by J. T. Edson
‘I’ll—!’ Shamp began.
‘Do what you’re told,’ Turtle interrupted. ‘I’m satisfied. You got him here, which’s something.’
‘Damn him!’ Chuck spluttered, rubbing his chest tenderly. ‘Let me—’
‘I told you I’m satisfied!’ Turtle snarled, without taking his attention from Dusty for long enough to offer a chance of escape. ‘Believe me, you don’t know how lucky you’ve been. Get your guns and go wait with the horses.’
Muttering under their breath, the two men rose and obeyed. Puzzled by the latest development, Dusty watched them collect their revolvers and slouch from the room. Then he received another surprise.
‘You may as well get your’n,’ the saloon-keeper remarked and changed hands so that he could return the Derringer to its spring-loaded wrist holster. He nodded at the departing pair and continued, ‘Harwold Cornwall’s letter said they were good. He was right. I don’t reckon I’ve anybody who could have fetched you here alive, or would’ve been willing to try.’
‘Harwold Cornwall from New Orleans?’ Dusty inquired as he went to pick up his gun belt.
‘Do you know him?’ Turtle inquired, sounding surprised.
‘I’ve heard tell of him,’ Dusty admitted.
That was something of an understatement. Dusty had had dealings with Cornwall while helping Belle Boyd ruin a Union plot to flood the Confederate States with counterfeit money. While he did not know it, he would in a few years time assist the New Orleans police to bring an end to Cornwall’s career as a leader of the city’s organized criminal activities.
‘Let’s talk business,’ Turtle suggested, watching Dusty buckle on the belt and fasten the holsters pigging thongs.
‘You went to a hell of a lot of trouble just to do that,’ the small Texan pointed out, wondering when the weight of the belt and its Colts had last felt so comforting.
‘There wasn’t any other way I could be sure you’d come to see me, or listen to what I’ve got to say. Anyways, seeing’s how Harwold sent them boys along to ask if I’d hire ’em, I reckoned it’d be a good chance to see if they’d be any use to me.’
‘I hope I haven’t turned you off them.’
‘Nope. They did well enough.’
‘Maybe you’d best tell me what’s on your mind,’ Dusty drawled.
‘Do you reckon I tried to have you killed that night?’ Turtle demanded.
‘Did you?’ Dusty countered.
‘You’re still alive and’ve got your guns back.’
‘I’m not gainsaying it.’
‘Why would I want you dead?’
‘Because of what happened when I came to see you with the marshal.’
‘I’m not saying’s I was took with the notion of you coming after that ‘breed, ‘specially as Grillman didn’t have the right to do it,’ Turtle admitted. ‘And I had to try to stop you doing it. But it’s bad medicine to kill an honest peace officer and Grillman’s all of that.’
‘I’m not a peace officer,’ Dusty reminded him. ‘And I’d put lead into two of your men.’
‘You saved me having to pay ’em at the end of the month’s all that meant.’
‘Did their amigos think the same way?’
‘Neither of ’em had any friends who’d feel strongly enough to go after you looking for evens,’ Turtle replied. ‘And they sure as hell wasn’t worth it to me. I was willing to forgive and forget even before you started making money for me by winning those events.’
‘Why’s that?’ Dusty asked.
‘I don’t mind getting the likes of Horatio Fitt riled up at me for what I do to their kin,’ the saloonkeeper explained. ‘But I’m a whole lot too smart and careful on locking horns with the kind of backing you’ve got. And on top of that, the way things are, I’d sooner have you alive.’
‘So I can keep on winning events?’
‘Nope. I want to see Texas set back on her feet.’
‘You?’ Dusty ejaculated.
‘Why not me?’ Turtle challenged.
‘I just don’t see you as a patriot,’ Dusty confessed.
‘I’m better than that. I’m a money-hungry opportunist.’
‘I’ve heard tell of such, but it still doesn’t tell me why.’
‘If Goodnight’s notion works out, and I think it will,’ Turtle elaborated. ‘There’ll be plenty of money coming in from Kansas.’
