Texas Killers

by J. T. Edson

  “That’s a lot of money,” “Gotz” objected. “I don’t know whether we can—”

  “Then find out,” Dusty ordered, starting to shove back his chair. “Tell your amigos I’ll throw in the lady and that bow-necked hombre who’s with her to boot.”

  “To boot?” “Gotz” queried, looking puzzled.

  “That’s trading talk for something tossed in free at the end of a deal,” the small Texan explained, standing up. “Well, is it a go?”

  “I’ll have to speak with my comrades,” the bearded man replied, also rising.

  “Don’t take too long, and I’ll have a couple of hundred as a retainer,” Dusty drawled. “That buys you the chance to dicker later and stops me telling them you’re doing it.”

  “Very well,” “Gotz” growled, taking out a wallet and counting money from it. “Can I communicate with you here?”

  “Why sure,” Dusty agreed, knowing he had left the anarchist no other choice but to make the “advance payment” and confident it would produce results. “If I’m not around, leave a letter with the desk clerk. Only don’t take too long in coming back.”

  “I won’t,” “Gotz” promised and turned to walk away.

  “Well, ‘Rapido Clint,’ you ornery son-of-a-bitch,” Dusty mused, shoving back his hat to run fingers through the black hair. “It looks like you’re going to have to stay alive a mite longer after all.”

  Chapter 7

  ONLY HE AND THE CORPSE WERE PRESENT

  ALTHOUGH DUSTY FOG HAD COME FACE TO FACE with many unpleasant sights in the course of his event-filled young life, the discovery he made shortly after sundown at the building which housed the town marshal’s office came as sufficient of a shock to bring him to a halt.

  The small Texan had intended to try to follow the anarchist called “Gotz” and find out with whom he was working, but he had been prevented from doing so. Just before he entered the lobby, he had seen two men who he had met elsewhere in connection with the cattle business. So he had been compelled to stay out of their sight in case they should recognize him and address him by his name, or comment upon his changed appearance. When he was able to leave the Portside Hotel, “Gotz” was no longer in view.

  Instead of wasting time in what he had suspected would have been a futile attempt at discovering where the anarchist had gone, Dusty had made his way to the Binnacle Tavern. The information he had obtained there regarding “Gotz” left him little wiser than he had been prior to his arrival. The bartender had told the anarchist where “Rapido Clint” was staying, supplied the name with which he had signed the hotel’s register and described him, but had not tried to find out how or where the inquirer could be contacted.

  Listening to various comments from the other customers about the events at the Edgehurst Warehouse, the small Texan had concluded that Marshal Benjamin Digbry had carried out his instructions in a most satisfactory manner. There had been no mention of his participation as “Rapido Clint.” Nor, as his friendly reception at the Binnacle Tavern indicated, had his true identity been exposed. Instead, the peace officer appeared to have been eager to accept full responsibility and take all the credit for the affair. He had let it be believed that “George Breakast” had killed both “Sharpshooter” Schindler and Beguinage, then had been shot by him while resisting arrest. Although the general concensus of opinion among the Tavern’s clientele had been surprise that Digbry had achieved such a successful outcome, there was nothing to suggest that his story was not being accepted as the truth.

  Remembering his conversation with “Gotz,” Dusty had assumed that the anarchist had either been hidden close enough to the warehouse to see what had really happened, or had deduced that “Rapido Clint” was involved. He had decided that the former was the more likely to be the correct solution.

  Leaving the Tavern when satisfied that there was no more to be learned, the small Texan walked to the area of the dockside at which Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia and his retinue should have been brought ashore from the steam-sloop. The official welcome had not been cancelled and, in addition to the various civic dignitaries who were invited, a good-sized crowd had assembled. His hope that he might come across “Gotz” with other members of the anarchist faction did not materialize. All that he achieved was to witness a demonstration of Governor Stanton Howard’s competence as a politician and diplomat.

