Texas Killers

by J. T. Edson

  Although taken just as unawares as the rest of the party by the young cowhand’s appearance and actions, Mark Counter reacted with commendable rapidity. Shooting forward his hands, he caught the Crown Prince under the armpits. It was testimony to his enormous strength that he had no difficulty in averting what could otherwise have been a serious fall.

  What was more, drawing an accurate conclusion from the sounds which arose behind him, the blond giant did not merely lower his burden to the ground. Instead, apparently without any more effort than if he was holding a newly born baby rather than a grown man, he swung around so that Liebenfrau and von Goeringwald could see their ruler was unharmed. In passing, he noticed how the Lady was standing and was impressed by her composure. There was neither fear nor panic in her face, only an expression of grim determination and her posture suggested that she might be about to draw a weapon of some kind from the jacket pocket.

  “It’s all right, Colonel!” Mark stated, setting Rudolph down on his feet and having more urgent matters demanding his attention than considering the Englishwoman’s behavior. “He’s one of my men!”

  “Hold hard there, you-all!” the black-dressed young man was commanding while the blond giant was speaking, swinging his rifle at waist level so that its muzzle menaced first von Farlenheim and then the three sailors. “I don’t know why the boy cut loose, but it wasn’t to harm your—”

  Paying no attention to the words and ignoring the evidence which suggested they were the truth, the First Taster stopped trying to liberate his revolver. Giving no thought to the fact that the speaker was armed with a weapon which could be fired with great rapidity when in such competent hands, or how it would be unlikely to miss at so short a range, he sprang onward. It was his intention to grapple with the black-dressed man, even if doing so cost him his life. It was a brave, but unwise action and could have cost him dearly.

  Taking a swift pace to meet the advancing Bosgravnian, the Indian-dark newcomer deftly kept the rifle clear of his grabbing hands and thrust forward with it. The barrel caught von Farlenheim in the solar plexus with sufficient force to rob him of his breath and folded him at the waist like a closing jack-knife. Stepping aside while delivering the jab, his assailant let him collapse to his knees and returned the Winchester to its previous alignment before any of the sailors could try to profit from his diversion.

  “Don’t try it!” the black-dressed man warned, his lazy-sounding Texas drawl charged with menace and his face losing all its babyish innocence, as one of the trio made as if to raise his carbine.

  “Hell no, don’t!” yelped the seaman who had identified the blond giant as the U.S.S. Nantucket’s barge was approaching the beach, swinging his left hand to thrust down his companion’s weapon. “That’s the Ysabel Kid and he works for Ole Devil Hardin same’s Mark Counter.”

  Unlike his Texas-born shipmate, the first sailor had never heard of the Ysabel Kid.4 For all that, the warning had not been entirely necessary. He had already began to suspect that his aggression might be ill-advised and likely to put his life in jeopardy. Not only had the Winchester turned in his direction with disconcerting steadiness, there was a coldly savage look about its owner that reminded him of paintings he had seen depicting Indian warriors on the warpath. So, following his companions’ example, he stopped and allowed the Springfield to remain pointing at the ground.

  “Why the shooting, Waco?” Mark inquired, after having turned from the three Bosgravnians and satisfied himself that, like them, the advance party would not be taking any hostile action.

  “That first bunch to come over the tree must’ve disturbed a big old copperhead,” the blond youngster answered, his accent showing that he too was a son of the Lone Star State, bringing down and twirling away the Colts almost as rapidly as he had drawn and fired them. “He was coming out this side and, happen that gent’d jumped down so near, was likely to have riled up enough to chomp him on the leg.”

  “A copperhead?” Liebenfrau growled, coming to a halt and thrusting back his half-drawn saber. “And what might that be, Mr. Counter?”

  “Just about the most dangerous kind of poisonous snake we have down here, Colonel,” the blond giant replied, but refrained from explaining how the species Ancistrodon Mokasen was more feared than any of the rattlesnake family because of its almost silent mode of attack and speed when striking. He pointed in the direction from which they had come, where shouts of alarm were sounding from the beach beyond the trees. “We’d best let them know there’s no cause for alarm.”

