by J. T. Edson
Glancing at his cousin, the Southron read a warning that he must accept the terms or forfeit any further support. He also felt the surge of admiration which always arose when they were together. Although he stood to gain a considerable fortune should Mark die in certain circumstances, he had never lost his liking for his kinsman. As children, the blond giant alone was stronger than him and yet had never presumed upon this superiority. Furthermore, Mark was one of the few members of the family who had never called him by the hated sobriquet, ‘Cyrus’, which derived from the name of his father who had been deserted by his mother while he was still a baby.
‘Very well, marshal,’ Front de Boeuf replied, yielding to the inevitable and having sufficient money available to make the payment without being left in dire straits. ‘Tell me what my share will be and I’ll pay for it now.’
‘Get your hands up, Barrington-Bygrave, or whatever god-damned summer name you’re using!’ commanded a harsh, mid-Western voice before any more could be said.
Noticing the words had a disturbing effect upon his cousin, Mark Counter joined the other men in his group as they looked towards the speaker!
Standing just inside the batwing doors of the bar-room, holding a sawed-off shotgun in a position of readiness, was a sharp and sallow featured man of middle age and medium size. From the black Derby hat perched at the back of his balding head, through a loud pinstriped three piece suit, salmon pink shirt with gaudy multi-hued cravat, to his blunt-toed black boots, he had the appearance of being a city dweller. For all that, he had on a Western style gunbelt with a Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker revolver in the cross draw holster at the left side. Furthermore, attached to his vest and displayed prominently, the badge of a United States’ deputy marshal indicated why he was not conforming with the civic ordinance which banned the bearing of firearms in Trail End.
‘Don’t you try nothing smart-assed, big feller!’ the newcomer warned as he walked forward. His whole attention and the twin barrels of the shotgun were directed towards Trudeau Front de Boeuf. ‘You’re not toting that fancy whipit gun’s you’re so slick at using and this scatter of mine’ll copper any other bet you’re figuring on pulling and’ll holler “keno” to it.’
‘The way you’re talking, deputy,’ Markham commented, having darted a quick glance at Mark and received a blank stare in return, ‘Seems like you reckon you know this gent.’ He was aware that the kind of weapon to which the man he was addressing had referred was a shotgun with the barrels and butt cut down for concealment purposes, until it was not much longer than a Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker.
‘It’s a whole slew more’n just plain “reckon”, marshal,’ the man with the shotgun and badge corrected with assurance. ‘He’s wanted down to Dodge City and in other places, likely, for pulling confidence games.’
‘I’m afraid, officer, that you have got the wrong man,’ Trudeau Front de Boeuf denied in a polite tone, but he stood as if turned to stone.
‘Like hell I have,’ the newcomer countered. ‘Just last week, you and your momma took down Senator Anthony Billinghurst with the old “Proof of Trust” game in Dodge. xv Which I don’t reckon’s how he’s the first, nor only one, you pair’ve flim-flammed.’
‘I’ve not the slightest idea of what this gentleman is talking about, marshal!’ the big Southron claimed, with what appeared to be righteous indignation. ‘While I remember having read about the trick to which he referred in the Police Gazette, I assure you I’ve never even thought of trying it. As I said, officer, I can only assume you are mistaking me for someone else.’
‘The only god-damned mistake that’s been made is you letting me see you in here,’ the man with the shotgun stated, the final sentence having been directed to him. ‘Stick your hands out so’s the marshal can ’cuff ’em for me!’
‘Now just hold hard there for a minute!’ Markham put in, studying Front de Boeuf speculatively. The suspicions aroused earlier had been stirred again by Mark remaining silent instead of speaking in defense of the big Southron, but he was too experienced to be rushed into something which might prove wrong. ‘Before I start putting handcuffs on anybody, I’d sooner know’s they belong there. Do you have a warrant for this gent, deputy, or anything else’s will prove he’s who you say he is?’
