by J. T. Edson
Striding out faster in accordance with their companion’s instructions, the men on the flanks converged towards Mark from either side. Waiting until they had started the final lunge for him, he stepped swiftly between them before their reaching hands could secure the holds they were seeking. As they were completely engrossed in their own intentions, the pair rushed into one another’s arms on missing their target. Such was their eagerness to get to grips with the intruder, neither realized the mistake they were making and instinctively they started to grapple together. However, the big Texan was not allowed to capitalize upon this immediately.
Having produced a needed respite by contriving to divert some of his assailants against his cousin, who he was confident could handle them, Front de Boeuf started to make the most of the situation. Noticing an attacker was grabbing a chair by its seat and lifting it to be used as a club, he responded to threat with rapidity. Shooting out his left fist, covered by a black leather riding glove to prevent its white and uncallused condition detracting from the rest of the disguise, he drove it straight through the bottom of the seat and into the face of the gandy dancer. Then, even as the recipient of the blow was going over backwards, Front de Boeuf sent a right footed kick into the stomach of another and was pounced upon from three sides by more of them.
Deftly blocking the punch directed at him by the third gandy dancer to come his way, the blond giant retaliated with a backhand swing to the side of the face. Despite the speed of its delivery, it sent the man in a racing twirl across the bar-room. Going over a table without it having reduced his speed, he rolled against a wall and lost all further interest in the proceedings. Utilizing the rest of the turning impetus employed while launching the blow, Mark swung around on his heel. Catching the other two would be attackers by the scruff of the neck, before they could separate from their entanglement, he rendered both of them hors de combat by banging their foreheads together.
On the point of continuing his attempt to render assistance to his cousin, whose shoulders were encircled from behind and his arms grasped on each side, the blond giant glanced at the mirror behind the bar. Its reflection of the scene warned him that the man who had been ejected was already coming back. Unfortunately, he made the discovery just a moment too late.
Having dashed over from the main entrance, the gandy dancer encircled and pinioned Mark’s hands to his sides. As this happened a cavalry soldier, sent in their direction by a punch from Red Blaze, saw what he believed was an opportunity to repay the blow on another cowhand. Before he could do so, Mark brought up and thrust out both legs. The soles of the boots met the chest of the dark blue tunic and gave a shove which propelled its wearer in a hurried retreat. Although he managed to regain some control over his movements as he blundered backwards and turned, this proved less beneficial than he might have, hoped. Having been returned towards his original assailant, he was given another blow to the jaw which sent him spinning into a corner. His head struck the wall and he limply collapsed.
Although the blond giant was prevented from reaching Front de Boeuf, who possessed enormous strength in his seemingly soft and well-padded body, he was able to escape unaided from the restraint being placed upon him. Having delivered a kick to the ribs which disposed of a gandy dancer coming to take advantage of his arms being held, he swung his torso from right to left and back. Such was the vigor he applied, the other three were unable to retain their grips and were pitched away from him. However, the man in the rear was less affected than his companions and was not thrown far. Snatching up a chair as he came to a halt, he returned to swing it against the back of the big Southron with all the force he could muster.
Supporting Mark’s full weight during the removal of the soldier, the big gandy dancer could not help staggering under it or avoid loosening his rear bear hug hold a trifle. Bringing his feet to the floor again, the blond giant gave a spreading surge with his arms to separate these who had encircled him from behind. Having freed himself, with no more apparent difficulty than when he had halted the rush of the man outside, he pivoted swiftly around. The right cross to the chin he swung sent the gandy dancer from the bar-room at full speed. However, this time there was nobody to stop the man. The onlookers scattered as he emerged even faster than previously and at an angle which carried him to the hitching rail. Rolling over it, he alighted supine in the street and, after a feeble attempt to sit up, flopped flaccidly once more.
