, sounding in spite of his bulk and rock hard demeanor like a young bride employing false depreciation as she displayed her new premises to friends. ‘But we call it home sweet home.’ Designed with the need of a permanent base for members of the United States’ Cavalry in mind, Fort Sorrel was surrounded by an adobe wall some twenty feet high. This was in the form of a square, having a parapet wide enough to allow weapons to be used through its embrasures and with access attainable at gates on each side. Barracks and stables lined two edges of the massive central parade ground, the third being given over to quarters for married personnel of all ranks. To the left, flanking the main entrance, were buildings containing various types of military equipment and supplies and the premises of the post sutler. At the right, beyond the guardhouse, were the regimental offices and accommodation for single officers or those unaccompanied by their wives. In a corner beyond the sutler’s combined saloon and general store was a small, square adobe cabin which was clearly of recent construction.
‘What’s doing hereabouts, Paddy?’ Waco inquired as he and Doc, who had also swung to the ground, set off leading their horses and accompanied by the burly non-com. Indicating the crowded hitching rail outside the sutler’s building, with most of the tethered animals bearing civilian instead of military types of saddle, he went on, ‘Seems like you’ve got more than your share of visitors calling.’