‘Well, no,’ the newcomer admitted sullenly. The transferring his left hand from the fore grip of the shotgun to the inside pocket of his jacket and bringing something out, he went on, ‘Maybe I can’t come straight out a say’s how I do, but there’s something in here’s’ll prove I’m U.S. Deputy Marshal Elmer Quincy.’
‘Huh huh!’ Markham grunted, finding the noncommittal utterance as useful as he had in the past. Accepting the wallet he was offered, he compared the necessarily brief description on the official identification card with the appearance of the man who had handed it over, and decided they matched. ‘I’m satisfied that you are who you say you are. Thing being, are you certain this is the feller you’re after?’
‘He’s not dressed anywhere near’s fancy as usual, I admit,’ Quincy replied, taking back and returning the wallet let to the inside pocket. ‘But I’d recognize that momma’s boy face of his anywheres and could pick him out no matter what he’s wearing, nor how big the crowd. So happen you’ll put the ’cuffs on him for me, I’ll have him on the next train back to Dodge.’
‘Not so fast,’ the marshal requested politely, remembering that he had never heard of anybody related to Mark Counter being involved in criminal activities. ‘Can you show us something that will prove the deputy’s making mistake about you, Mr. Front de Boeuf?’
‘Well no, I’m afraid I can’t,’ the big Southron answered somehow contriving to sound as if he considered the omission was a reflection upon the two peace officers rather than himself. ‘Unfortunately, as I wasn’t intending to make an extended stay in your city and couldn’t possibly have envisaged the necessity might arise, I didn’t trouble to carry any papers with me. However, perhaps it will satisfy you if Cousin Mark will vouch for me?’
‘I’ve never seen Cousin Trudeau do anything dishonest,’ the blond giant declared, which was true as far as it went and served as a compromise between his conscience and family loyalty, in response to the interrogative glance turned his way by Markham.
‘Which don’t prove’s how he ain’t done nothing when you wasn’t looking,’ Quincy pointed out, before the local peace officer could speak. ‘I’m giving you my word as a U.S. deputy marshal I know he’s the conjuneero who took down Senator Billinghurst. So I’m doing my sworn and bounden duty by arresting him and taking him with me.’
‘There’s no train before noon tomorrow,’ Markham answered. ‘And, while I’m not saying if you’re acting right, seeing’s how it’ll come back on me as well as you if you should be, I want to see a warrant and some other papers describing him before you take him out of my bailiwick. Tell you what we’ll do. You telegraph your boss to send them along by the westbound train, so’s they’ll be here in the morning. ’Tween times, I’ll hold him down to the jailhouse and, once I’ve seen them, I’ll not only let you take him, I’ll have a couple of my deputies go along if you’re so minded.’
‘Why, Aunt Jessica, this is a surprise,’ Mark Counter ejaculated, opening the door of his hotel room in response to a knock. ‘Cousin Trudeau didn’t say anything about you coming to Trail End!’
‘He didn’t know I was,’ replied the woman in the passage, walking across the threshold without waiting to be invited. Her demeanor and carriage were indicative of arrogance, but her rich contralto Southern accent had no discernible emotion as she went on, ‘Have you heard what happened?’
‘The marshal told me,’ the blond giant answered and nodded to the other male occupant of the room. ‘That’s why Red and I are still here.’
Realizing Markham was adamant upon the handling of the situation, Quincy had signified a grudging acquiescence. Having no illusions where his cousin was concerned, even though he would not have made such an admissi
on publicly, Mark had believed the accusation could be justified. Therefore, he had made no attempt to intercede in behalf of Front de Boeuf. In fact, appreciating that Markham was giving his cousin the benefit of the doubt on account of their relationship, he had been ready to use his own influence if necessary. The need had not arise. Warning how serious the consequences of wrongful arrest could be, clearly directing the words at Quincy and not the local peace officer, the big Southron had raised no objections to being dealt with as the latter had stipulated.