The attack made upon Front de Boeuf proved to be a mistake. Like all the furniture purchased by Erasmus O’Hagen for the bar-room, as a result of long experience in the saloon business, the chair was only made to stand up to normal use. Being employed as an improvised club, it shattered on impact. While this hurt the big Southron, it did not incapacitate him. It did, nevertheless, arouse his anger. All suggestion of petulance left his face. Its expression became such as his less than salubrious ancestor, Sir Reginald of Torquilstone Castle might have shown when aroused. Spinning around, he dealt his attacker a backhand right to the jaw which would in itself have been sufficient. Already rendered unconscious, the man was given a left to the solar plexus and a right swing to the other side of the jaw in rapid succession before his sagging body could move out of range. Sent sprawling, his no longer sentient body crashed into four fighters and knocked them from their feet.
‘Red!’ Mark bellowed, turning after he had sent the big gandy dancer flying from the bar-room. ‘Get over to Cousin Trudeau!’
Having considered the visit to Trail End far too tame to be enjoyable, the fiery haired cowhand had been delighted when the trouble started. Nor had he shown any hesitation in allowing himself to be drawn into the fray. However, as was his custom on joining the fighting, he had kept a tight rein upon his otherwise impetuous nature and had demonstrated a fistic ability of a high order. What was more, despite being actively engaged in the general brawling near the counter, he had seen Mark arrive and had heard what had been shouted.
‘Yo!’ Red replied, ducking beneath a punch and sending one of his own into the stomach of the thwarted deliverer.
Giving the traditional cavalry signification of assent and removing one obstacle by grabbing the shoulders and flinging aside the soldier he had hit, the red head set about doing as the blond giant had requested. Seeing his path would be blocked and probably disputed by some of the gandy dancers attacking Front de Boeuf, he ducked under a table. Tilting it forward and grasping the lower pair of legs, he used it as a combined shield and battering ram to crash through and reach the big Southron. A moment later, knocking or throwing aside everybody who tried to stop him, the blond giant joined them.
‘Cave adsum, Cousin Mark!’ Front de Boeuf greeted. ‘Am I pleased to see you!’
‘Cave adsum,’ the blond giant replied, as he had when playing with the big Southron as children. ‘I thought you might be. Now let’s get this whing-ding over, pronto!’
‘Well now, boys,’ Town Marshal Stanley Woodrow Markham commented dryly, studying his surroundings as he entered the bar-room of the Educated Thirst Saloon followed by his deputies. His voice had an accent which suggested origins in Illinois and was surprisingly soft for a man of his size. ‘It looks like we would have been needed here, only we’ve come a mite too late.’
The remark was justified!
Ably assisted by Red Blaze and Trudeau Front de Boeuf, Mark Counter had succeeded in doing as he had suggested when they had come together. Working as a team, they had first devoted their attention to quelling the gandy dancers. With this accomplished by their competent tactics, they had helped the staff of the saloon to deal with the other combatants. Felling everybody who had refused to cease hostilities when demanded verbally, they had quickly brought the rest of the fighting to an end. By the time the peace officers came on the scene, having been detained by other matters elsewhere in the town, all was peaceful and those customers who had surrendered were helping to bring around the unconscious men scattered about the room.
Thirty years of age, and somewhere
between the blond giant and the big Southron in build, the marshal gave an impression of strength and power, backed by speed. Bare headed, his black hair was closely cropped. His ruggedly good looking features seemed enhanced rather than marred by the marks acquired during his successful career as a prize fighter. He had on a brown two-piece suit, a white shirt without a collar, and Hersome gaiter boots. Unlike his deputies, who wore gunbelts and carried sawed-off shotguns, he gave no sign of being armed. Nevertheless, his whole demeanor implied he was a man with whom it would not pay to trifle.
‘All right, Alfred,’ Markham went on, feeling sure the trouble had not been provoked by members of the saloon’s staff having tried to cheat some of the customers. ‘Start figuring out how much damage has got to be made good by these festive gents.’
