by J. T. Edson
In spite of the badge of office he was wearing, even though his black cutaway jacket was hanging with his low crowned, wide brimmed white ‘planter’s’ hat on the rack alongside the main entrance, everything about the speaker indicated he was a successful professional gambler.
About six foot in height, with a reasonably good build suggesting hard flesh rather than the effects of dissipation, Frank ‘Derry’ Derringer had dark hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. However, because of the manner in which he normally earned his living, his pleasant face—schooled to show only such emotions as he considered warranted by any given situation—lacked the tan of the man he was addressing. He wore a white silk shirt, with a black string bow-tie, an unfastened vest which was multi- hued at the front and had a glossy dark green back, slim legged gray trousers having a black stripe down the seams of the legs and black Hersome gaiter boots. Designed for a fast withdrawal of the ivory handled Colt 1860 Army Model revolver in the holster tied to his right thigh, his gunbelt was black and well cared for.
‘Like I sent word back, I’ll “give the matter my full attention”—soon’s I can find the time,’ Captain Dustine Edward Marsden ‘Dusty’ Fog drawled, from where he was seated at the desk in the center of the well equipped otfice. 60 He was quoting from the reply he had dispatched in response to the message to which the gambler had referred. ‘But, until that hombre settles down more peaceable, no matter how the good senator feels we’re not respecting his “rights”, or Mr. Bruce Millan comes to that, he’s stopping just as he is.’
‘You should’ve said he isn’t chained to the wall,’ Derringer pointed out. It was he who had learned from the telegraph operator that Millan had sent a false report to Foulkes regarding the incarceration of the man they were discussing. ‘And, no matter how that soft-shell son-of-a- bitch told it, he never has been.’
‘You don’t reckon the good senator would want to believe that, now do you?’ Dusty challenged dryly. ‘His kind always want to think the worst about anybody who wears a badge and to persuade everybody else to do the same.’
‘Huh huh!’ Derringer grunted, although he agreed with what his superior had said about Foulkes.
‘God damn it, Frank!’ the small Texan barked, the accusation from the ‘liberal’ politician having annoyed him far more than he cared to let anybody other than a trusted friend see. ‘I don’t like having to keep him hawg-tied like that. It goes against everything my pappy taught me.’
‘You’re treating him the only way it can be done,’ the gambler claimed. He knew that Dusty’s father, Sheriff Hondo Fog of Rio Hondo County, was respected as a competent peace officer with a reputation for fair play and never mishandling or physically abusing prisoners without good cause. ‘He may be uncomfortable and not able to get around any too easy, but I figure he’d be like’ to hurt himself far worse, way he throws himself at the bars, was he free.’
Even though he had not been subjected to the treatment falsely ascribed by Millan, there had been no change in the hostile behavior of the enormous bearded Metis. Still unable to communicate with any coherence, as a result of the damage his mouth had sustained, he had continued the attempted aggression which had caused him to have his wrists and ankles manacled. To further restrict his violent actions, there was a chain with a heavy iron ball attached to the links connecting the leg-irons. Despite this, without waiting for them to enter, he had repeatedly attempted to attack everybody who went near the cell.
‘Anyway,’ Derringer continued, deciding a change of subject would not come amiss. ‘What do you reckon the Judge’ll tell that mealy-mouthed law-wrangler who’s been sent to represent the big jasper when he asks for a bail bond to be set?’
‘What do you think he’ll say?’ the small Texan countered.
‘Was I a betting man, which everybody knows I’m not,’ the gambler replied, ‘I’d be willing to give odds’s how the answer’s going to be a real big and definite, “Not on your cotton-picking, chicken-plucking life!”’
‘No takers,’ Dusty refused with a smile, feeling confident the local judge would not even consider granting a bail bond where such a serious crime was involved. ‘And, speaking of takers, I’ve never seen Mark, Lon or Waco so all fired eager to take on the train watch.’
‘Could be my good influence has caused them to see the light, brother,’ Derringer suggested, in the manner of a circuit riding preacher of the worst kind extolling nonexistent virtues. ‘Or, more like’, knowing them, they’d heard a few mighty pretty lil gals were coming in.’