Taken to the jailhouse and placed in a cell, with the Texans allowed to accompany him, Front de Boeuf had handed over sufficient money to cover his share in the payment for the damage caused during the fighting at the Educated Thirst Saloon. Learning that his mother was not in Trail End, Markham had asked whether he wanted her to be informed by telegraph of his plight. He had declined on the grounds that, particularly as he was confident the matter could easily be straightened out when he was returned to Dodge City, he did not want to cause her needless distress. Wondering whether his cousin was innocent and a victim of mistaken identity, or perhaps had aroused the animosity of the United States’ deputy marshal in some way and was being victimized for this, Mark had inquired whether there was anything he could do. Saying both could wait until morning, the big Southron had requested that his belongings be collected from the room he was occupying at the best hotel in town and the bill paid. Promising to attend to this and have a meal sent in, the blond giant had gone about his business.
Having told Red Blaze something about his cousin, the blond giant had stated they would both put the matter from their minds. Satisfied that his big amigo knew best, the fiery haired cowhand had done as he was told and they had spent an enjoyable evening as they had planned.
While the Texans were eating breakfast in the dining room of the slightly less expensive hotel in which they were accommodated, prior to doing as had been promised to Front de Boeuf, Markham had arrived. He had told them that, just before midnight, Quincy had visited the jailhouse with two companions. When the solitary deputy acting as turnkey had refused to release the Southron into their custody without written authority from his superior, they had clubbed him insensible. Then they had opened the cell and taken Front de Boeuf with them. According to the only other, prisoner, who had been left bound and gagged as had the turnkey, the Southron had not gone willingly. In fact, the trio had tied his hands and arms securely as a means of compelling him to accompany them. Because the town was in a peaceful condition all night, there had been no reason for the marshal or any of his other deputies to visit the office. Therefore, the incident had not been discovered until the first of them had reported for duty that morning.
Knowing Mark would be interested, after having ascertained that he could not suggest any reason why his cousin should have been incarcerated at the instigation of the obviously bogus U.S. deputy marshal and then abducted, Markham had described the action taken so far. It was not much. A telegraph message had been sent to the United States’ marshal in the State capitol, warning him that a man was masquerading as a member of his department. As yet, however, no posse had been organized to go in pursuit of Quincy’s party. The prisoner had not heard anything of them after they had left the jailhouse, so it was impossible to determine in which direction they had gone.
Promising to keep the Texans informed of all developments, especially if his deputies—who were going around town asking questions—should learn anything to help him decide where he should start searching, the marshal had left to attend to his duties. Mark and Red had carried out the instructions given by Front de Boeuf, bringing his belongings to the former’s room. Having done so, they had settled down to await developments. Hearing the knock on the door, they had expected it was somebody sent by Markham with news that the requisite information had been received.
Coming to his feet from where he had been relaxing on the bed, Red studied the woman as she swept, rather than entered into the room. He could see nothing to suggest that she was feeling distress, needless or otherwise, although she was obviously aware of what had happened. On the other hand, it was plain to him from where the massive physique of the big Southron had been inherited.
In any company, Jessica Front de Boeuf would have been an imposing figure. xvi Five foot nine in height, her Junoesque body still retained the curvaceous fullness of its ‘hourglass’ contours despite having led a life in which little restraint had been exercised where the ‘pleasures of the flesh’ were concerned. She had on a Wavelean hat secured by a decorative pin to elegantly piled up black hair which made her appear even taller. Although the texture of the skin was beginning to coarsen a trifle more than could be hidden by make-up, her olive skinned face was beautiful if marred somewhat by lines indicative of an arrogant and domineering nature. Stylish and revealing to the point of being close to risqué, her navy blue two-piece traveling costume and lime-green blouse were obviously expensive. The jewelry which glistened about her neck, from the lobes of her ears, on her wrists and hands appeared to be equally costly. She carried a gaily colored parasol in her right hand and a reticule dangled by its strap from her left.
‘The town marshal told me you were here, nephew,’ the beautiful newcomer announced, after having given Red a glance redolent of disapproval. ‘But I hoped I would find you alone.’
‘I’ll go and wait in my room, amigo,’ the fiery haired cowhand offered, starting to walk away.
‘There’s no call for that,’ the blond giant asserted. ‘Stay put!’
