by J. T. Edson
“I didn’t recognize him earlier,” the peace officer replied blandly. “It was dark, you mind. But he’s Frank Derringer sure as you’re born.”
Due to his work against them in Mulrooney,** crooked gamblers regarded Derringer as a renegade who turned on his own kind, although he never had come into their category. If anything, the discovery of their “victim’s” identity increased the gang’s determination to take revenge. As soon as the deputy left, Nabbes began arranging how they should get it.
While Nabbes and Ferrely remained at the saloon to establish an alibi, the Keebles brothers and Throck would leave by the back room’s window. Warning the trio not to go too far in their revenge, for only the one deputy on the marshal’s staff accepted their bribes, the little man watched his companions depart. Then he told Ferrely to fetch in a round of drinks and spread the story that the victim had sent the deputy with news that urgent business had called him away.
Having made their exit through the window, the trio went by the back streets to the Talbot Hotel. Without the deputy’s information, they might have spent time searching in the wrong places: the railroad or Wells Fargo depots, livery barns or the fancy Granada Hotel. Certainly the Talbot would have been a later choice, tried when the others failed to produce their man. With luck they ought to take Derringer by surprise. Fenn hoped that they would. Any man who wore a badge under Dusty Fog, even if taken on as a gambling consultant, packed sand to burn and possessed considerable gun-savvy.
In its day the Talbot had rated as Tribune’s best hotel but the railroad’s arrival had caused a larger, more luxurious establishment to usurp the claim. Now the Talbot drew a less wealthy class of trade, being unable to compete against the superior attractions of its rival. The type of clientele who now used the Talbot did not expect that their baggage be carried to their rooms for them, so the hotel dispensed with the services of its bell-boys. Nor was the reception desk constantly manned. The night clerk spent most of his duty hours in the room behind the desk and only emerged when somebody rang the bell to draw his attention.
Aware of the prevailing conditions, Fenn laid his plans accordingly.
“We’ll see if we can find out which room he’s using from the register,” he told the other two. “Then we’ll bust in, pistol-whip him down, grab the money and light out fast.”
“Maybe one of us should oughta watch the back,” Throck remarked. “If he gets wise to us coming, he might bust out that ways.”
“You do that, Joe. Bud and me’ll go in after him.”
As that part of the affair offered less risk, Throck agreed without argument. Even if Derringer broke out, he would not expect to find another enemy waiting. In any case, it would be better to have Bud where Fenn could exercise brotherly control over him.
Entering the deserted lobby, Fenn and Bud crossed to the desk. Clearly Derringer did not expect his disguise to be pierced, for the brothers found his name to be the last entry in the book.
“Room eighteen, Bud. That’s upstairs at the back. Can’t say I like that.”
“We could lay for him in the alley,” Bud suggested.
“He might not come out until morning and the boys can’t stall at the saloon for that long,” Fenn replied. “We’ll just have to chance it. Let’s go.”
On reaching the door marked “18,” the brothers paused for a moment. Fenn hesitated when Bud gestured toward his gun, then nodded. While not wanting gun-play, the elder brother realized it might come if they failed to take Derringer by surprise. If the gambler found himself covered by two revolvers, he was less likely to resist.
Although the brothers had never been peace officers, they knew what to do. Ducking his shoulder, Fenn charged into the door. It burst open with a louder crash than he liked, but that could not be helped. Having gone that far there could be no turning back. So he lunged forward into the room with Bud on his heels and his Colt in hand. Both could see all they needed, for a lamp glowed brightly on a bedside table.
Instead of being grateful for the illumination to make their work easier, the brothers suddenly found themselves wishing the room was in darkness. Fenn was the first to realize that their plans had gone wrong. Skidding to a halt, he stared at the bed. His thoughts simply on the chances of finding an excuse to shoot Derringer, Bud swerved around his brother and stopped just as abruptly.