  “Go and tell them, Baron,” the Personal Attendant ordered and, as the aide-de-camp returned along the trail, glanced to where the Crown Prince was climbing over the log. Then he brought his attention back to Mark and his voice was somewhat less harsh than usual as he continued, “I think an explanation is necessary.”

  “And me,” the big blond agreed, then looked at the Englishwoman. “Can I help you over, ma’am?”

  “Thank you,” the Lady answered, having removed her empty hand from the pocket. “Provided the snake isn’t still able to—chomp—anybody, I think the term is.”

  “It’s dead, Freddie,” Rudolph declared, turning his gaze from the torn apart body of the large snake to the cause of its death. “I’m in your debt, my capable young friend. If you’d called a warning, or moved less quickly, I would not have been able to stop myself jumping down.”

  “I sort of figured it out that way myself,” the youngster admitted.

  “But leaping out and acting as you did could have put your own life at risk,” the Crown Prince pointed out.

  “I thought some about that as well,” the youngster declared, then looked over his shoulder and his voice took on a note of asperity as he raised it. “Showing these good folks how quiet ’n’ sneaky we can move was one right smart notion, Lon. Why damn it, you could’ve got me killed.”

  “I could’ve, but not with the way my luck’s been running so bad these days,” the black-dressed young man answered, showing no suggestion of remorse over having put a good friend’s life in danger. Swinging his gaze to von Farlenheim, who was glaring up at him furiously and starting to rise, he extended his right hand and continued, “I’m right sorry I had to rough handle you-all that ways, mister. Only I could see’s you wasn’t fixing to believe what I’d told you and there wasn’t going to be time to talk it out peaceable.”

  “Captain von Farlenheim!” Leibenfran barked, as the young Bosgravnian thrust himself erect without assistance.

  “Yes, sir?” the First Taster answered, snapping into a brace and facing the speaker instead of carrying out his intention of striking the Indian-dark Texan.

  “Send your men back to the beach,” the Personal Attendant ordered, following the Crown Prince over the tree with an agility many a younger man would have been hard put to better. Waiting until Mark had helped the Lady across the trunk, he went on, “And now, Mr. Counter—”

  “I think that the explanations can wait until after we’ve been introduced, Colonel,” Rudolph interrupted. “Am I correct in assuming these gentlemen are part of our escort, Mr. Counter?”

  “They’re part of it, but the ‘gentlemen’ part is debatable,” Mark replied and indicated the youngster with what might have been considered a derisory wave of his left hand. “He’s Waco.”

  “Just ‘Waco’?” the Crown Prince inquired, when the introduction was not extended beyond the one name.

  “‘Just’ just about sums him up,” Mark drawled.

  “He gets called plenty of other things, though,” the Indian-dark Texan commented, strolling over followed by a clearly angry von Farlenheim. His admiring gaze flickered to the Englishwoman as he concluded, “Only we don’t use such language afore ladies, deacons or children.”

  “He’ll likely try to tell you his name’s Loncey Dalton Ysabel, ma’am,” the youngster whose only name was Waco5 informed the Lady. “But he’s better known, or worse, as the Ysabel Kid. Don’t let that, or how he looks fool you. He’s older
’n’ more ornery—”

  “You keep your lips together,” the blond giant ordered, but his attitude was that of an older brother addressing a favorite sibling. “Unless you-all want to tell us what kind of fool game you pair’ve been playing at.”

  “It was all Lon’s fault’s usual,” Waco protested, jerking a thumb in a gesture filled with contempt at the Ysabel Kid. “He’s full of right smart notions. Trouble being, he only turns loose the bad ones.”