‘Really, nephew, this is a family matter!’ Jessica objected, her manner frigid, directing a glare to where Red had come to a halt. ‘I hardly think it proper for us to speak in front of a stranger!’
‘Red’s no stranger to me,’ Mark stated, firmly yet politely. He decided his aunt was as imperious as he always remembered her to be. ‘Allow me to present Charles Henry Blaze. His uncle is General Ole Devil Hardin and you can count on his discretion like my own.’
‘But—!’ the woman began.
‘Tru’s in bad trouble, ’less I miss my guess, Aunt Jessica!’ the blond giant interrupted. ‘And, happen I’m going to help get him out of it, I’m going to need some backing I can count on from here to there and back the long ways. Which Red’s a real good man to be giving it.’
‘Very well!’ the woman assented, but with the bad grace of one who only rarely had her wishes thwarted: ‘Have it your way!’
‘I reckon we can talk this out a whole heap easier was we to do it sitting down,’ Mark suggested. Waiting until his aunt had taken the chair by the dressing-table which he had indicated, while he and the other Texan occupied opposite ends of the bed facing her, he continued, ‘First thing is, did you and Cousin Tru pull the “Proof of Trust” game on Senator Billinghurst in Dodge?’
‘Really, nephew!’ Jessica snorted, exuding what appeared to be genuine indignation. ‘How could you thin—?’
‘Did you?’ the blond giant insisted, giving no indication of being convinced by the response he had elicited.
‘We most certainly did not!’ the woman declared, just as vehemently, but decided against pretending ignorance of the ‘Proof of Trust’ confidence trick. ‘Whatever made you think we did?’
‘That was the reason the hombre reckoning to be a deputy U.S. marshal gave for having Cousin Tru tossed into the pokey,’ Mark explained, feeling sure his aunt would not chance lying about something which could be checked without difficulty by sending a telegraph message to the authorities in Dodge City. ‘Knowing Tru like I do, I don’t need to ask why the feller wanted him jailed. He’d be a whole heap safer to take while he was in a cell than while he was roaming around loose and with room to fight. So the thing being, what did Quincy want with him?’
‘ Want with him?’ Jessica queried, looking as if baffled by the question.
‘Want with him,’ the blond giant reiterated. ‘We know now that Quincy wasn’t a peace officer doing his duty, or maybe hoping to collect a rew
ard from the Senator he reckoned you’d wronged. And he had to have a real good reason for taking the chance of pretending to be a deputy U.S. marshal so’s he could have Cousin Tru handcuffed for him by the marshal, or tossed in the pokey when that didn’t pan out, and then busting him loose. So why did he go to all that trouble?’
‘For money, of course!’ the woman claimed, with the air of stating the obvious and considering nothing more could be said. Nevertheless, reaching into her reticule, she produced and opened a sheet of paper. ‘This was waiting for me when I got to the hotel and asked for my room.’
‘What is it?’
‘A ransom note demanding that I pay eight thousand dollars for his return.’
‘Do you have that kind of money?’ Mark asked, taking and reading the message written in a sprawling hand.
‘I don’t,’ Jessica replied, then paused and her voice took on a different tone as she continued, ‘Not yet anyw—They must have been fooled by the high-toned name we’re using and the way we dress and live, so thought I’m wealthy enough to be able to afford that much money.’
‘Come on now, Aunt Jessica!’ Mark growled, although the suggestion after her second pause had been made with what many people would have believed to be a sincere conviction and in a different timbre to the words which preceded it. ‘I want the truth.’
‘Really, nephew!’ the woman gasped, her attitude seeming to insinuate that she resented her word being doubted.
‘Are you implying that I’m a li—?’
‘The marshal might have believed those jaspers just thought you’re rich, happen you told him about the ransom,’ the blond giant put in coldly. ‘He doesn’t know you. But you’re talking to me now and I do. So I want the truth, or we’re pulling up stakes right now. Should we do it, no matter whether you convinced Stan Markham or not, he’s smart enough to start wondering why we’ve gone instead of sticking around to give you any help we can.’