The door clearly carried the number “18,” but Derringer did not occupy it. A big, heavily built woman wearing a nightgown and mob-cap sat reading in the bed. Even as the fact registered itself in the brothers’ minds, she dropped the book. Jerking the covers up to chin level, she cut loose with a scream loud enough to jolt a dead Indian to his feet. Nor did she content herself with just the one, but let out screech after screech in a growing crescendo.
“Wha——!” Bud croaked, staring at the woman. “Who——?”
Unable to supply an answer to the question, Fenn wasted no time in thinking about the matter. Already he could hear voices raised in the adjacent rooms and knew there must be no delay in departing. Western folks tended to shoot first and ask questions afterward under such circumstances. So Fenn acted with speed.
“Get the hell out of here!” he snapped, thrusting his brother through the door and following him.
Dashing along the passage, the brothers bounded down the stairs and across the reception hall. They ignored the night clerk’s yell, leaving the building at top speed and without waiting to debate where they had gone wrong in locating Derringer.
Chapter 3
AFTER LOOKING BACK TO MAKE SURE THAT NONE of Nabbes’ gang was watching him, Frank Derringer entered the saloon’s back-house. Sitting on the box, he removed his left boot. From it rolled the small stone which had helped him retain his limp. Despite his comments in the bar-room, he made no use of the back-house’s facilities. Replacing the boot, he stepped from the building. Still nobody was watching. Apparently leaving the substitute wallet had satisfied Nabbes that their “victim” meant to return and he suspected nothing. A faint grin came to Derringer’s face as he thought that the gang would have a long wait. Then he walked off into the darkness.
Not knowing his way around Tribune, Derringer turned alongside the saloon and on to the street. Then he headed toward the Golden Spike, where he had met Ferrely and from where he could find the Talbot Hotel. Once clear of the small saloon Derringer expected no trouble. If the gang had not accepted his story, one of them would have accompanied him to the back-house. So he strode along the sidewalk, taking no special precautions to keep out of sight.
The burly, bribe-taking deputy saw Derringer passing a lighted window across the street. Drawing back into an alley, the peace officer watched the other go by. Then a grin twisted the deputy’s face and he started to follow the gambler, but kept the street between them and to the rear.
Entering the lobby of the Talbot Hotel, Derringer’s glance went to the front desk. The sight of the register recalled to him that he had given his correct name on arrival. Then he remembered the deputy knew him from Mulrooney. Maybe the man had failed to recognize him as Dusty Fog’s gambling-expert deputy, but Derringer did not believe in taking unnecessary chances.
Having decided on his course of action during the train journey to Tribune, Derringer had booked into the Talbot using his own name. Then if the gang should come hunting for “Julius Main,” they might overlook “Frank Derringer” when checking the register. But the fact that the deputy knew him had changed that.
The night clerk had already disappeared into his room as Derringer entered. Crossing to the desk, the gambler studied the open register and found his name second to last in the entries. Looking back over the previous few pages, he found nobody listed as occupying room eighteen. So he picked up the clerk’s pen from the ink-pot. By adding a stroke before his room number, he made it appear that he occupied eighteen instead of eight.
Glancing at the key-board, he saw number eighteen’s hook was empty. For a moment he hesitated, then decided that even if there s
hould be somebody in occupation the person would be unlikely to come to harm. Unless he misjudged his man, Nabbes would hesitate to create a great disturbance and, as far as possible, avoid gun-play.
So, even if the gang succeeded in locating him and fell for the trick, Derringer doubted if they would enter the room with roaring Colts. Any other way they would discover their mistake in time. Then, most probably, their only thought would be to leave the hotel as soon as possible.
Satisfied that he had covered his tracks, Derringer went to his room and entered. Before lighting the lamp, he gave thought to his escape should the ruse fail. Set at the end of the hotel, room eight offered the advantage of two windows. One of them opened on to the rear of the building, while its mate offered a splendid view of the side alley. Derringer settled on the latter, should the need for a hurried departure arise, for it offered access to front or rear of the hotel.
