by J. T. Edson
J.T. Edson
Texas Killers
For Ann and Kate, from myself and my koi
carp, “Sydeny,” who says they can jump into
his fishpond again any time
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
He’ll Kill You If You Do
Chapter 2
He’ll Come Looking for You-All
Chapter 3
I Thought He Meant to Kill You
Chapter 4
We Don’t Need “Clint” to Kill Rudolph
Chapter 5
You Could’ve Got Me Killed
Chapter 6
We Will Pay You More
Chapter 7
Only He and the Corpse were Present
Chapter 8
That Knife Wasn’t Aimed at Me
Chapter 9
He Might Not Be Dead
Chapter 10
Doesn’t He Ever Shoot Anybody
Chapter 11
I Know Who You’re Not
Chapter 12
Or Should I Say “Dusty Fog”?
Chapter 13
Hunting Can Be Dangerous
Chapter 14
You’re Still Alive
Chapter 15
If I’m Wrong, I’ll Get Hell
Chapter 16
You Hired Beguinage
Appendix 1
Appendix 2
Appendix 3
Appendix 4
About the Author
Other Books by J.T. Edson
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s note: As the records given to me by Alvin Dustine “Cap” Fog referring to this portion of his grandfather’s career were too extensive to be covered in a single volume, while complete in itself, this book follows on from the events recorded in Beguinage.
Once again, for the benefit of new readers and to save my old hands from repetition, I have given the relevant details of the floating outfit’s backgrounds and special qualifications in the form of appendices.
J. T. Edson,
Active Member,
Western Writers of America,
Melton Mowbray,
Leics., England.
Chapter 1
HE’LL KILL YOU IF YOU DO
“In the name and authority of
THE STATE OF TEXAS To all to whom these presents shall come
GREETING:
CAPTAIN DUSTINE EDWARD MARSDEN FOG
Texas Light Cavalry, C.S.A., Rtd.,
is hereby commissioned by us to act as bodyguard and protector for our distinguished foreign visitor:
CROWN PRINCE RUDOLPH OF BOSGRAVNIA
As it is known that conspirators are plotting against the life of our distinguished visitor and it is essential that his safety be assured at all costs, Captain Fog is therefore authorized to pose as an outlaw and, without prejudice to his honor and good name, to consort with known or suspected criminals in the execution of this commission.
By virtue of the authority granted through my office, I, Stanton Howard, do hereby command all law enforcement agencies within the boundaries of the Sovereign State of Texas to afford any and every assistance Captain Fog may request in the commission of this assignment.
In testimony thereof, I have hereunto signed my name and caused to be affixed the Seal of State at the city of Brownsville, Cameron County, Texas, this 16th day of June, A.D. 18751
STANTON HOWARD,
Governor.”
Having read through the pronouncement, mouthing some of the longer words half audibly, Town Marshal Benjamin Digbry shoved back his round-topped brown hat to scratch his head and looked in a puzzled fashion at the man who had handed the notice to him. It was a most impressively worded and official seeming document. However, in spite of its solemn content, it had been folded to just wider than the two inches’ diameter of the imposing cogged-edged, embossed gold leaf Seal of State attached (when it was fully open) to the bottom right-hand corner.
Although Digbry was the head of the municipal law enforcement agency of what was fast becoming the major seaport of Texas, Corpus Christie, he was neither too intelligent nor efficient in the performance of his duties. Rather he held his appointment by virtue of his skill in a roughhouse brawl, and because his ability at handling a gun was more than the local average. Such qualities were proving no use whatsoever in the present circumstances. Taking his hand from his head, its scratching having done nothing to help him find a solution to his dilemma, he wiped his fingers on the trouser leg of his brown suit. Having done so, he tugged at the unaccustomed collar and necktie with no more beneficial results.
Middle-aged, tall, burly, heavily mustached and surly featured, the peace officer looked as ill at ease as he was feeling. Just as he was about to leave for an important social function, he had received a summons in the name of a person whom it would have been most impolitic of him to ignore. Arriving at the Edgehurst Warehouse as required, he had found that somebody entirely different was waiting for him. For all that, he had considered it advisable to refrain from raising objections to the subterfuge. He had also ensured that neither of his hands went anywhere near the short barrelled Colt Model of 1871 “Cloverleaf” House Pistol, a revolver in spite of its name, in the cross-draw holster under the left side of his jacket.
Receiving no enlightenment from the only other living occupant of the large building, Digbry turned his gaze to the body which was sprawling face upward and with arms out-thrown on the floor. When he had first seen it, he had assumed that he had been called to attend to the legal side of a straightforward, if unpleasant, matter which would bring a financial renumeration for his services. However, the document he had just finished reading suggested that the affair might be much more complicated and far reaching than he cared to contemplate. In fact, it might even prove a threat to his future career as town marshal.