‘Sure thing, Stan,’ assented Erasmus O’Hagen’s floor manager who had the responsibility of running the saloon in the absence of his employer. He swung his gaze quickly over such of the tables, chairs and other fittings which had been broken during the fighting, assessing the cost of replacing them. Then he waved a hand towards the red head, the big Southron, and the blond giant, whose hat was being returned by a bartender. ‘It’d likely have come a heap higher happen Mark and these two fellers hadn’t helped me and the boys to quieten the rest of them down.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Markham promised and turned his attention to the trio. Having studied Red in a speculative and something close to an accusatory fashion for a moment, he continued, ‘What started the fussing, anyways?’
‘I suppose it could be said that I did, marshal,’ Front de Boeuf confessed, as the two Texans and the floor manager looked in his direction.
‘And just who might you be?’ Markham inquired, taking in the pallid features and too long brown hair which struck him as being at odds with the speaker’s attire of a cowhand.
‘I’m Mark’s cousin from New Orleans,’ the big Southron introduced, having heard enough whilst in Trail End to realize his kinsman and the marshal were on good terms. Despite being disinclined to allow a peace officer to learn his true identity, he doubted whether the blond giant would render support for his explanation, which he felt sure was going to be required, should he attempt to supply an alias as he would otherwise have done. Therefore, reasonably certain he would not be known to Markham in such a fashion, he went on, ‘My name is Trudeau Front de Boeuf.’
‘Huh huh!’ the marshal grunted noncommittally, but nothing about him suggested he had ever before heard the name given by the big Southron. Nor did he so much as glance at Mark for confirmation of the announced relationship. Instead, keeping his gaze directed at Front de Boeuf, he continued, ‘So how did you come to start it?’
‘Aw now, Stan, it wasn’t his fault at all,’ Red protested. ‘It was those gandy dancers who caused all the fuss. They just couldn’t take a friendly bit of joshing.’
Good natured as well as impetuous, the fiery haired cowhand was ever willing to try to help anybody he regarded as a friend. Due to a sense of family loyalty having prevented Mark from mentioning the suspicions harbored by most of his kin where his Aunt Jessica and Cousin Trudeau were concerned, he had never spoken of them even to such close companions as the other members of the floating outfit. xiv Therefore, although they had not met previously, Red was willing to accept and offer his support to Front de Boeuf because of the relationship with his big blond amigo.
‘Huh huh!’ Markham repeated, despite giving a nod as if wishing to indicate he would take into account the comment made by the cowhand. ‘Maybe you’d best tell me what happened, Mr. Front de Boeuf?’
‘It was a joke which unfortunately wasn’t appreciated and went wrong,’ the big Southron obliged. ‘You see, I only arrived this morning. I hadn’t heard that Cousin Mark was in Trail End and, as I don’t know anybody in town, I found myself at a bit of a loose end. So, as I was passing the saloon here, I thought I might be able to get acquainted with some of the customers if I came in and played a little trick which had helped me make friends in other places. In fact, I had had it in mind when I left the hotel and was carrying the glass eye and patch in my pockets—!’
‘Glass eye and patch?’ the marshal queried, the speaker having paused as though wishing to ensure his explanation was being followed. His tone became redolent of suspicion and his gaze went to where the latter item was still attached to the big man’s forehead. ‘So you’d got them with you, huh?’
‘I get the feeling you know the trick I mean,’ Front de Boeuf declared, without showing the slightest concern over the possibility. ‘Perhaps you read about it in the Police Gazette as I did?’
‘I reckon I might have heard about it from somewheres,’ Markham answered and, although he believed he could guess, went on, Tell me what you did, so’s I’ll know for sure whether I have or not.’
‘Of course, marshal,’ the Southron assented, exuding what appeared to be a genuine desire to please and a complete lack of any evil intent. ‘I put the patch over my right eye before I came in. At the bar, I claimed I had lost all my money playing poker and, pretending to take out the glass eye I was already holding, I offered to raffle it off at a dollar a time. It seemed that everybody was in good mood and entered into the spirit of the thing. Quite a few of them bought chances, so I borrowed one white chip and enough reds to cover the other entrants from the bartender, put them in my hat and let the draw be made. When the white chip came out, I told the man who had drawn it that I had a fiancé who wouldn’t marry me without my glass eye and offered to buy it back from him for five dollars. After he agreed and returned it, he asked me why I didn’t put it back. Expecting to raise a laugh, as I always had in the past when pulling the trick, I lifted the patch to show my real eye and said, “There wouldn’t be any room for it, now would there?”.’
