by J. T. Edson
The Home of Great Western Fiction!
In the violent and lawless days following the Civil War many infamous outlaws cut a bloody swathe across the West ... John Wesley Hardin, Bad Bill Longley, Sam Bass, Frank and Jesse James, the Daltons ... all rode and shot their way to notoriety ....
But, with one exception, the women were less well known in the annals of frontier legends. The exception was a beautiful, shapely, intelligent wildcat, quick in a fight, and deadly with a gun. Before she had ridden the owlhoot trails for long the posters began to appear on the sheriff’s notice boards from Canada to the Rio Grande, from the Mississippi to the Pacific ...
Wanted! Belle Starr, the Oklahoma Outlaw.
WANTED! BELLE STARR!
By J. T. Edson
First published by Transworld Publishers in 1983
Copyright © 1983, 2016 by J. T. Edson
First Smasshwords Edition: July 2016
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For Terry Bisson, Allegra D’Adamo, Ling Lucas and everybody else at Berkley Publishing Corporation, New York, who is helping to foist me upon the unsuspecting American public.
Author’s Note
To save our ‘old hands’ from repetition, but for the benefit of new readers, we have included details of the career and special qualifications of the Ysabel Kid, along with references to various Old West terms and events about which we are most frequently requested to supply extra information in the form of Appendices.
While we realize that in our present ‘permissive’ society, we could include the actual profanities used by various people in the narrative, we do not concede that a spurious desire for ‘realism’ is any excuse to do so.
Lastly, as we do not pander to the current ‘trendy’ usage of the metric system, except in the events of referring to firearms where the caliber is generally given in millimeters i.e. Walther P-38, 9mm we will continue to employ miles, yards, feet, inches, pounds and ounces when quoting distances and weights.
J.T. Edson
Part One – The Poison and the Cure
Chapter One – Most Painfully Dead
“Indios bravos! Madre de dios, señor, your Americana del Norte—“Red” don’t you call them?—Indians are as nothing to frighten us. Not when in comparison with the kind of Indios muy bravos we have in the Matto Grosso. Unlike your Red Indians, they do not ride around openly to be shot at. No, they hide so very carefully and, before you even suspect they are there, they have started using their—how are you saying it?—“blowing pipes” and darts upon you.”
There was a distinctly haughty disdain in the voice and demeanor of the speaker, who had been introduced to the other players in the poker game for high stakes as ‘Señora Donna Maria Constanza del Santa Rosa’. Black haired, immaculately coiffured, olive skinned, very beautiful, and with richly endowed feminine contours which her clothes emphasized although not in a blatant manner rather than concealed, her bearing was that of a person whose birthright and upbringing had placed her in a position of imperious authority. The low crowned, round brimmed black hat, dove gray two-piece travelling costume, frilly bosomed light blue silk blouse with a masculine black bow tie and the jewelry sparkling around her neck, from her ears, on wrists and fingers, all indicated great wealth. To confirm this supposition, even before it had been supplemented by her frequent winnings, she had produced a considerable sum in the currency of the United States of America from the large black reticule which lay open on the table in front of her.
“Huh!” grunted the stocky and hard featured man who although his voice suggested he had been born and raised in the already notorious and less than salubrious Lower East Side district of New York City had been presented before the start of the game as “Thomas Driberg”, a cattle buyer from Chicago, Illinois. His clothing vas that of a city dweller and his sallow complexion suggested such might be the case, but he had on a Western style gunbelt with a walnut handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker i in its fast draw holster. “That don’t seem so all-fired dangerous to me!”
“Ha, but this is only because you do not know anything about them, or their “blowing pipes” and darts, señor,” asserted the aristocratically arrogant beauty, her English good; albeit underlaid by a broad Spanish accent which enhanced the implication of Hispanic origins created by her name and appearance. “There is just one quick puff taken through a short hollow cane tube and you are stuck with a so-little spike of wood not thicker than a matchstick. Then, no matter how quickly you pull it out, unless you take the only antidote which is very rare and hard to come by in no more than five minutes, you become most painfully dead without having seen, much less shot at, the man who has killed you.”
“How?” inquired the tall, gaunt and somberly clad man whose black and white attire, despite the fact that he was involved in a game of chance where considerable amounts of money were being bet, implied he was a member of the clergy.
“Poison, Fath—Reverend Huckfield,” the beautiful young woman explained, making the substitution because she had discovered that the person she was addressing did not care to be referred to with the honorific more in keeping with the Catholic faith than that of his, as yet, unmentioned denomination. “A most deadly poison of a kind not widely known outside our country. As I told you, Manuel, my husband, is part Matto Grosso Indio and he knows of such things. He says it is called “curare” ii and I have seen, with my own eyes, him kill a full grown bull with the “blowing pipe” and dart just as quickly as the men he has used it on for me have died.”