Clad in what appeared to be the usual brown habit, bare legs and sandals of a Mexican Catholic mission padre, the corpse’s features—distorted by agony and a hatred that seemed out of keeping with such attire—were suggestive of some more northern European origin. Not far from the right hand lay a wicked looking fighting knife and what was clearly its sheath was strapped to the exposed left wrist. The weapon’s spear point2 was coated with something blackish that might be dried blood and could account for the fact that, despite his priestly raiment, it was necessary for two bullets to have been planted in the center of his chest.
Failing to form any helpful deductions from the body, Digbry returned his scrutiny briefly to the first communication he had ever seen from the Governor of Texas. There was no evidence of greater comprehension as he lifted his gaze to the person responsible for his perturbation. Having looked the man over from head to foot, he stared yet again at the document as if unwilling to credit the evidence of his eyes.
“Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog?” the peace officer read, making the words into a question rather than a title. “B—but that’s—he’s—you—he’s Dusty Fog!”
“They call me ‘Dusty’ as being short for ‘Dustine,’” answered the man to whom the words were addressed, his accent that of a well-educated Texan. “But it’s also because my hair’s a sort of dusty blond color—most of the time, anyway. Right now I’ve got it dyed black.”
“You can—You’re Dusty Fog?” Digbry croaked, changing the format of his statement to something less dangerous than accusing his informant of lying. “B—But Buck Raffles told me your name’s Rapido Clint!”
“Well now, that could have been because I’d told him my name was Rapido Clint,” the man replied, showing no embarrassment over having deliberately deceived another person with a false introduction. “Or do you-all reckon he’d have take
n me all around this town of yours so friendly, telling everybody I was a hired gun looking for work, if he’d known the truth about me?”
“No, I reckon not,” Digbry admitted and, with a chilling suddenness, began to appreciate the implications behind the other’s identity as far as he personally was concerned. “Th—Then you are Dusty Fog?”
“Comes down to a right fine point, my momma prefers ‘Dustine,’” drawled the cause of the peace officer’s apprehension, without displaying annoyance or any other observable emotion over his identity being put to question. “But ‘Dusty’ does for my friends. You-all can call me ‘Captain Fog,’ but we’ll dispense with the ‘Texas Light Cavalry, Confederate States Army, Retired.’”3
Although the marshal did not realize it, there was no cause for his concern over one aspect of the affair. Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog was never either surprised or particularly disturbed whenever he discovered that somebody was unable to reconcile his physical appearance with the reputation he had accrued by virtue of his capabilities in various fields of endeavor. Being a completely honest young man, he was the first to admit that he looked nothing like the image many people formed when hearing of his exploits as cavalry officer, cowhand, trail boss, or lawman.
For all his reputation, Dusty Fog was no more than five foot six inches from his tan colored, sharp-toed, high-heeled boots to his low-crowned, broad-brimmed Texas-style black J.B. Stetson hat. He had a tanned, good-looking—if not eye-catching—face which would have impressed a more discerning person than Digbry with the strength and intelligence in its lines. There was a width to his shoulders, tapering down to a lean waist and sturdy legs, that was suggestive of exceptional muscular development. However, his clothing tended to conceal rather than display his physique. Although they were of good quality, the tightly rolled scarlet silk bandana, black leather vest, open necked dark blue shirt and the Levi’s pants which hung outside the Hessian legs4 of the boots seemed to have been handed down to him by someone better favored. Nor, except that the marshal knew how potent he could be with them, did the brace of bone-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemakers5 in the cross-draw holsters of an excellently designed brown gunbelt add anything to his stature or make him more noticeable.
Listening to the small Texan’s confirmation of identity, Digbry decided that the document was genuine, and then he remembered the influential people to whom the other was related. So he was disturbed by thoughts of how some of his far from legal activities had been at least suggested to “Rapido Clint” during their brief acquaintance.
“S—Sure, Cap’n Fog!” the marshal said hurriedly, noticing he had not been offered the privilege of employing the name “Dusty.” Running the tip of his tongue over suddenly dry lips, he forced an ingratiating grin to them. “I hope’s you didn’t get no wrong ideas seeing me acting so friendly with somebody the likes of Buck Raffles?”
“I didn’t,” Dusty admitted truthfully, although his meaning would have wiped away the relief Digbry was starting to feel if he had elaborated upon it. He had every honest person’s aversion to corrupt peace officers. Nor was his dislike reduced by the realization that he could take no positive action against the marshal in the prevailing circumstances. “Just so long as you-all won’t have any where I’m concerned.”
“I won’t, Cap’n Fog, I surely won’t!” Digbry promised vehemently, waving the document to emphasize his concurrence. “Shucks, even without what the Governor says here, ain’t nobody’s would take you for a—”
“Bueno,” Dusty interrupted and continued in a coldly threatening fashion, “Because I don’t need to tell a man with your experience just how unhealthy it could be to do otherwise.”
“Huh?” Digbry grunted, looking both startled and uncomprehending.
“Take a look at it from Buck Raffles’ point of view,” Dusty elaborated, not in the least surprised by the marshal’s failure to understand his meaning, in spite of how he had worded his previous comment. “He’s Ram Turtle’s segundo and boss gun. Which it’d give some folks one hell of a laugh should they find out that he hadn’t been able to tell the difference between Dusty Fog and a pistolero valiente6 called ‘Rapido Clint’ just because the names are different and I’ve had my hair dyed black.”