‘That’s the idea of going up there,’ Dusty conceded, beginning to see what the other was driving at.
‘There’s not much cash-money around these days and profit’s low, even with the kind of trade I draw in,’ Turtle went on. ‘So I’m all for seeing it happen. And you can help bring it off. Fact being, after what happened to Charlie Goodnight—’
‘Schelling came to you first, huh?’ Dusty growled.
‘Don’t think mean about folks and reckon I’ve got second sight,’ Turtle requested with a grin. ‘Anyways, I figured you’d be coming in to send the news to Ole Devil, but that you’d likely ‘tend to your hoss first. So I sent the boys to fetch you along.’
‘Just to tell me that it isn’t you who’s trying to have me killed?’
‘And that it wasn’t me who had Charlie killed. Like I said, I don’t want Ole Devil after my scalp. Or you either, if it comes to that. And after this talk that you’ve been blaming me—’
‘Which I didn’t start,’ Dusty stated.
‘Somebody did, which I’m not doubting your word,’ Turtle pointed out. ‘Thing being who it was’s did it.’
‘The feller who’s trying to have me killed’d have a pretty fair reason,’ Dusty drawled, hoping for information.
‘Do you have any notion who that might be?’ Turtle inquired.
‘Notions is all, but I wouldn’t want to name names without having proof. How about you?’
‘Was the ‘breed tied in with it?’
‘Why sure. Him and his amigos had made their play at the Kid. There was two of ’em got away and likely came back to your place.’
‘I’ll not lie to you,’ Turtle promised. ‘So I’ll just say nothing. You’ve heard what they say about me?’
‘I’ve heard a lot of things, not many of ’em good,’ Dusty drawled, but he knew what the saloonkeeper meant.
According to what Grillman had told Dusty after their visit, Turtle had a reputation for never betraying a confidence. The saloonkeeper frequently had messages, information or requests for assistance to pass on, but he would never divulge a word except to the person for which it had been intended. In that way, he justified the high prices which he charged for his services.
To try to obtain information would be a waste of time, Dusty realized, so he wondered why Turtle had gone to so much trouble to arrange the meeting. There must have been another reason besides a desire to avoid incurring Ole Devil Hardin’s wrath. That alone hardly rated the risks the saloonkeeper had taken.
‘That figures,’ Dusty agreed.
‘Happen he’s figuring on hiring at my place, he’s going to be disappointed,’ the saloonkeeper continued. ‘I’ve passed the word’s I’d rather you stay alive.’
‘Gracias,’ Dusty drawled.
‘I heard you had fuss with that big jasper, Counter or whatever they call him,’ Turtle remarked.
‘It wasn’t him.’
‘He’d bear watching.’
‘It’s being done.’
‘It was a thought,’ Turtle said, ‘Hey, though, how do you rate your chances in the Three Miles Stakes tomorrow?’
‘Pretty good,’ Dusty replied.
‘Good enough to be sure of winning?’ Turtle wanted to know.
‘Don’t tell me you want to bet on a sure thing, for shame,’ Dusty grinned.
‘I never gamble,’ Turtle objected. ‘What I do is let them’s wants to do it against me. That way, I’m sure to wind up the winner in the end.’
‘That sounds like a right smart system,’ Dusty said sardonically. ‘Well, I’d best be going.’
‘And m
e,’ Turtle agreed. ‘So I’ll say adios, Cap’n Fog. And I’ll be tolerable obliged if you don’t come to my place again.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty promised. ‘Adios.’
Walking towards the livery barn, the small Texan wondered what would be the result of Turtle having expressed a desire to keep him alive and unharmed.
Lonegron could have answered that question and, to a certain extent did so—although not in Dusty’s hearing—when he visited de Froissart that evening.
‘We’re going to kill Fog tomorrow,’ the stocky man announced, after ascertaining that they were alone in the Creole’s room.
‘You hired the men then?’ de Froissart guessed.