  Using a megaphone to ensure that his words would carry to every member of the crowd, Howard had explained why the Crown Prince was not in the boat which was at that moment coming from the warship. Basically, he had told the truth by stating that the discovery of a plot to assassinate the royal visitor had made the deception necessary. He claimed that it had been implemented so that the local law enforcement officers might have an opportunity to locate and apprehend the would-be murderers. Playing skillfully upon his audience’s sense of civic pride, he had removed all the disappointment and resentment that might otherwise have arisen over the measures which had been put into effect. So successful had he been that, by the time he had concluded the explanation, Dusty considered the assembled population were convinced they had been consulted from the beginning and the precautions were being taken with their wholehearted approval and cooperation.

  One aspect of the explanation had been received with mixed emotions by the small Texan. The announcement that, as a result of Marshal Digbry’s investigations and activities, the potential assassins had been located and killed was greeted with applause. Even those members of the community who had previously harbored grave doubts over his abilities as a peace officer, or suspected that his honesty left much to be desired, had joined in the acclaim which he had wrongly been accorded. While Dusty had been pleased by the way in which his own name and participation was concealed, he had also realized that the crowd’s response would make the task of bringing about Digbry’s removal from office more difficult.

  Charlene, Comtesse de Petain and Alex von Farlenheim had been part of the Governor’s retinue at the dockside, accompanying Howard when he left at the end of the proceedings. So Dusty had not been able to report on the latest developments. Instead, he had set off more in hope than expectancy to try and find where “Breakast” had been residing and to locate “Gotz’s” whereabouts. Having failed to do either by nightfall, he had headed for the marshal’s office. It was his intention to have Digbry take a message warning the Governor that “Rapido Clint” must continue to exist for a few more days. He also wanted to ask if anything had been learned about Beguinage or the dead go-between and request that a watch was kept for the anarchist faction.

  Being a prosperous, fast growing and progressive community, Corpus Christie had supplied its municipal law enforcement agency with well-designed accommodation and facilities. The row of stoutly constructed cells at the rear of the building were concealed from the public’s view by a dividing wall. At the left side of the large room which faced Dock Street and was allocated for use by the deputies, the marshal had a private office from which to conduct his affairs. To further ensure his privacy, there was no window through which passers by on the street could look in.

  The deputies’ room was deserted and in darkness when the small Texan arrived. Although the cells at the rear were illuminated, he could hear nothing to suggest they were occupied. Noticing that there was a glow of light under the entrance to the marshal’s office, he had crossed toward it. There was no sound from inside, but he had knocked and the door had begun to open. While it had only moved a few inches, he was able to see something of what lay beyond the threshold and, for a moment, the sight froze him in his tracks.

  There was, Dusty realized, something unnatural about the rigidly unmoving way in which Digbry was sitting at his desk. He had a ramrod stiffness that was far removed from his normal slouching posture and both hands were pressed on the top of the desk as if he was trying to rise. The expression on his face was an additional indication, if one had been necessary, that all was far from well. Not only were the lips drawn ba
ck in a hideous grimace which displayed his tightly clenched teeth, but the wide open eyes were staring glassily and unblinking in the light of the lamp that was suspended from the ceiling.

  On the point of advancing to make a closer examination, Dusty noticed there was a trickle of blood which was still not quite congealed running from a small hole at the left side of the marshal’s neck on to the collar of his shirt. Instantly, the small Texan appreciated what the sight portended. The peace officer could not have been dead for more than a couple of minutes at the most. So his killer might still be in the office.

  Almost without the need for conscious guidance, Dusty’s left hand crossed to draw the Colt from the right-side holster and his thumb eased the hammer back until it was fully cocked. Then he gave the door a sharp push. The hinges prevented it from opening far enough to strike the wall, but it halted and began to reverse its direction without anything to suggest the killer was lurking behind it. Stepping swiftly across the threshold, with the door swinging until almost closed at his rear, the barrel of his revolver and his gaze made mutual arcs which encompassed every corner of the room.