‘And that’s when the fight started?’ Markham stated rather than asked, the story having been pretty much as he had anticipated.
‘As you say, that’s when the fight started,’ Front de Boeuf confirmed, seeming contrite yet possessed of a clear conscience. ‘Instead of treating it as a joke and even before I could try to make amends by offering to buy drinks with the money I’d taken in the raffle, as I always do, those railroad workers became so abusive I was compelled to defend myself. I must say it would have gone very badly for me, outnumbered as I was, if Cousin Mark hadn’t happened by so fortuitously.’
‘That’s just how it happened, Stan,’ Red asserted, without waiting to be asked for confirmation. ‘When all those gandy dancers jumped him, I reckoned the odds were too far out of line and figured I’d help to even them a mite. Which’s how come everybody else took cards.’
‘Knowing you from back when, I figured it was something of the kind,’ the marshal claimed, but in an amiable fashion. However, his tone became neutral once more as he returned his attention to the big Southron. ‘You don’t strike me as being a working cowhand, Mr. Front de Boeuf. So how come you’re dressed like one?’
‘For convenience,’ the Southron replied. ‘As you guessed, I’m not a working cowhand. In fact, I’m one of those fortunate beings whose family is sufficiently wealthy for me to have no need to do work of any kind. However, as I know Westerners tend to indulge in horse-play when meeting a dude, I’ve found dressing like a cowhand saves me from being subjected to such treatment.’
Watching and listening to Front de Boeuf, Markham had mixed emotions. His suspicions, already aroused by concluding the Southron was not a working cowhand, had been increased when the glass eye and patch were mentioned. However, he had received a feasible explanation as to how the knowledge of the use to which they could be put had been acquired. Although he had not seen the issue, he was aware that the Police Gazette frequently had articles describing how confidence tricks were carried out. Furthermore, the selection of the clothing had been explained by a reason which was justified. Nevertheless, despite the Southron also being related to a man in whose honesty he had complete trust, the marshal felt
distinctly uneasy without being able to decide why this should be.
For his part, the blond giant was plagued by equally disturbed emotions. Knowing his cousin justified the misgivings held by many of their relations, his law abiding nature was at odds with his ingrained sense of loyalty to kinfolks. He had a suspicion that, even if the raffling of the glass eye was intended just to get acquainted with the other occupants of the saloon, there had been an ulterior motive.
‘Mind if I suggest something, Stan?’ Mark requested, seeing a way by which he could achieve a compromise between his conscience and family loyalty.
‘Go to it,’ Markham authorized.
‘Nobody’s been hurt worse than a few bumps, lumps and bruises in the fighting,’ the blond giant pointed out, waving his right hand to indicate the various participants who were regaining consciousness. ‘So, happen Cousin Trudeau pays half of the damages himself, being well able to afford it, why don’t we forget what’s happened and all go on our way friendly?’
‘The boss’d go for that,’ supported the floor manager.
‘Well, Mr. Front de Boeuf,’ the marshal said, considering the suggestion was more than fair, and was likely to appeal even to the gandy dancers when they were told of it. Like any decent peace officer, particularly when dealing with the various factions which came to a Kansas railroad and trail end town, he was eager to avoid friction between them while ensuring justice was done. ‘How do you feel about it?’
For a moment, the big Southron did not reply!
As Mark had suspected, Front de Boeuf had used the raffling of the glass eye as a way of establishing himself in a favorable fashion with the other customers. It had been his intention to use the money for the purchase of drinks. Then he had had every expectation of reaping a handsome profit from the poker game he was planning to start. Unfortunately, having failed to take into account that a gandy dancer might resent being made the butt of a joke by someone who appeared to be a cowhand, the fight had spoiled his plans.
