by J. T. Edson
Deciding that to turn and walk out again might attract too much attention, Murphy strolled across to the bar.
‘You’re quiet in here tonight,’ he commented.
‘You’re here a day too soon,’ the bartender replied. ‘The cock- and snake-fights aren’t until tomorrow night.’
Despite wearing his particular style of clothing, Murphy disliked any hint about his mixed blood. So he scowled at the words and their implication. While some white men attended the snake- or cock-fights arranged by the hotel’s owner, the majority of the audience were Mexicans. Before he could raise the point, Murphy heard something that took his thoughts from the bartender.
‘One more drink and then we’ll go give Sarah her wedding present,’ announced the tall, sullenly handsome young man in the center of the trio, slapping his right hand on the wicker basket’s lid. ‘When she opens it up, she’ll screech the house down.’
Immediately Murphy became all interest, although he did not show it. To the best of his knowledge, there was only one wedding due around San Antonio in the near future, that between Sandy McGraw and Sarah Maybelle.
‘This’ll teach her to throw you over for that damned cow-nurse, Chester,’ declared the burly, Germanic-looking young man at the first speaker’s right side.
‘When them horned toads start hopping out, squirting blood from their eyes, that bridal shower’ll be the rowdiest this town’s ever seen,’ went on the third of the party, a slightly younger version of the second.
‘Damned fools,’ sniffed the bartender, directing a scorn-filled glance at the trio and speaking to Murphy. ‘Chester Finwald there was sparking Sarah Maybelle. Only she picked Sandy McGraw from out to the Flying O. Fact being they’re getting hitched tomorrow. So Chester’s been drowning his sorrows.’
‘We’ll put the basket on the porch and leave it there,’ Finwald told his companions. ‘Sooner or later somebody’ll find it and take it in.’
‘I’d like to see their faces when they open it,’ grinned Fritz Soehnen. ‘What say we hang around outside—’
‘Naw!’ sniffed his elder brother, Hans. ‘If we get seen Sandy McGraw’ll set all his pards on to us.’
‘Where’d a man go, happen he wants to go?’ Murphy asked the bartender.
‘Out the back there.’
Leaving the barroom, Murphy walked along a passage which he knew led to the rear entrance. His memory of an earlier visit served him well, for he saw a sign reading ‘KEEP OUT—DANGER’ pinned to one of the doors siding the passage. After a quick glance around to make sure he was unobserved, Murphy tried the door’s handle. Easing open the door, he entered and went down a flight of stairs into the large cellar that spread beneath the building. In the center was the large, sloping-sided pit used for snake- or cock-fights, but he ignored it. His attention went to two lines of wicker baskets standing alongside the far wall. Crossing the cellar, he tapped the first basket of one pile, studying it in the light of the hanging lamps. Only a rustling sound answered him, so he went to the second pile and repeated the tap. This time a harsh, staccato buzzing greeted the tap and he nodded in satisfaction. His assumption that the proprietor would have already gathered the snakes for the fights proved correct. v Taking up the basket, he returned to the cellar door, eased it open and peered out.
Nor did Murphy appear a moment too soon. Laughing, talking and jostling each other, the trio of young men passed out of the rear door as he emerged from the cellar. Certain that nobody had seen him enter or leave the cellar, Murphy followed on their heels.
Unaware of the man’s presence, Finwald and the Soehnen brothers strolled along the rear streets. Murphy dogged their footsteps, keeping far enough back to remain unobserved but close enough to make sure he knew which way they headed. At last the trio halted before a small house in the better part of the working-class residential area. While the brothers waited, Finwald opened the picket fence’s gate and sneaked along the path to set down his basket on the porch. Only the sitting-room at : the front showed a light and female laughter sounded from inside its curtained-over windows. Returning to his companions, Finwald grinned and they faded off into the darkness.