  Carrying on, the youngster confirmed the theory Mark had already formed over what had happened. Listening from the concealment of the woodland after the Crown Prince and his retinue had landed from the Nantucket’s barge, the two OD Connected cowhands had heard the doubts which were raised about their competence as his bodyguard. So the Kid had suggested that they gave an exhibition of their ability to move silently and undetected close by while the party were walking to the Coast Road. Keeping slightly ahead of Rudolph’s portion of the party, Waco had seen the danger and had acted in the only way he could. Realizing how the youngster’s behavior might be misinterpreted, the Kid had taken measures to prevent harm befalling him before he could explain what he was doing.

  “Which I should’ve known a heap better’n do any fool thing he suggested,” Waco concluded, aiming a glare of well simulated disdain at his Indian-dark amigo. “All doing it proved’s that we’re sneaky and, looking at him, nobody needs to have that proved.”

  “You proved more than that,” Rudolph objected. “I’ve never seen anybody who could draw one revolver so quickly, much less two, then shoot with such accuracy.”

  “Shucks,” Waco replied, flushing a little. “I wasn’t figuring on hitting the snake when I cut loose. All I did was throw lead down there and hope it’d make you jump backward instead of down this side of the tree.”

  “He can’t shoot worth a cuss,” the Kid stated. “And, way he was stomping around, I figured you’d hear him for sure.”

  “I never saw or heard either of you,” the Crown Prince objected. “Did you, Colonel?”

  “No, Your Highness,” Liebenfrau answered and directed a sour scowl at von Farlenheim who was approaching with the three sailors. “Nor did anybody else!”

  “It’s not real likely any of them heard or saw us, Colonel,” the Kid drawled. “I learned that kind of sneaky moving from the Pehnane Comanche, which there don’t come any better. And I’ve taught Waco all he knows.”

  “Only about sneaky moving,” the youngster supplemented, addressing the words to the Lady. “He’s not a whole heap of use for anything—”

  “And that makes two of you,” Mark interrupted, eyeing Waco in a threatening manner, then starting to perform the introductions.

  As had been the case when Rudolph had first spoken to the blond giant, he found the demeanor of the other two Texans equally unexceptionable. Furthermore, he considered that the way in which Waco particularly had coped with the potentially dangerous situation suggested they were well able to act as his protectors. Not only had the youngster reached the correct solution over how to deal with the snake very quickly, he had also realized that he must demonstrate his lack of hostile intentions when he had done so. That he had taken such a risk implied a complete faith in the Ysabel Kid being able to protect him from the advance guard until the position was explained. What was more, in spite of the sardonic comments which passed between them and the blond giant, it was obvious that there were very close bonds of friendship and loyalty among them.

  Nor, the Crown Prince decided, could the two young Texans’ behavior be faulted when they were being introduced to Liebenfrau and von Farlenheim. There was nothing self-conscious or deliberately brash in either’s manner. It was clear that they respected the Colonel and neither showed any resentment or concern over the First Taster’s stiff-backed and obvious disapproval.

  “And this’s Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrove-Woodstole,” Mark concluded, indicating the Englishwoman who had waited in the background until the presentations of the Bosgravnian party were made.

  “Lady Wini—!” Waco began, losing his smile and snapping his eyes around to look briefly at the Kid. Then, swinging an interrogative gaze to Mark, he received a negative shake of the head. Turning his attention back to the Lady, he no longer displayed his earlier admiration and his voice became almost defensive in its neutrally polite timbre as he went on, “I’m pleased to meet you-all, ma’am.”

  “It’s a right honor to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” the Kid continued, but his even tone held no suggestion of friendliness and his Indian-dark features were devoid of any expression. “We don’t often meet a for real lady out this ways.”

  “Well now, seeing’s we all know each other, how about us moving on over to the Coast Road?” Mark inquired, giving no hint as to what could have caused his companions’ response to the introduction. “The quicker we get you gents into cowhand clothes, the earlier we’ll have you-all into Corpus Christie.”

