by J. T. Edson
“What about?” the lady outlaw inquired.
Having collected all the money from the table and received the loot belonging to General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin and Andrew Bullstrode which the Chauvelins had had in another room, as Belle had suspected would be the case, she had ordered the ‘Duchess of Haute-Savoie’ to accompany herself and ‘Manuel’ to the front door. On crossing the threshold without interference by the other members of the gang, or giving any indication that she was not ‘Señora Donna Maria Constanza del Santa Rosa,’ she had handed over the bottle of thick dark brown liquid. Then, as Emily had fled back to the dining-room to administer the antidote without further delay, she had closed and locked the door. While the Kid, at his own suggestion, had remained in case there should be any attempt at pursuit, she had set off towards the business section of the town in which their hotel was situated. She had been confident that, should they be followed there later, the men who came would be deterred when learning the ‘Brazilian’ beauty and her ‘husband’ were in the company of Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog and other members of the OD Connected ranch’s already legendary floating outfit.
“He reckoned when he loaned me this newfangled itty-bitty stingy gun’s how a man could kill somebody with it like it was my ole Dragoon thumb-buster and, seems like, you can at that,” the Indian-dark young Texan explained. xii Then, putting aside his invariable pretense of having no faith in any kind of handgun except his massive, yet already, obsolete revolver, he reported, “Anyways, there ain’t nobody of ’em coming a-hunting after us for evens.”
“That was your sneaky Pehnane Comanch’ idea, I never thought there would be,” the lady outlaw answered, gesturing with the reticule which was now bulging with the money acquired from the ‘Duke and Duchess of Haute-Savoie’ and their reduced gang. “Not even for this.”
“Well, blast it!” the Kid protested. “You didn’t say’s how I shouldn’t need to keep watch!”
“Seeing how eager you were to do it, I didn’t want to be so mean as to spoil your fun,” Belle claimed, with a smile, “After all, you men always know best.”
“I’d be the last to say, ‘no’ to that,” asserted the Texan. “Anyways, we pulled it off like you said we would, Belle!”
“You were so convincing,” the lady outlaw praised. “Why you almost had me believing you’d used a real ‘blowing pipe’ and poisoned dart, the way you looked, instead of a sharpened twig with red cotton wool to hold it in the tube and that boy’s bean shooter I’d painted up so fancy. I know I wouldn’t have wanted to come into the dark, hunting for somebody who was using a thing like that.”
“Hell, I was close to forgetting who you are, way you acted all the time,” the Kid responded, delighted by the compliment he had received. He had suspected, her acceptance of his support notwithstanding, she had had some doubts over whether he could play his part satisfactorily. Then a thought struck him and he went on, “Hey though, that ‘Duke’ hombre allowed he was starting to feel dizzy and looked one real scared and sickened feller afore we left. Just what was on that spike you gave me?”
“Only some brown paint,” Belle replied cheerfully. “His imagination and the way you backed my play did the rest. It hadn’t affected him and couldn’t beyond the slight sting when it hit, but I’m betting the antidote will.”
“What was that brown stuff in the bottle?”
“Some croton oil, ipecac, cayenne pepper and gunpowder, all mixed together like I was making a son-of-a-bitch stew. Once he gets that stuff working inside him, I’ll bet he has to stay real close to the back house seat for a day or two.”
“Whooee, and isn’t that the living truth?” the Kid ejaculated, being aware the first two ingredients in particular had extremely potent laxative qualities even without having been as range country cooks referred to a stew containing whatever items of food might be available mixed until one did not know what each separate ‘son-of-a-bitch’ might be. “I’d say he’ll likely by wishing we had used a real poisoned dart and ‘blowing pipe’ on him afore he’s through with it.”
“Or it’s through him,” Belle supplemented. “I only wish I could have thought up some way to make dear Emily drink it as well. That would have taught her as well as the ‘Duke’ not to come wide-looping marks on my home range.”