As soon as the trio departed, Murphy approached the gate. With even more caution than Finwald showed, the man stalked up to the house. He set down the basket and reached towards the other. Then he saw the piece of paper fixed on the lid of Finwald’s basket. Taking off the paper, he transferred it to the other basket. When the law came around, that paper’s written message ought to lead them off on a false scent. Holding Finwald’s basket, Murphy eased the other up to the door. Then he gave a tug at the bell-pull, and as it started to clang withdrew to beyond the picket fence. Taking cover behind a tree, he saw a girl open the door and look out. Picking up the basket, she entered the house. As the door closed, Murphy turned and walked away. He tossed aside Finwald’s basket, not wanting to be found with anything so incriminating, and continued on his way hoping that he might have more success this time with the job for which he had been hired.
Chapter Three
Although the bridal-shower appeared to be going down well, Sarah Maybelle wondered if one of her guests might not find it dull and boring. A dozen of her friends filled the sitting-room, laughing, talking and examining the presents with every indication of pleasure, and Sarah failed to detect any other signs on the face of Betty Hardin.
Darting a glance at the small, petite, beautiful Betty, Sarah wondered what the other really thought of the affair. Of course the black-haired girl was far too well-bred to criticize openly, but there might be adverse thoughts underneath the smiling face and behind the black, alert eyes. Granddaughter of one of Texas’ richest men, Betty had travelled extensively and on occasion mingled on equal terms with some of the most important people in the state. She might find a small-town bridal-shower a dull affair, the conversation of its guests boring after the witty talk heard at her usual kind of party.
Sarah did not need to worry, for Betty felt none of the sentiments the bride-to-be suspected. Associating with the richest in the land did not prevent Betty from enjoying the simple and gentle pleasure of watching a girl open up such wedding gifts as friends and relatives could afford. One of Betty’s greatest assets had always been her ability to enjoy any company in which she found herself. No snob, she did not look down on the other girls present because their parents lacked her family’s wealth and social standing. At first the other guests tended to be shy, but she broke down their barriers and the bridal-shower became as lively as such an affair ought to be.
Hearing the sound of the door’s bell, an innovation fitted by Sarah’s father and much admired by the neighbors, one of the girls left the room. She returned carrying a wicker basket which she set on the table.
‘Who was it?’ Sarah asked.
‘An unknown admirer,’ the girl replied and indicated the piece of paper.
Reaching out her hand, the middle-sized, pretty brunette bride-to-be freed the paper and read it with a frown.
‘Guess who?’ she said.
‘Open it up, Sarah,’ suggested a big, blonde girl with a slight Swedish accent.
‘I suppose I may as well,’ Sarah replied and drew free the pin which secured the lid. ‘Although I never thought he’d se—’
While speaking, the girl lifted the lid. A startled gasp broke from her lips, almost drowned by the vicious buzz of an angry rattlesnake. Seeing the light, the snake began to rear up. Its neck curved into an S shape and the evil-looking, flat, triangular head with its curved, three-quarters of an inch long fangs rose upwards. All the time the snake’s tail vibrated the numerous interconnected horny caps to blast out the warning rattle which gave Crotalus Horridus its common name.
Something about Sarah’s attitude had triggered off a warning alarm inside Betty Hardin. On hearing the first wicked buzz from the basket, the girl realized the nature of its contents. Lunging across the table, Betty slammed down the basket’s lid. Fast though she moved, the snake had al
ready raised its head clear and the closing lid caught it across the neck. Desperately Betty held the lid down, feeling the muscular power of the trapped snake as it thrashed around inside.
‘Open the window, quickly!’ she snapped.
Every girl in the room had been raised in frontier Texas. So although the snake’s appearance shocked and scared them, it did not induce complete panic. Sarah staggered backwards and sat down hard on the floor, but the big blonde sprang to obey Betty’s order. Throwing open the window and jerking apart its curtains, the blonde moved aside and stared back across the room.
Gripping the basket with all her strength, Betty raised it from the table and held it at arm’s length. Slowly she started to walk towards the window with her burden. Inside the basket the snake thrashed its length into rage-filled knots and made the room vibrate with its furious buzzing. Betty held on grimly, stepping as if walking on eggshells. If the basket fell from her grasp, the raging snake would be free to attack the girls around it.