  Although none of the Bosgravnians appeared to have noticed the change in the Texans’ attitudes, the Lady was more perceptive and felt disquieted. She had already sensed that something about her was disturbing the blond giant, but had thought it to be no more than an objection to having had the added responsibility of her presence forced upon him without prior warning. If that was the case, neither of his companions had been sharing his sentiments. It was not until they heard her name that they had changed their way of thinking where she was concerned. In which case, unlikely as the explanation which sprang most readily to mind might seem, she knew that she could find herself in a difficult situation.

  Chapter 6

  WE WILL PAY YOU MORE

  FOR A FEW SECONDS AFTER HE HAD DELIVERED HIS mocking comment, Alex von Farlenheim wondered if he had pushed Charlene, Comtesse de Petain too far. Never had he seen a human countenance display such concentrated venomous rage as that which twisted at her beautiful features. If looks could have killed, the glare she directed at him as her right hand closed almost spasmodically around the fan on the table would have tumbled him lifeless to the floor. Alarmed, he tensed ready to defend himself if she struck at him with the device she had grabbed.

  However, despite being a-quiver with fury, Charlene had sufficient strength of will and intelligence to prevent herself from acting in a manner which would attract unwanted attention. Promising herself that she would be avenged upon the young Bosgravnian once he had served his purpose, she concentrated upon regaining her composure. What she discovered as she glanced at the dining-room’s door warned that there was an urgent need for her to do so. Forcing herself to smile, she raised her right hand in what could have passed as a friendly wave.

  “He’s seen us and is coming over!” the Comtesse warned, losing the smile briefly as she turned her gaze to von Farlenheim and gritting out the words sotto voce. “So, whatever you do, be very careful in how you act, and think first about all you say.”

  Having finished reading the note left by “George Breakast,” informing him that his terms had been accepted and arranging a rendezvous if they did not meet at the Edgehurst Warehouse, Dusty Fog had commenced what was purely a precautionary glance around the lobby of the Portside Hotel. Seeing the couple in the dining room, he had guessed what brought them there and had felt sure that they had not come with the go-between’s knowledge or approval. Their attitudes, when his gaze first reached them, supplied a clue as to how the discovery of “Rapido Clint’s” real identity was being received. So, even before the Comtesse had made the pretense of having just become aware of his presence, he had decided what to do.

  Thrusting the note into his trousers’ pocket, the small Texan strolled toward the couple. He noticed that Charlene was the more composed of the two. While she was managing to smile as she watched him approaching, von Farlenheim scowled and moved restlessly. Dusty considered that, of the two, the young Bosgravnian was the more likely to make some damaging statement if handled in the proper manner. He was equally aware that the woman would do everyt
hing in her power to prevent it from happening.

  “Why howdy, Comtesse, Mr. von Farlenheim,” the small Texan greeted, removing his hat and coming to a halt at the table.

  “Good morning, Captain Fog,” Charlene replied, proving just as adept at speaking English as she had while employing German. “This is a surprise. We had no idea that you were in Corpus Christie. But, if the change to the color of your hair means what I think it does, that is hardly surprising. Won’t you join us?”

  “Why thank you ’most to death, ma’am,” Dusty drawled, having hoped for the invitation. Giving no sign of noticing von Farlenheim’s baleful glare, he hung his Stetson by its barbiquejo on the back of the chair he drew out. Then, acting as if the Bosgravnian was not there, he sat down and continued to address the woman. “And what do you-all think the change means, ma’am?”

  “That the telegraph message you were supposed to have received from your uncle was a fake,” Charlene answered, flickering a look at von Farlenheim as he stirred in irritation over the Texan’s treatment. “You pretended you had been called home so that you could leave Brownsville with your appearance changed and come to find out if there is any danger here to Rud—His Highness.”

  “You’re close to calling it right, ma’am,” Dusty declared, knowing that the amendment in the Comtesse’s way of referring to the royal visitor had been made as a reminder that she was on very good terms with him.

  “Only close?” Charlene asked, pouting in a way which she knew made her look puzzled and, by appealing to the masculine ego, generally produced either information or some other service that she required from the man she was addressing.