“You’re a real mean woman, Miss Starr,” the disguised Texan declared.
“I’ve never claimed I wasn’t, Mr. Ysabel,” the lady outlaw replied.
Part Two – A Face From The Past
Chapter Nine – I Need Your Help So Badly
“Excuse me, sir, please. But aren’t you that most celebrated author and playwright, Mr. David Icke?”
Although he was not using that name at the Railroad House Hotel in Mulrooney, Kansas, when he heard the attractive feminine voice which appeared to be charged with open admiration, the man to whom the question had been addressed turned to find out who was aware of his true identity. He was on his way to the reception desk to ask if there were any messages for him under the name he had given when registering, so he hoped the speaker using his correct name was not the person from whom he was expecting to hear.
Just over middle height, slender to the point of thinness, David Icke was in his late forties. He had lean, pallid and, apparently, aesthetic features generally set in an expression indicative of a conscious superiority to those about him. Longish black hair dangled from beneath a rakish broad brimmed black felt hat. Taken with the long black cloak lined with red satin, brown pin-striped three-piece suit, white silk shirt, flowing mauve cravat and Hersome gaiter boots, the headdress suggested he had a connection with the arts or the theater. He showed no sign of being armed in any fashion. Nor, to anybody conversant with his advanced ‘liberal’ point of view, would he be expected to carry arms. He professed to have a profound hatred of all firearms and had frequently advocated, on suitable political platforms, that legislation preventing private ownership of them should be ratified by Congress.
What Icke saw upon completing the turn, his antipathy towards people with Southern accents especially those indicative of wealth and good breeding notwithstanding, made him feel pleased he had been recognized. The only person close enough to have spoken had drawn his attention in the dining-room of the hotel on more than one occasion, but she had never, until now, given the slightest indication that she knew who he was. She, on the other hand, had been the frequent subject of his lecherous speculations even though he had considered these were almost certain to remain unfulfilled.
The ‘celebrated author and playwright’ had sought to satisfy his curiosity with regards to the blonde, very beautiful, curvaceous young woman standing before him, despite feeling doubtful that anything was likely to materialize from his knowledge. Her name, he had discovered, was Darlene-Mae Abernathy and, as was suggested by her always expensive attire and jewelry, she was very wealthy. She had come from Richmond, Virginia, to Mulrooney accompanied, if rumor was correct, by a dumpy and unprepossessing maid to attend to an important matter of business on behalf of her family. Whenever he had seen her, she had always been in the company of Dennis Hobert; a good looking man of her own age who was employed as a teller at the National Trust Bank in which Icke had deposited a large sum of money on arriving in the town.
Much to Icke’s satisfaction, the beautiful young woman appeared to be alone at this moment!
“Why yes, Miss Abernathy,” the ‘most celebrated author and playwright’ confirmed, always willing to acknowledge his identity when it was requested in such a flattering manner. He did not pause to think it was surprising that a wealthy Southron would consider him in such a complimentary fashion, her kind being a major subject for vilification in his works. Instead, he noticed there was a reddening around her eyes as if she had recently been crying and other suggestions of some deeply disturbing emotion on her beautiful face. “That’s who I am!”
“I hope you will forgive me for addressing you without our being formally i
ntroduced!” the blonde began. “B—But how did you-all know my name?”
“I always try to learn the names of beautiful young ladies,” Icke claimed, exuding an oily charm which he had found efficacious on numerous occasions in the past. “And, if I may say so, you are one of the most beautiful young ladies I’ve ever come across.”
“I—I don’t f—feel very beautiful right now!” Darlene-Mae Abernathy complained, seeming on the verge of breaking into tears once more. “In fact, I feel so miserable I could just disgrace myself by starting to cry in public!”
“Surely not?” the playwright asked, and then continued, although his intentions were far less honorable than merely a desire to render assistance. “Is there anything I might be able to do for you?”