  Although the small Texan had not seen anybody leaving as he was approaching along Dock Street, only he and the corpse were present. However, there was a second door opposite the one through which he had gained admittance to the marshal’s office. It offered an exit to the alley alongside the building, removing the need to depart via the main entrance.

  Wondering if the killer might still be in the alley, Dusty started to cross the room. Before he had taken more than a couple of steps, his attention was distracted. With a sensation like being touched by an ice-cold hand, he remembered where he had last seen something similar to the marshal’s far from pleasant expression. It had been on the face of “Sharpshooter” Schindler, whose throat had been laid open by the blade of Beguinage’s knife. However, the wound which had caused the hired killer’s death had been much more extensive and serious-looking than Digbry’s only visible sign of injury.

  Looking along the deserted alley, Dusty did not bother going outside the building. Instead, he closed the door and returned to the desk. Having found himself acting as a peace officer on more than one occasion,1 he had seen the wisdom of acquiring knowledge of various subjects which would be helpful when investigating crimes. Everything he saw suggested that his education was going to be of service. There was something far out of the ordinary about the manner in which the marshal had met his end. For one thing, all the signs suggested that he must have died very soon after the blow to his throat was struck. Secondly, as far as the small Texan could see, there was no other cause of death.

  From medical books he had read, and from what he had been taught while being instructed in the, at that time, little known Japanese martial arts of ju-jitsu and karate,2 Dusty was aware there were areas of the human body where death could be caused quickly if pierced by even a comparatively thin, sharp instrument. While he could not remember hearing of such a point in the neck, the carotid artery passed through it carrying blood to the brain. Yet there hardly seemed to have been sufficient loss of blood to have brought an end to Digbry’s life, particularly in view of the speed with which it appeared to have happened.

  On the point of making a closer examination of the marshal’s body to see if there was some other cause of death, Dusty noticed that the top left hand drawer of the desk was open. What he guessed was Digbry’s official bunch of keys hung from the lock, but he gave them barely more than a glance. There was only the wallet taken from “Breakast’s” body in the drawer. The money it had held was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Beguinage’s knife, wrist-sheath and little pot of poison.

  A glance told the small Texan that, as was frequently the case with such a piece of furniture, none of the other drawers in the desk was equipped with a lock. He assumed that the marshal had followed the general practice of using the locking drawer as a temporary depository for small items of property instead of unlocking, opening and placing them in the office safe.

  So why was there only the empty wallet in the drawer?

  Thinking of the reluctance Digbry had shown when he was given custody of Beguinage’s property, Dusty felt sure that he would not keep it upon his person for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Wanting to get it out of his possession as quickly as possible, he might have taken it when he went to join the other civic dignitaries at the dock-side. Then, finding that Dusty was not with the Governor, he could have decided to delay the presentation until they were together at the reception in the evening.

  While such devious behavior would have been consistent with the far from flattering impression Dusty had formed of Digbry, considering it aroused further puzzling speculations. Being eager to demonstrate his “honesty,” he would have also taken along the wallet and its contents. Furthermore, having brought back Beguinage’s and “Breakast’s” property, he would in all probability have kept them together. Appreciating how lethal the knife and poison could be if it should fall into the wrong hands, a more conscientious man might have concluded that they ought to be placed somewhere that offered greater security than the desk locked drawer. However, even if the marshal had shown such forethought, he would have been unlikely to treat the wallet in a different manner to the knife and poison. Nor did there appear to be any reason why he would remove the money if he decided to keep them separately.

  Dusty conceded that the marshal’s killer could have looted the drawer, but was equally aware of the theory’s unanswered questions. Taking the money and leaving the wallet made sense. To be caught while in possession of the latter would be at least suggestive of complicity in the murder. The same applied to carrying off Beguinage’s property. Furthermore, while the knife and its sheath might have appeared to be a worthwhile piece of loot, without prior knowledge of its contents, there was nothing to indicate that the pot had any value. Few people other than professional gamblers would have attached any significance to it and even that would be for the wrong reason.