Sweat trickled down Betty’s face, getting into her eyes, and the memory of something an imported female tutor told her as a child sprang idiotically to mind.
‘Servants sweat,’ the tutor used to recite. ‘Gentlemen perspire, but ladies only glow.’
‘Which means I’m no lady,’ Betty mused. ‘Because, lordy lord, I’m sure sweating up a storm. Or if I’m glowing, it’s the wettest glow I ever saw.’
By which time she had reached the window and could put aside the fantasies that helped to prevent her thinking of the fate awaiting her should she drop the basket. No matter who else the snake struck, it was sure to nail her as being the closest person to it on regaining its freedom.
Sucking in a deep breath, Betty heaved the basket through the open window. She saw it strike the porch rail and start to tip. Instantly the snake erupted, landed on the rail, then flopped into the garden. The buzzing ended and Betty fancied she could hear the snake whizzing through Mrs. Maybelle’s flowers as it headed for the open range. Imagination was all it could be, for Ilsa Swenson jerked down the open window the instant after Betty evicted the snake-filled basket, moving with such smooth precision that they might have been practicing together for years.
‘I am not sweating, it’s only a ladylike glow,’ Betty gasped, flopping her back against the wall.
‘What?’ asked Lisa.
‘Did I say something?’ Betty inquired, realizing that she must have spoken her thoughts aloud.
Then she looked around at the strained faces of the other girls. Strained maybe, but one held a poker grabbed up from the fireplace and another stood holding Mr. Maybelle’s shotgun, which she had taken from the deerhorn hooks on the wall.
‘Was it a joke?’ inquired another of the guests, helping Sarah to her feet.
‘If it was, I can’t say much for San Antonio humor,’ Betty put in before the hostess could answer. ‘Do you know who sent it, Sarah?’
‘I—’
Sensing that the girl knew, but did not wish to divulge the sender’s name before her friends, Betty moved from the wall. Dabbing her face with a lace handkerchief, she looked pointedly around.
‘All that excitement has sure given me an appetite.’
‘And me,’ Lisa went on, either because she caught Betty’s glance or through genuine hunger. ‘Let’s raid the kitchen. Come on, girls.’
Sarah’s parents had gone to visit with friends, leaving the girls alone in the house, so Lisa herded the others from the sitting-room aware that they would not be disturbing anybody. When Sarah started to follow her friends, Betty caught her by the arm and halted her.
‘Who sent it?’ the girl demanded.
‘I—I’m not sure.’
‘Then guess!’
‘I don’t want to get Che—anybody into trouble. It was only a joke.’
‘Some joke!’ Betty snapped. ‘That was a rattler, not a harmless king snake. Just take a look there!’
Following the direction in which Betty pointed, Sarah saw two large spots of liquid staining the tablecloth where the basket had been. A shudder ran through the brunette’s frame as she realized that the liquid must have splashed from the snake’s poison-squirting fangs.
‘Oh, Betty!’ she gasped. ‘If Pa or Sandy hear about this—’
‘There’s no way we can stop them hearing,’ Betty pointed out.
‘But there’ll be trouble—’
‘That’s for sure,’ Betty said grimly. ‘And I want to make sure it’s under control when it comes.’
‘I don’t want anybody to get hurt,’ Sarah objected.
‘Listen, honey,’ Betty said gently, taking the brunette’s hand. ‘I know how you feel. But this can’t be just dropped. Whoever did it might pull another fool game and this time somebody could get hurt bad. That somebody might even be Sandy. Whoever sent you that snake may try the same on him.’
Something of a student of human nature, Betty used an argument she felt sure would make Sarah change her feelings on the matter. An expression of concern flickered across the brunette’s face and she stared at the two splashes of poison upon the table.
‘I recognize the writing. It’s Chester Finwald’s.’
‘You’re sure of it?’