Everything about the young man who was with her and whom she indicated by a casual wave of her bejeweled hand implied that, regardless of having been mentioned on more than one occasion as “Manuel, my husband’ in a tone that suggested more of an apology than pride he was of a lower social status. Tall, slender, yet exuding an impression of wiry strength, his whole appearance gave credence to him being of mixed blood. Bareheaded, his straight black hair hung down to shoulder level and was held back by a headband of scarlet cloth. However, with the exception of his eyes, there was an almost babyishly innocent cast to his handsome, Indian-dark features which did not seem in accord with the possession of the lethal knowledge and tendencies referred to by his wife. The eyes, a curious red-hazel color, held a glint, even in repose, which suggested the apparent innocence was not necessarily indicative of his true nature. Sitting ramrod straight in his chair, seemingly far from at ease in such company, he conveyed the slightly puzzled expression of one who knew he was the subject of a comment in a language he could not understand.
Regardless of the extreme affluence suggested by the attire and jewelry of his wife, there was no such elegance about Manuel. He wore a loose fitting light tan colored waist length leather jacket, an open necked and multi-hued cotton shirt such as was sold cheaply in the trading posts of Indian reservations throughout the United States, and yellowish-brown Nankeen trousers tucked into the legs of low heeled, but sharp toed, black riding boots. A massive, ivory handled James Black bowie knife was sheathed on the right side of his waist belt, which was broad enough to support the far from inconsiderable weight, but he showed no sign o
f being armed in any other way.
Only the Indian dark young man seemed at odds with the place in which the high stakes game of poker was being played. Although on the outskirts of Newton, a town in Kansas depending for the majority of its income upon the large herds of half wild longhorn cattle driven north from various parts of Texas to its railroad pens, iii the mansion and fittings of its sitting-room had appointments equal to any in a larger Eastern city. Nor, Manuel excepted, did the players appear out of place in such a setting as far as their clothing, displayed wealth and proclaimed occupations were concerned.
However, appearances can be deceptive!
Certainly nothing about the game of poker and its participants was what it seemed on the surface!
The events which had brought it about had commenced a few days earlier!
Chapter Two – When Will I Learn
“To hell with you and your god-damned tail-peddlers!” called the tallest of the three men who had emerged, with indications of having drunk ‘not wisely, but too well’, from the side entrance at the insistence of the brawny bouncers employed by the Sunbird Saloon. Then, discovering they did not have the alley to themselves, he swung his gaze from the door which was being closed and went on in a lower voice, “Well now, just take a look at what’s a-coming, Cousin Bert, Cousin Jubal. Ain’t she just about the purtiest thing you ever did see?”
“I don’t know about that, Cousin Henry,” assessed “Cousin Bert”, the second in height, his accent also indicating his birthright was in Illinois. “But she’s sure enough close to being the fanciest I ever did see!”
“That’s as maybe,” claimed “Cousin Jubal”, his tone bitter and indicating that he too was from the “Sucker State” which was once the home of the late and great President Abraham Lincoln. “But I just bet she’s reckoning’s how she’s a whole heap too good ’n’ fancy for ordinary working fellers like us. ’Specially seeing we’ve been cheated out of all our hard-earned money in there ’n’ can’t afford to pay her nothing, neither, to act all friendly to us.”
“I dunno,” “Cousin Henry” growled, making no attempt to point out that the money was far from hard earned and had been spent legitimately in the saloon. “Could be we can sort of talk her into acting all friendly without getting paid nothing for it!”
“By golly, yes!” agreed the shortest, but no more prepossessing, member of the trio. “I reckon we might at that!”
“We won’t never know ’less’n we give it a whirl,” “Cousin Bert” supported. “So let’s give her a whirl!”
“Lordy lord!” Belle Starr thought, studying the three men with range-wise eyes and listening to the remarks they were exchanging with no suggestion of wishing to avoid her hearing. She liked nothing of what she saw, or heard. Not only was she able to form a pretty accurate estimation of the kind they were, but she could also guess something of the reason for their comments. “When will I learn not to go visiting dressed this way?”
Tallish, lean, with long and straggly mouse brown hair, there was a family likeness about the hollow cheeked, unshaven and surly, drink suffused features of the trio. Their attire might have led a person less knowing in Western matters to assume they were cowhands. Having grown up in the Indian Nations of Oklahoma, Belle had spent much of her life around ‘cow towns’ and those which, like Newton, had come into being chiefly as shipping points from which the great trails herds out of Texas could be taken to the meat-hungry cities of the East. She knew such was not their occupation. The conclusion went beyond their Illinois accents. Other indications informed her they were unlikely to take any kind of employment requiring hard work, such as that of a cowhand. In all probability they earned their living via a willingness if not exceptional skill in making use of the low tied Colt Peacemaker each was wearing. While they might not be rated among the top hands of that specialized field, she felt sure they could prove sufficiently dangerous under the prevailing conditions.
As a result of the deductions she had formed regarding the men, the lady outlaw was regretting the way in which she herself was behaving!