“Well actually—er—that is why I sp—spoke to you,” the blonde admitted, wringing her hands and showing suggestions of distress mingled with embarrassment. “B—But it is no use. I just can’t bring myself to talk out here in public!”
“Then we could go into the dining-room,” Icke suggested, hoping for a refusal on the same grounds.
“Tha—That would be almost as public as out here!” Darlene-Mae pointed out.
“Then where would you feel comfortable for us to go and talk?” Icke inquired, believing the answer he was hoping for would prove more suitable for his intentions if it came from the woman he was addressing.
“Well—!” the blonde said, hanging her head with an appearance of becoming modesty. “Unless you think it too forward of me, I that is, although my maid isn’t there to act as chaperone, perhaps you might be willing to come and talk in my room?”
“Your room!”
“I know it does sound forward of me and I wouldn’t think of making such an improper suggestion except except—!”
“Except?” Icke prompted.
“Except—!” Darlene-Mae commenced hesitantly, then she finished in a rush. “I need your help so badly!”
“Then, my dear, I’m completely at your disposal!” the playwright stated, trying to look as if he was motivated by only the most honorable of intentions. “Shall we go to your room and you can tell me how I can be of service?”
Wondering what could be troubling the hitherto calm and poised Southern belle so deeply, but certain it was something far more serious than a ploy to make his acquaintance, Icke escorted her upstairs. Trying to decide how he could make the most of the opportunity with which he felt sure he was being presented, he forced himself to wait with what patience he could muster until she had led him into her second floor front room. Even then, he concluded it would be advisable to allow her to make the first move.
“I—I—!” the blonde began, having seated her guest at the writing table. “I hardly know where to begin, nor how!”
“Start at the beginning,” the playwright suggested.
“I—It’s my half-brother, Dennis—!” Darlene-Mae started to oblige.
“Dennis?” Icke inquired, despite feeling sure he could supply the answer himself.
“Dennis Hobert. You’ve seen him at the National Trust Bank, I believe. And you may have seen him in the hotel here with me.”
“I remember him. He’s a teller at the bank, isn’t he?”
“Y—Yes. But he’s also in such trouble—!”
“What kind of trouble?” Icke inquired, with an interest which was suddenly genuine.
Having a secret and vastly more lucrative business than that of author, playwright and radical political speaker, the dapperly dressed man had on more than one occasion found banks tellers in trouble to be if nothing more a useful source of information.
“S—Serious tr—trouble,” the blonde replied, if far from succinctly. “H—He … W—Well, since coming west, he’s fallen in with such bad company and—and—!”
“And?”
“Well, he’s been g—gam—gambling.”
“Gambling!”
“Heavily.”
“And losing heavily, too!” Icke guessed, deciding he was hearing an all too familiar story and wondering how he was supposed to help in it unless he was to be subjected to a request for a ‘loan’ to repay the losses.
“And losing far more than he could afford,” the beautiful blonde confirmed, twisting a tiny handkerchief between her hands and showing distress over having to make such a confession.
“And now he’s in debt?”
“N—Not in the way you think!”
“Then in what way is he in debt?”
“The m—men he owed the money to are dangerous brutes. Poor Dennis had to pay them what was owing or or or they—!”
“They’d have hurt him,” Icke supplied, still uncertain whether the blonde was genuine or merely trying to persuade him to part with money by playing upon his sympathy. If the latter was the case, anybody who knew him could have warned her the effort was wasted. While he advocated sharing the wealth of others with those less fortunate than themselves, like most of his kind, his charity began and remained strictly at home. “So, as he didn’t show signs of being hurt when I last saw him, I presume he must have paid what he owed to them?”
“He did!”
“May I ask how he paid?”
“B—By borrowing m—money!”
“Borrowing money?”
“F—From the bank!”
“Borrowing money from the bank?” Icke challenged, having found repetition a useful way of winning confidences from hesitant or reluctant sources such as the blonde.