After raising the side window’s sash, he drew both sets of curtains. When sure that nobody could see into the room, he lit the lamp. Locking the door, he thrust the only chair’s back under the handle as an added aid to securing the entrance and commenced his preparations to leave Tribune on the midnight train.
By that time the gang would at least be suspicious, or might even have already examined the wallet and know he did not intend to return. In deciding where they might locate him, they would most likely try the more opulent Granada first. So he meant to stay in his room until almost train time, then head for the depot.
With that thought in mind, Derringer stripped off his dude suit. On the bed, ready to be worn, lay his more usual style of clothes. Given just a touch of luck, the gang—looking for the dude-dressed “Main”—would ignore a typical range-country professional gambler. The only thing that might arouse their suspicions would be the Remington-Thomas cane-gun. Not that Derringer intended to leave it behind. If he carried it along the top of his grip, it could go unnoticed.
While making his plans, Derringer changed into the gray trousers, frilly-fronted shirt, string tie and fancy vest. Before donning the black cutaway jacket and wide-brimmed, low-crowned Stetson, he strapped on his gunbelt and fastened the bottom of its holster to his thigh. After checking that its chamber’s nipples were correcly capped, he dropped the long-barrelled, ivory-handled 1860 Army Colt into the holster. With the gun at his side he felt more secure. Folding the dude suit, after slipping the thick wallet into his other coat, he placed it into the grip.
Ready to leave, Derringer sat on the bed and gave thought to his future. He might have stayed on in Mulrooney as floor manager of a gambling house and part-time deputy marshal, but the idea did not appeal to him. Dusty Fog and the floating outfit would soon be headed back to Texas and Derringer felt disinclined to stay longer in the town. So he would travel east on the train until he found some place offering high-stake gambling with opponents capable of challenging his skill.
Before Derringer reached any decision on where he would direct his next activities, he heard a crash in the room above him. During his time as a deputy, he had helped burst through enough doors to recognize the sound. At the first scream he rose, blew out the lamp and headed for the window with grip and cane in hand. Overhead the screams continued, but nothing in their timbre led Derringer to believe other than fear and fury at the intrusion caused them.
However, he knew the time for departure had come. Clearly the deputy had recognized him and, most probably, had sold that information to the gang. While Derringer did not know how they had found him so quickly, he gave the matter no thought. The first attempt might have failed, but Nabbes would not allow the matter to rest so easily. Given a chance to examine the register, the little man was smart enough to guess what had happened. So Derringer must leave the hotel before the gang boxed him in.
Above him the sound of departing feet faded away. Shouts of complaint rang through the building, but no shots. Crossing to the side window, Derringer drew open the curtains and climbed out. On landing in the alley, he slid free the cane-gun and gripped it in his right hand. As the gang knew his identity, there was no point in attempting to hide the weapon and he might need it in a hurry.
Knowing that the men who had broken into room eighteen would most probably flee the hotel through the more accessible front doors, Derringer discarded the possibility of escape along the street. So he turned toward the rear of the building. At the same moment Throck came around the corner.
Although only intending to investigate the cause of the disturbance—and ensure a clear line of escape should such become necessary—Throck read significance in the sight of Derringer climbing through the window. Despite the bright moon overhead, the alley lay in shadow. For all that, even with the change of clothing, Throck recognized the gambler. Recalling the other’s skill with the deadly cane-gun, Throck wasted no time. As he started to charge forward, the burly man dipped his right hand into his jacket pocket and it emerged with fingers through a set of knuckledusters.
Catching the faint glint of metal on his attacker’s knuckles, Derringer read its menace correctly. Backed by Throck’s powerful muscles, the brass-sheathed fist would tear open Derringer’s flesh, tumbling him unconscious to the ground, or in such pain that he would be unable to defend himself.