If there should be unwanted trouble, which seemed highly likely, Belle was ready to admit she had done much to bring it upon herself!
In spite of having become involved in a similar situation while she was visiting Ellsworth a few years earlier, Belle was dressed much as she had been then and she looked as if she could be a suitable candidate for being accosted in the manner which was intended by the three men! iv
The bright orange-red shade of the hair visible beneath the lady outlaw’s wide brimmed and feather-decorated hat was not a color which would be sought by any ‘good’ woman. Nor was the excessive make-up she had applied to her beautiful features, or the garish and by the standards of the day revealing clothing she had on, likely to be worn by a female member of the community unless she was employed in the cheaper varieties of the theatrical profession, a saloon, dance hall, or brothel.
Believing one or another such category was the status of their intended victim, the three men clearly considered she was offering a reasonably safe target to vent the animosity which had been aroused by their having been justifiably evicted from the saloon. However, Belle was willing to concede they might not have behaved in a different fashion if she had presented an impression of frigid and righteous respectability. In their present state of drunken truculence, they were ripe for mischief without giving any thought to the possible consequences of their actions.
Unfortunately, the lady outlaw told herself as she was watching the trio spreading out to adopt a loose arrowhead formation across the width of the alley, there was no easy way to avoid their unwanted attentions!
Attempting verbal dissuasion would almost certainly prove a waste of time!
Too much noise was coming from the saloon to allow a scream for help to be heard before it was silenced by the men!
If Belle turned back, the trio would follow her into an even more deserted area than the alley!
The lady outlaw had a short-barreled Manhattan Navy revolver in the reticule which her left hand was grasping, v but she felt sure the mere sight of it would not be sufficient to frighten the men away. They had reached the state of intoxication when good sense and caution were forgotten. If she bought it out, she would almost certainly have to use it. While she would not have had any compunction over doing so as a last resource, this was a measure she had no desire to have forced upon her. Not only were the odds against her, three to one, but each was a professional gunfighter although they might fall short of being in the first string. Even if she should survive a shoot out with them, unlikely as this was, she could cause the local peace officers to take a far greater interest in her than was desirable.
In fact, being in Newton as part of a tour of the trail end towns in Kansas she was making with a small gang, carrying out a succession of lucrative confidence tricks, Belle was disinclined to create the kind of commotion which might bring the marshal or some of his deputies to investigate.
“Did you hear what Cousin Bert said, fancy-gal?” Jubal demanded, rather than merely inquired, glancing over his shoulder to ensure nobody was watching from the street at the front end of the alley. “How do you feel about getting all friendly with us good old boys when you ain’t going to get paid?”
“Why I surely can’t think of anything I’d like to be doing more, sir,” the lady outlaw lied, speaking with the accent of a well-educated Southron which was her normal voice.
She noticed that, although Henry had halted a short distance in front of her, the speaker and Bert were continuing to advance until on either side and just out of reaching distance. Showing no sign of her growing concern, she went on, “Only I have a previous engagement with another gentleman of quality and just have to keep it.”
“So you ‘just have to’, do you?” Henry challenged, mimicking Belle’s way of speaking, his whole bearing redolent of menace as he stood with hands on hips and feet spread apart. Resuming his normal half-snarling, half-
whining tone, he continued. “Well me ’n’ my cousins just don’t see it that way, you ‘mother something’, vi high-faluting, pecker wood tail-peddler!” vii
“You, sir,” Belle said, with a mildness she was far from feeling. “Are no gentleman to be using such language!”
While delivering the sentiment, the lady outlaw was taking hold of and drawing the front of her skirt to above knee level. Doing so did not exhibit the kind of underclothing which might have been expected to supplement such garish and revealing outer garments. High heeled and comparatively dainty though they might be, the black riding boots she was displaying were clearly functional rather than decorative. Nor were the figure hugging white riding breeches tucked into their Hessian legs any more conventional attire.
Before any of the trio could draw conclusions from what was being exposed to their gaze, in the light of the lantern hanging above the side door of the saloon, Belle’s shapely right leg rose swiftly!
Henry could hardly have selected a posture better suited to the purpose of the lady outlaw. In fact, due to the speed with which the kick was delivered and the impediment to her movements created by the rucked up skirt, he might have considered himself fortunate that she was prevented from employing her full strength. Not that he devoted any thought to the matter when the foot reached its intended target. Taken at the most vulnerable point of the masculine anatomy, he could do nothing more constructive than let out a strangled gasp of agony and stumble away from his assailant with both hands going to the stricken area.
Bringing down her foot, Belle used it as a pivot upon which to turn towards Bert. Grasping the reticule in both hands, she swung it so as to use the revolver it concealed as an improvised club. Already springing towards her with hands rising to reach and grab hold, he walked into the blow. Unfortunately for her, circumstances were against her being able to produce the full effects with her, of necessity, hurried movements. While the attack landed sufficiently hard to hurt and cause the approaching fingers to miss their selected target, it failed to render him even close to hors de combat as she had intended.