‘Was I a betting man, which I’ve got better sense than be,’ the small Texan said dryly, suspecting the gambler was aware of the real reason and, as he had not been informed himself when the trio had announced their intention of going to the passenger depot, knowing better than to ask what it might be. In accordance with the procedure he had established, at least one of the deputies attended the arrival of every train to dissuade undesirable travelers from alighting. Nevertheless, knowing them all very well, he had felt there was something more than this involved. ‘I’d be willing to lay odds’s high as Lon says every Pahuraix Comanch’ bets, that it’s a whole heap more like’ to be the last than the first.’ 61
‘Tell you what, though,’ Derringer said, sitting at the desk and becoming more serious; although only somebody who knew him as well as did the small Texan would have noticed the change in his tone and demeanor. ‘I reckon I know why the big jasper’s been taking on the way he has.’
‘Why?’ Dusty inquired, having considerable faith in the judgment developed by the gambler as an aid to the assessment of an opponent’s character which was part of his stock in trade.
‘He’s never been locked up like he is now any place afore and it’s—well—unlikely as it seems, the way he looks, it’s scaring the hell out of him.’
‘He doesn’t look so all fired scared to me.’
‘That’s what it is, though,’ Derringer claimed with conviction. ‘Mark busting his mouth that way, he can’t talk any too clear—!’
‘He sounds more like a grizzly roaring than a feller talking,’ Dusty estimated. ‘And, going by what Mark said, it was the same even before he had his mouth busted.’
‘I’m not gainsaying it. Only I’ve been listening pretty careful’ and, from late yesterday, started to catch some of what he was saying.’
‘I thought he was cussing us out.’
‘So did I, first off. Then I got to listening more careful. He was yelling in French, which didn’t make it any easier to follow, being some different from the patois I picked up around New Orleans. But I’ve come ’round to figuring he’s been bellowing all along for us to let him out.’
‘I’ve heard tell there’re some folks who can’t abide being shut in, no matter what the cause,’ Dusty admitted. ‘And, from what I’ve heard about the Metis, could be he’s been raised so wild, woolly and full of fleas way out in the piney woods back home, he’s likely never been locked in any place before he woke up in our pokey.’
‘Man like that wouldn’t take kind’ to it,’ Derringer pointed out. ‘Fact being, I reckon he’d be willing to do plenty of talking, was he told it’d help him get out.’
‘You reckon so, huh?’
‘I do.’
‘Do you want to put it to him, or shall I?’
‘It might come better from me,’ Derringer assessed. ‘I’ve been going easy on him—!’
‘None of us have been over hard, considering the way he’s been taking on,’ Dusty put in, ‘Hell, had Mark been one of the Earps, it’d’ve been lead that stopped him and—!’ Realizing he had spoken too quickly and with excessive heat, he sought to make amends. ‘Sorry, Derry, it’s just tha—!’
‘Hell,’ the gambler answered, waving a hand in dismissal of the apology. ‘What’re underlings for if it’s not so’s the boss man has somebody to bawl out when he’s so minded?’
‘I allus knew you bunch of underlings were good for something,’ the small Texan declared, grin
ning in a somewhat self conscious fashion and knowing his deputy understood why he had reacted in such a fashion. ‘But, dog-my-cats, this’s the first time I ever found out just what it was.’
‘We learn something new every day,’ Derringer declared, pleased he had lessened the tension.
‘I almost hope you can’t persuade him to talk, though,’ Dusiy remarked, once again looking his usual composed self.
‘How come?’ the gambler inquired, being genuinely surprised even though it did not show.
‘It’ll start Mark to crowing’s how he brings in prisoners who can still tell us things,’ the small Texan explained, the I man he had felled with the yawara stick at Hampton’s Livery Stable having died without regaining consciousness. ‘Anyways, amigo, you go talk to him and see if he’s ready to tell us anything worthwhile in return for being let loose.’
‘You’ll be willing to let him go?’ Derringer asked.