  Nor did the theft of such a comparatively small sum of money seem sufficient inducement for the risks entailed in murdering a peace officer in his own office, even if Beguinage’s property had also been taken. Which raised the points of why Digbry had opened the drawer and how the killing had been done. The latter was particularly puzzling. The nature of the wound suggested that the means by which it had been inflicted had taken the peace officer unawares. Yet in spite of the small Texan’s lack of esteem, he doubted whether Digbry would have given anybody other than a very close acquaintance such an opportunity.

  Or a stranger who the marshal might for some reason have considered as being beyond suspicion!

  For a man like Digbry, not many people would come into the latter category!

  At that point in Dusty’s train of thought, a recollection began to stir in his memory.

  One of Beguinage’s victims in Brownsville was a man whose way of life and current circumstances should have made him even less disposed than Digbry toward accepting strangers at face value. Yet he had paid the penalty of admitting Europe’s “premier assassin”—Dusty believed in the guise of a mission padre—to his room.

  The face of the dead man in Brownsville had been distorted by an expression almost identical to that of the marshal and “Sharpshooter” Schindler, but there was no wound on his body. He had been killed by drinking poison in a bottle of wine accepted from his visitor. Furthermore, the nature of the wounds which had caused the two latest deaths were vastly different.

  And Beguinage had met his end hours before Digbry was murdered!

  Looking at the peace officer’s only visible wound, Dusty found himself wishing that he had Doc Leroy with him. While the Wedge cowhand had not yet achieved his ambition to qualify as a doctor of medicine,3 he had sufficient knowledge to be able to say whether the small puncture in the marshal’s throat could cause death as rapidly as it appeared to have done, or if the implement which made it would need to be coated with poison to produce suc
h an effect.

  If the latter should be the case, the affair became even more complex and puzzling.

  The most logical solution was that, by a coincidence, the killer had arrived armed with a poisonous device. In fact, unlikely as this might appear, Dusty could not think of any other explanation. Certainly Digbry would not have been so stupid, or trusting, to allow anybody to apply the poison from Beguinage’s receptacle to whatever kind of weapon—even it if appeared to be completely innocuous and harmless—was to be plunged into his throat.

  Deciding that he was getting nowhere with his speculations, the small Texan turned his attention to more practical matters. His instincts as a peace officer would not allow him to discard one possibility. In spite of being unable to envisage any reason why the marshal would put Beguinage’s property into the safe, while leaving “Breakast’s” wallet in the drawer of the desk, he felt it was worth checking if this might be the case. At least, doing so would settle one aspect of the mystery, and he had the means available to satisfy his curiosity.

  Removing the bunch of keys from the drawer, Dusty crossed to the safe. Selecting the one which he believed to be appropriate, he found his guess was correct. Having unlocked and opened the door, he looked inside. The contents on the shelves were an untidy jumble, but insufficient in quantity to conceal the European assassin’s belongings if they had been buried among any of them.

  “God blast, Ike, nobody’s bothered to light the lamp!”

  “Let’s put this son-of-a-bitch in the cells, then I’ll do it.”

  The two comments came to the small Texan’s ears, followed by heavy footsteps tramping across the front room. On the point of calling out to whoever had entered, he kept quiet as he realized that to announce his presence under the circumstances might be injudicious. While he could produce a sound motive for his actions, he might not be permitted to make it. Not without creating an undesirable situation, anyway. As far as most people in Corpus Christie were concerned, he was a hired killer in search of employment. From all he had heard since his arrival, Digbry’s deputies were just as dishonest and corruptible as their superior. However, they were selected for brawn rather than brain. Finding the marshal dead at his desk and “Rapido Clint” standing by the open safe, they might draw the most obvious conclusion and be disinclined to listen to his explanation.