‘Yes. He used to come courting me before I met Sandy and I’ve seen his writing plenty of times.’
‘Did he object to you dropping him for Sandy?’ Betty asked.
‘Well—yes, he did. Not that we’d ever been serious,’ Sarah replied. ‘In fact he and Sandy got to fighting one night at a dance and Sandy licked him. What’re you going to do, Betty?’ The question came as Betty started to turn from the table.
‘Go and tell Cousin Dusty what’s happened. Will you ask one of your friends to show me the way to the Bull’s Head Saloon, please?’
‘Do you have to tell him?’
‘Listen, Sarah,’ Betty said gently. ‘This may have been no more than a stupid joke on Finwald’s part, but you could easily have been killed. If Sandy hears about it, I can’t see him taking it kindly. Now I don’t know what kind of a man this Finwald is, but Sandy’s pretty good with a gun. You don’t want a shooting before the wedding and it might easily come to that.’
‘I suppose so,’ Sarah sighed. ‘But if you ask me, it was those Soehnen boys who put Chester up to it. He’s been hanging around with them a lot recently. Shall I go with you?’
‘No. I’d rather one of the other girls did.’
Leaving the room, Sarah returned with the big blonde. ‘Ilsa says she’ll go with you, Betty.’
‘We’d better go the back way,’ Ilsa remarked. ‘That way nobody will see us go to the saloon.’
‘It would be best,’ Betty smiled.
Not wishing to make the other guests uncomfortable, or appear to be flaunting her superior social standing, Betty had attended the bridal-shower in a plain, neat, black travelling suit and white blouse. It would serve admirably for walking through the back streets. She carried a Remington Double Derringer in her reticule and could handle it well enough to make any would-be joker regret his actions if the need arose.
‘Shall we go, Ilsa,’ Betty asked and looked at Sarah. ‘Don’t worry, Cousin Dusty will see everything’s put right. But don’t open any more mysterious presents if they come.’
While Betty agreed with Ilsa’s suggestion of keeping to the back streets, the precaution did not entirely come off. At first they walked along without meeting anybody. Then a tall young cowhand lurched from a side alley in front of them. One glance told Betty that he carried a fair load of Old Stump-Blaster internally, enough to make him feel amorous. Halting, he surveyed the two girls in a satisfied manner, beamed delightedly and teetered towards them.
‘I bet you gals’re looking for me,’ he announced, blocking their path.
‘You’d lose,’ Betty replied tolerantly.
‘Well, now, I’d surely admire to take you-all where you’re going.’
‘Some other time, maybe,’ Betty told him and started to walk
by.
‘They do say there’s no time like the present, lil gal,’ the cowhand replied, turning and hooking his left arm around Betty’s shoulders.
Which, as any member of the OD Connected crew might profanely explain, was just about the most foolish action he could have chosen to make. Betty did not even think of using her Derringer for she knew of a better and less permanent way of discouraging the amorous cowhand. In addition to teaching Dusty the secrets of ju-jitsu and karate, her grandfather’s Japanese servant had passed on the knowledge to Betty. She proved to be an apt pupil, as her actions showed.
Before the big blonde girl could think of doing anything to help, Betty apparently yielded to the cowhand’s attentions. Slipping her right arm around his waist, Betty walked on a couple of strides and altered her pace until in step with him. As the cowhand’s right foot landed on the ground, Betty moved her own ahead and central to his legs. Bringing her left foot alongside the right, Betty bent her knees slightly, rammed her buttocks against him and thrust back hard. At the same moment she twisted her body to the left and forced forward with the encircling arm. Much to Ilsa’s—and the cowhand’s— amazement, he sailed over to light down on his back with a thud that jarred the wind from his body.
Although ready to continue her defense to even more painful limits, Betty decided such would not be necessary. Taken by surprise, the cowhand just lay sprawled on the ground.
‘When you stop seeing all the pretty lights, I should go down to the Bon Ton dance-hall, cowboy,’ Betty remarked. ‘Come on, Ilsa.’