“Wouldn’t they though,” Digbry grinned, thinking of the thinly veiled contempt with which the boss gun had always treated him and pleased by the prospect.
“Only, was I you-all, I wouldn’t be the one to spread the word around,” Dusty warned, judging from the other’s enthusiasm that the context of his comment had been misunderstood. “He’ll kill you if you do.”
“K–Kill—?” Digbry gurgled, losing his satisfied leer.
“Getting a feller like him all riled up by setting folks to laughing at him’s like stroking the head of a stick-teased diamond-back rattler, a man could get killed doing it,” Dusty explained. Then, wishing to have more important matters dealt with, he went on, “Anyways, you’ll likely want to know what this is all about.”
“Huh?” Digbry said, too absorbed in considering what he had just been told to devote any thought to why he had been summoned to the warehouse.
“It’s just a couple of little things, might not even strike some folk as being important,” Dusty continued sardonically, plucking the Governor’s document from the peace officer’s unresisting fingers. “Such as why I had to shoot that hombre who’s dressed like a mission padre—and how come there’s another dead man on the floor above.”
“Oh yeah, that,” Digbry answered, still too concerned over the consequences of incurring Buck Raffles’ wrath to think about his official duties. Then an understanding of what he had just heard began to sink in and, stiffening as if he had been stung by a bee, he squawked, “Dead man! What other dead man is that?”
“The one upstairs,” Dusty replied, refolding the document. Instead of returning it to the concealed compartment at the back of his gunbelt, he tucked it into his vest’s inside pocket. “His throat’s been cut.”
“Who is it?” the marshal asked nervously, wishing that he dared to say the words, “Did you kill him too?”
“A hired killer called ‘Sharpshooter’7 Oscar Schindler,” Dusty replied. “Got a Sharps ‘Buffalo’ rifle and a clear shot at where the Crown Prince would have landed if the arrangements hadn’t already been changed.”
“Wha—Wha—Wha—?” Digbry gobbled incoherently, trying to assimilate the latest surprising piece of news on top of all the other puzzling and alarming information he had received. Ignoring what should have been the most important topic to a town marshal, all he could think to say was, “Do you mean that there prince hombre’s not coming here?”
“Not the way he was supposed to,” Dusty admitted. “I haven’t touched anything. So, while you’re searching this hombre, I’ll tell you what’s going on.”
Moving as if in a daze, Digbry bent over the corpse and set about a task he had performed many times in the past. His puzzled expression did not show any sign of clearing as he listened to the description of the events leading up to the incident he had been called in to investigate.
Not only had Governor Howard been informed that there were two groups planning to assassinate Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia during a hunting expedition which he was going to take in Texas, the message from Congress had warned there could be serious international repercussions if this was allowed to happen on United States’ soil.8 It had been stated that the distinguished visitor must be afforded every protection and no harm must befall him.
Although the Governor could have called upon the United States’ Army, the Secret Service, or his own Texas Rangers, he had asked General Jackson Baines “Ole Devil” Hardin, C.S.A., Rtd., to supply the bodyguard. Howard had already seen how competently the OD Connected ranch’s floating outfit9 could deal with a delicate and precarious situation.10 So he had had complete confidence in their ability to cope and felt they would be even more effective than any of the official agencies at his dis
posal. For one thing, they were not bound by regulations and would be answerable only to their employer for any means they employed to carry out the assignment.
Shortly after his arrival in Brownsville, Dusty had been told what was wanted of himself and his companions. Almost immediately Dusty had found himself the object—but not the selected victim—of an attempt to have him killed. On investigating, he had discovered that the most notorious professional assassin of Europe was in the city. Known only as “Beguinage,” the killer had warned off or murdered various other people who had similar intentions toward taking the life of the Crown Prince. Before he could be located or identified, Beguinage had left for Corpus Christie to await the coming of his proposed victim.
One of the people who had been warned by Beguinage was Rameses Turtle, whose family had been prominent in Texas’ criminal circles even before independence was won from Mexico in 1836.11 Dusty had been able to obtain his cooperation. Travelling to Corpus Christie in the guise of a hired killer and calling himself “Rapido Clint,”12 with the assistance of Buck Raffles, he had set himself up to draw Beguinage into the open. The condition of the corpse on the floor was testimony to how successful the ploy had been.
If Digbry had been of a discerning nature, he might have noticed an inconsistency between what he had been told earlier, and the details he had just been given regarding the participation of Turtle and Raffles. It should have been obvious that the boss gun was aware from the start of “Rapido Clint’s” true identity instead of having been taken in by a deception.
Being so lacking in perception, the marshal was equally unaware that he was witnessing an example of Dusty Fog’s personal integrity. The small Texan was keeping his word even though he knew the men to whom it had been given were ruthless criminals and unlikely to have similar scruples.