‘The hell I have!’ Lonegron snorted. ‘When my boys tried, they was told that Ram Turtle’s passed the word for nobody to take the chore.’
‘Why did he do that?’ the Creole almost yelped.
‘I’m damned if I know and the boys’d more sense than try to ask. So we’ll do it ourselves.’
‘We?’
‘Me and the boys’ll do the killing, but you’ll have to help.’
‘In what way?’ de Froissart wanted to know.
‘By staying here, in your room, all tomorrow afternoon,’ Lonegron replied.
‘I’ll miss the races!’ de Froissart protested.
‘You’ll miss a damned sight more than that if Fog’s not dead afore the Convention,’ Lonegron warned. ‘And there’s going to be all hell raised if he’s killed. So if the law comes around asking questions, I want to be able to say we were here, playing poker, all afternoon.’
Chapter Sixteen – Goodnight
SLOWLY AND REMORSELESSLY, Dusty Fog’s big paint stallion had been forging ahead of its opponents in the Three Miles Stakes. Some of the riders were using quirts, or the end of their reins, in an attempt to force extra speed from their mounts, but the small Texan did nothing of the kind. Instead he relied upon his slightly crouching, forward seat and perfect balance which threw the least possible strain upon the swiftly-striding animal.
By the time Dusty had reached the point where the trail entered an area of woodland, he was in the lead. Aided by its master’s superb equestrian skill, the magnificent stallion’s effortless-seeming gait had given it almost a two length lead on its nearest rivals. For all that, Dusty did not delude himself that the race was won. Not when there were men competing who were almost his equal in riding ability and nearly as well mounted.
Horse-racing in Texas during the mid-1860’s was far removed from the highly organized and carefully regulated professional sport into which it had already developed in the East. The course bore little resemblance to smooth, level circuits of closely-mown grass. Instead, the events took place across country and traversed a variety of terrain. Nor were the horses which competed restricted to selected, specialized thoroughbreds of known ancestry and bloodlines. Anybody with sufficient money to pay the stake fee could enter a mount and run it carrying whatever kind of saddle was fancied.
Bare-headed, Dusty sat his own rig. Although he had left off his rope and Winchester carbine’s saddleboot, he had retained his gun belt. Being aware that his life was in danger, he had accepted the penalty of the weapons’ weight so that he would be armed and able to protect himself.
Dusty had told Marshal Grillman of the meeting with Ram Turtle the previous evening and they had believed what he had said. That had not prevented the peace officer from keeping the two deputies following Dusty. Nor had the small Texan’s objections swayed Grillman from his purpose.
Nothing of importance had happened that evening, except that in addition to receiving many condolences over the news of his uncle’s death, he had been asked to take Goodnight’s place at the Convention. He had known that the invitation would not have been made before he had competed in and won so many of the events, including the cutting horse contest.
Nor had anything noteworthy happened during the morning and afternoon. Mark Counter was still escorting Marlene Viridian. While Dolman had accompanied them to the races, Pierre de Froissart was not completing the party. When the opportunity had arisen, Mark had told Grillman that the Creole had said he was staying at the hotel to play poker with friends. Being suspicious by nature and training, the marshal had sent one of his deputies to verify the story. On his return the peace officer had reported that de Froissart was in his room. He could be seen from the street, seated at a table in front of the window and playing cards. However, the deputy had not been able to see the other players.
Once Dusty had started to get ready for the race, he had put all other thoughts out of his mind. Against the kind of opposition he was facing, he could not afford to let himself be distracted. Winning, however, was of less importance than his successes in the earlier events had been with regard to gaining the confidence of the ranchers. He felt that he had already earned that, but meant to do his best and try to win. He had entered the paint, as he had the grullo in the cutting horse event, because he enjoyed riding and competing against other men who were experts in equestrian matters.
From the beginning, Dusty had ridden a carefully calculated race. Like all the other entrants, he had been over the three miles long circuit and familiarized himself with its physical features.