However, Derringer did not intend to allow that to happen, if he could avoid it. From what he had seen, he believed Ferrely’s statement on Throck’s ability as a pugilist. Even without the knuckleduster, the big bruiser would make a dangerous opponent in a brawl. Not that Derringer intended to start slugging it out with Throck unless driven to it. The odds against him succeeding in a toe-to-toe fight stood too high to be contemplated. Long before he could beat the big man, always assuming that he might—the men from inside the hotel would arrive and take cards.
Thinking at top speed, Derringer also saw that he would lack the time to turn the cane-gun. Nor would shooting be the answer. He did not know how strong a hold Nabbes might have on the local law, although he doubted if the little man was related to either marshal or justice of the peace. Even should the town marshal be honest and unaware of the gang’s activities, he would not take kindly to a shooting in his bailiwick. Derringer did not want to wind up in jail. Even if the court set him free, Nabbes’ gang would know where to lay hands on him.
Long before those thoughts reached crystalization, Derringer acted. Swinging forward his left arm, he pitched the grip underhand toward Throck’s legs. Letting out a howl as he tripped, the big man stumbled in Derringer’s direction. A step into the alley’s center carried the gambler clear of the other’s reaching hands. Already feet were pounding along the sidewalk at the front of the hotel, so Derringer knew he must not delay in making good his escape. However, he had to slow Throck further before going.
Around lashed the cane, colliding with the big man’s rump as he blundered past. Maybe the cane’s outer surface was vulcanized rubber treated so that it looked like wood, but underneath lay a barrel of Remington’s finest cast-steel. So the cane-gun also made a mighty effective club. It lacked the springy whip-action of a schoolteacher’s cane, but carried enough power to send Throck sprawling onward. He landed on hands and knees as the Keeble brothers appeared at the front end of the alley.
“There he is!” Bud screeched, and plunged forward with the same kind of recklessness shown when playing cards.
Too late Bud saw Throck landing before him. Making an attempt to bound over the other, his foot struck Throck’s shoulder and he tumbled on top of the big man.
Less impetuous than his brother, Fenn avoided being tripped. He saw Derringer turn after striking Throck, scoop up the grip and dart off toward the rear of the building. However, Fenn knew better than go after the gambler alone, and shared Derringer’s aversion to gun-play. So he skidded to a halt and hauled his cursing brother erect.
“How are you, Joe?” Fenn asked.
Horrible obscenities rose as Throck forced himself erect and for a moment he stood glaring as if contemplating an attack on the two brot
hers. Recognizing the danger, Fenn let out a yell which halted the man and made him aware of their identity. With the danger of attack by their companion ended, Fenn gave the order to get after Derringer.
Although hampered by the cane-gun and bag, the gambler managed to build up a satisfactory lead during the time it took Fenn to untangle the other two. Once clear of the hotel, Derringer decided that his best bet would be to get out of town. On the way in he remembered that the train had come down a steep gradient about a mile from the town. The Eastbound would ascend the slope slowly enough for him to board it. Unless the gang guessed what he planned, he should be able to escape that way. However, first he must lose the trio from the hotel.
Any hopes that he might already have done so ended abruptly as he ran down a deserted residential street.
“There he goes!” yelled Bud’s excited voice from behind.
“Get after him!” Throck echoed.
“Hold down that row, damn you!” Fenn snarled, continuing to run. “Do you want to bring the marshal on to us?”
Apparently the others did not, for neither raised his voice again. Instead they concentrated on following the fleeing gambler. Although lamplight glowed at some windows, none of the residents appeared to investigate the noise. Nor did any pursuit appear to have been organized at the hotel.
Knowing that the other men, not carrying anything to slow them down, would be able to keep him in sight, Derringer sought for a way to throw them off his tracks. With that in mind, he darted through an alley between two buildings and entered what appeared to be the headquarters of a well-organized freighting outfit. Several big Conestoga wagons, with their canopies removed, formed a line to his left. A blacksmith’s forge and several wooden buildings, only one of which showed lights at its windows, made a rough oblong with a large pole corral in its center. Beneath the heavily leaved branches of a huge old oak tree stood another wagon, its white tarpaulin cover in place.