‘Can you think of any reason why I shouldn’t?’
‘He might not’ve thrown the bomb, but he came at the boys like he was meaning to do something.’
‘Why sure. But a smart-assed dude law-wrangler could make out he figured his amigos was being attacked and aimed to protect them.’
‘Talking of smart-assed dude law-wranglers,’ Derringer said quietly. ‘That jasper’s was here earlier is headed back right now.’
‘Maybe he’s come to tell us’s how the Judge’s said there doesn’t need to be no bail bond fixed,’ Dusty suggested sardonically. ‘So his client’s free as a jay-bird to take flight.’
‘We’ll soon know, anyways,’ the gambler estimated, watching the front door starting to open.
‘I can hardly wait,’ the small Texan declared.
The man who entered the office was tall and scrawny. Despite being the junior partner of a lawyer known for less than scrupulous tactics and having no moral sense when it came to helping such clients as could meet the high prices charged for legal assistance to evade the consequences of their misdeeds, his dress and demeanor seemed more suitable for a poorly paid assistant of a not too prosperous undertaker. His somber black attire looked in need of cleaning and his face was so sallow, he might have been raised in a deep and dank cellar far away from light and air. Nevertheless, while he was clearly trying to comport himself like one who considered he was dealing with unimportant nobodies, his expression struck Dusty and Derringer as being strained.
‘Well howdy, Counselor Spit,’ the gambler greeted, strongly emphasizing the error he had made when saying the surname. If the scowl he received was any guide, he suspected the visitor knew it was made deliberately. Nevertheless, he continued in a similar tone of mock pleasure, ‘This is an honor.’
‘It surely is,’ the small Texan confirmed, with an equally spurious sincerity. ‘How much did the Judge set that jasper in the back’s bail bond at?’
‘I’d like to see my client, marshal,’ Counselor James S. Pitt demanded, rather than asked, instead of supplying the information. Having no desire to admit that his attempt to arrange the bail bond was unsuccessful, even though he felt sure the small Texan and the gambler knew it would be, he had adopted a manner he had found effective when dealing with older peace officers other than the pair before him. ‘I trust you have no objections?’
‘None at all, Counselor,’ Dusty authorized, sounding so unctuous he might have considered he was being granted a favor by having the request made. ‘My deputy will show you through.’
‘That won’t be nec—!’ Pitt began, his thin and pallid face working angrily as if wishing to register his disapproval of such blatantly false treatment.
The words were cut off abruptly!
Although there was no sound to account for it, a thudding crash—such as might be made by something heavy being precipitated violently to the floor—came from the cell block!
‘Cap’n Dusty!’ bellowed a voice from the same general direction. ‘Derry!’
Even before the second name was uttered, the small Texan and the gambler were on their feet and running towards the door giving access to the rear of the building!
However, despite the interest he had expressed in seeing his client, Pitt did not follow them!
‘Hot damn!’ Dusty ejaculated as he crossed the threshold, staring at the body of the enormous bearded Metis sprawling on the floor of the cell. Why this should be was established by the blood mingling with the grayish ooze of dislodged brains flowing from where the top of his head had been burst open. ‘What happened, Pickles?’
‘Somebody gunned him from up on the roof across the street!’ barked the tall and lanky man who had been hired by the small Texan to act as jailer. Holding the shotgun which he kept readily available to quell violent disturbances, or prevent attempts at escaping, he had entered an empty cell and stepped on its wooden framed bed so he was able to see out of the barred, but unglazed, window. ‘That’s where it must’ve come from, but I don’t see nobody!’
‘I’ll take a look outside, Dusty!’ Derringer barked, drawing his Colt with the speed of long practice.
‘Get yourself a rifle and my carbine first!’ the small Texan commanded, realizing that such a weapon would have been necessary to make the hit upon the Metis from where Pickle-Barrel had claimed the shot was fired and wanting to ensure they would not be at a disadvantage in the matter of arms when they went to investigate.
‘What’s happened?’ Pitt gasped, as the gambler returned to the office.