Although the race had commenced where it would end, in front of the Governor of Texas’s carriage, with him doing the starting, on going north from the edge of Fort Worth, the riders would be hidden from view in an area of woodland for part of the circuit. The spectators accepted that and many of them used it as an excuse for further betting. There were officials placed at intervals in the woods, to make sure that there was no interference with the race and to prevent irregularities by the contestants.
Flashing by the first of the officials on the edge of the woodland, Dusty hardly gave him a glance. The small Texan’s whole attention was on the trail ahead. There was an exceptionally difficult portion about half-way through. Going down a long slope, which would tend to make the horse increase its speed, the route curved sharply at the bottom, passing some densely growing and prickly blueberry bushes. Only a man in complete control of his mount could make the descent and the turn without a considerable slackening of his pace. What was more, it could best be handled without the distraction of other horses and riders. That was why Dusty had been so determined to be the first man to reach it.
Reaching the top of the slope, Dusty looked down through the trees to where the turn must be made. There should have been three officials at the bottom, ready to help any rider who found himself in difficulties. Only one was in sight, a stocky man wearing town clothes. He was standing somewhat further up the slope than might have been expected and, even as Dusty looked at him, he spoke as if to somebody who was concealed behind the trunk of a massive old cottonwood tree at the side of the trail. Having done so, the man walked towards the tree.
Starting to go down the slope, the paint increased its speed. Automatically Dusty adjusted his seat to spread his weight in a more advantageous manner. Inclining his body to the rear, he thrust his feet forward in the stirrups and applied just a little more pressure with the reins. Sure-footed, despite its size, the stallion continued to plunge onwards, and yet still remained responsive to the signals of Dusty’s legs and hands.
Suddenly the small Texan became aware that there were two figures dressed in range clothes standing behind the cottonwood tree. Beyond them, partially concealed amongst the bushes, lay a townsman. His hands and legs were bound and there was a gag in his mouth.
Even as Dusty realized the significance of what he was seeing, the stocky ‘official’ and one of the men started to make a pulling motion. Rising from where it had been fastened around the trunk of a post oak, hanging down to be concealed in a furrow cut across the trail, a rope snapped tight ahead of the small Texan. It was at a height just sufficient for his horse to pass underneath, but would catch his chest and sweep him out of the saddle.
All too well Dusty understood his deadly peril. The stalli
on’s speed was too great for it to make even a sliding halt on the slope. Nor could he, apart from throwing himself from the saddle, avoid being caught by the rope. If he made the attempt while moving at such a pace, he would be fortunate to alight without serious injury. What was more, he would still be at the mercy of the men. Leaving the ‘official’ and his helper to handle the rope, the remaining member of the party was drawing his revolver and moving into the open.
While taking in the details, with the stallion rushing ever closer to the rope, Dusty had seen what might offer him his only chance. It was a slender hope and not one which many people would even have considered.
With Dusty, to think was to act. Leaving the reins in his right fist, his left hand flashed across. Out came the Colt from the right side holster, its hammer clicking back. Thrusting forward the weapon, he tried to line the barrel at the slender—but no less dangerous—rope.
Down swung the hammer as his forefinger squeezed the trigger. The Colt roared—and the bullet missed!
Seeing what their victim was trying to do, the ‘official’ yelled something at the man with the gun. Although Dusty did not catch the words, he could guess what had been said, especially as the man lunged forward and started to raise his weapon.
Cocking the hammer with his left thumb, as the Colt’s barrel rose from the impulsion of the recoil’s kick, Dusty brought it back into alignment. He could see that his position was doubly desperate. Not only was the paint carrying him towards the rope at an ever—increasing pace, but the man was beginning to point the revolver in his direction. There was, Dusty realized, no possible way in which he could deal with both the threats to his continued existence.
While he was trying to split the rope, the man would shoot him.
Before he could turn the Colt on his assailant, fire and bring it around to its previous target, the paint would have carried him on to the rope.
Again Dusty’s Colt roared, but without any satisfactory result.
The rope remained intact!
It was now not much more than six foot ahead of the fast moving stallion!