“Th—That’s how he g—came by it,” Darlene-Mae claimed, but far too defensively to make the affair sound as innocent as she wanted it to.
“Let me get this straight,” Icke requested and, although feeling sure such was not the case, he went on, “You mean he went to Mr. Cockburn, the owner of the bank, and asked for a loan?”
“If only he had!” the blonde wailed, shuffling her feet in embarrassment. “H—He took it without anybody else’s knowledge, confident he could repay it long before it was missed—!”
“And now he can’t?” Icke stated, instead of asked, having heard variations of the story in the past and having no doubt that he could turn it to his advantage as was the case on those previous occasions.
“N—Not nearly as quickly as has become necessary!”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t follow you!”
“Our family would willingly have made good the loss, even though the sum is almost twenty thousand dollars, to save our good name. But—!”
“But?”
“Unfortunately,” Darlene-Mae explained, with the air of having come to the crux of the matter. “The Federal bank examiners are arriving tomorrow and—!”
“Hell’s fires!” Icke ejaculated, coming to his feet hurriedly.
“Is something wrong?” Darlene-Mae inquired, showing alarm at the change which had come over her visitor.
“Wrong!” Icke snarled, the words erupting from his mouth as he glared savagely at the beautiful yet clearly perturbed young woman. Then, when he saw the consternation his behavior seemed to be arousing, he made a visible effort to regain control over his churned up emotions. After a moment, except for his eyes, he contrived to remove the glowering from his features. Taking a gold watch from the pocket of his vest, he flicked open its cover and checked the time. With a sensation of relief, he concluded that he could reach the National Trust Bank before it was closed for the day. He also considered there might be a way through which he could capitalize upon the situation where Darlene-Mae was concerned. Forcing his voice to take on a less aggressive timbre, he went on soothingly, “No, my dear. There’s nothing wrong. I—I felt a cramp in my leg and stood up.”
“Is it all right?” the blonde asked, her manner suggesting solicitude.
“Yes, it’s going off now,” Icke replied, having started to rub at his left leg to lend confirmation to his excuse. “You know, my dear, I’ve been thinking. There’s a way I might be able to help your half-brother.”
“How, sir?” Darlene-Mae a
sked, taking on an appearance of aroused hope mingled with possible gratitude.
“I’m not without influence in Mulrooney, you know,” Icke commenced, then realized there was something which might tend to detract from the declaration and lessen the effect he was seeking to create. “Of course, as you undoubtedly know, I’m staying here at the hotel under an assumed name. I have to do it, you understand, to avoid unwanted attentions being directed my way.”
“Why I can just imagine that a gentleman of your great talent would have to do nothing else,” the blonde asserted. “In fact, though I recognized you-all straight away and wanted to do so from the start, that is why I didn’t make myself known to you before this afternoon.”
“And I’d have been delighted to make an exception in your case, if you had made yourself known earlier,” Icke stated, barely restraining an impulse to reach for the blonde’s hand as he realized that to do so prematurely could spoil his ambitions where she was concerned. Replacing his watch and adjusting the hang of its chain across his vest, he continued, “Anyway, I think the best thing I can do is go to the bank and intercede on behalf of your half-brother.”
“Intercede?”
“Banker Cockburn and I are old friends and I’m sure he will listen to what I have to say, then act upon it.”
“Well, heavens to Betsy, would you just credit that?” Darlene-Mae gasped. Then she adopted an attitude which would have won over a man with far more honorable designs upon her than those of her visitor. “But why would you do that for Dennis?”
“While it will help him, it’s really you I’m doing it for,” Icke corrected, wanting to avoid leaving any doubt over the direction in which his efforts were intended. “Of course, I would try to help any young man in difficulty. But I count it a special honor and privilege to be of service to you.”
“My, and they say Yankees aren’t gallant!” the blonde purred. “You won’t find me ungrateful for anything you can do, sir.”
“Then why don’t you call me ‘David’?”