‘Looks like you’re a mite too late to see your client, Counselor,’ Derringer answered coldly, wondering why the lawyer had not come into the cell block. ‘And he won’t be able to go out on a bail bond, even happen the Judge’d been fool enough to let you take one out for him.’
Having left his Winchester Model of 1866 rifle leaning against a stack of boxes which were to be put in the caboose of the east-bound train, the Ysabel Kid wasted no time in leaping to collect it. Scooping it up, he drew back the exposed hammer from the half cocked position which was the only means of attaining a state of safety supplied in the mechanism. While doing so, he swung around ready to take whatever action might prove necessary. Failing to locate whoever had shot the two Englishmen, he sprang from the wooden boarding platform and started to run across the railroad tracks towards where he estimated the assailants had been.
Reacting as swiftly as their companion, Mark Counter and Waco each brought his right side Army Colt from its holster!
However, the blond giant did not go with the youngster as he set out to accompany the kid!
Instead, Mark strode swiftly along the platform to ascertain the extent of the injuries suffered by Sir Michael Dinglepied and Shaun Ushermale. Only one glance was needed to inform him there was nothing anybody except an undertaker could do for the baronet. Nor, despite the twitching movements he saw as he went towards the younger Englishman, did he believe the wound was any less fatal even though death had not yet quite come. In fact, even as he arrived and started to kneel down to make a closer examination, Ushermale’s body gave a violent convulsion and flopped limply to lie still.
Racing side by side towards the alley between two buildings from where they suspected the attackers had fired, the Kid and Waco were alert for the slightest hint of danger. Without having discussed the matter, each assumed they had been the intended targets. However, despite the suggestion provided by the results that the still unseen assailants were less than skilful shots, they were ready to take whatever kind of evasive action might prove necessary should a second attempt be made on their lives.
The threat did not materialize!
Fanning out so that each arrived behind the shelter of a different building, the Texans waited for a moment. Then, working in smooth conjunction on a nod from the Kid, they thrust themselves around the respective corners and into the alley. Their weapons were held ready for instant use. The precaution proved unnecessary, although neither regretted having taken it. Not only was the open space deserted, but the sound of leather creaki
ng and horses’ hooves departing rapidly from beyond their range of vision at the other end explained why this should be.
Sprinting between the buildings, the Kid and Waco did not take the same precautions on reaching the other end. Instead, they kept going until able to see along the street they had reached. There were several people on the sidewalks, all staring and some shouting to inform them that the two riders who were galloping away had done the shooting. However, while grateful for it, neither deputy needed to be given the information. The sight of the Winchester rifles carried by the pair, and their obvious haste was sufficient evidence to suggest this was the case.
However, what the Kid and Waco found disconcerting and puzzling was the attire of the fleeing pair!
Like the garb worn by the deputies, the style of each rider’s clothing was that of a cowhand from Texas.
Wasting no time wondering which of the enemies made by the floating outfit—either prior to reaching Mulrooney, or during their time in office as its lawmen—had tried to take revenge, the Kid whipped his Winchester upwards. Cradling the butt against his right shoulder, he squinted along its barrel. The situation was too urgent for him to seek additional assistance by elevating the ‘Sporting Leaf rear sight which bore graduations for aiming at ranges from one hundred to nine hundred yards. Nor, as the distance separating him from his quarry had not quite reached the lowest graduation, did he consider such an aid was necessary. Instead, he made use of the U-shaped notch of the ‘fixed’ sight fitted at right angles to the ‘leaf’ so as to meet the needs of similar situations.
Although he began to raise his Army Colt in a double handed grip, Waco quickly appreciated there was no advantage to be gained by his trying to use it. Good shot though he knew himself to be, he was equally cognizant with his limitations. The men were already beyond any distance at which he could cope to be certain of making a hit. What was more, he would not have any control over exactly how far the bullet went. It would fly onwards and might hit somebody beyond the pair who was still within the range at which its arrival could prove lethal. Bearing the possibility in mind, he lowered his weapon and watched how his companion fared.
