Texas Killers

by J. T. Edson

  One of the things learned by the small Texan as the evening had progressed was what Fritz von Farlenheim’s duties as “First Taster” entailed. Originally, the holder of the office had been required to eat a portion of every dish and test every drink presented to his ruler. Of recent years, it had come to be considered sufficient for him to open and serve the Crown Prince’s liquid refreshments. When Dusty had remarked that such a situation could be exploited by would-be assassins, Liebenfrau had stated that the young captain’s loyalty and devotion to their ruler was unquestioned. He had also declared that he was satisfied no harm would ever befall Rudolph as a result of drinks being tampered with as long as Fritz carried out the von Farlenheim family’s tradition by serving as First Taster.

  Apart from having seen Alex von Farlenheim depart, there had been little positive news for the sheriff to report when he returned at ten o’clock. On his arrival at the town marshal’s office, he had found it deserted. He had learned that, after the removal of Digbry’s body, all the deputies had disappeared. Faced with the possibility of their various illicit activities being brought to light during an investigation into the murder, they had made the most of their opportunities and fled. Having no other assistance, Tragg had been unable to make any progress in the task of locating the killer.

  The sheriff’s final piece of news was such that Dusty might have preferred to hear it in private. Instead, it had been delivered where the royal visitor and the other guests could hear. Finding the Kid and Waco much the worse for drink as a result of Rudolph’s largesse, Tragg stated that he had considered it advisable to take them to jail. As such behavior was far from uncommon when cowhands found themselves in similar conditions of affluence, few of the crowd had been surprised to hear what had happened. Dusty had expressed his annoyance. Nor was he noticeably mollified to learn that the errant pair had done no damage and would be released in the morning.

  Claiming that he was tired after the hurried journey he had made so as to arrive in time for the reception, the small Texan had asked for and been granted permission to retire at a quarter after ten. Leaving Mark to keep watch on Amelia and Charlene, he set off ostensibly to the hotel in which the other members of the floating outfit had taken rooms. His actual destination had been the house to which he had been directed by “Gotz’s” letter.

  Dusty had not forgotten that, assuming the theory formulated in Blaby’s study was correct, Beguinage’s female accomplice was still at liberty. Although the men who were hired to kill him at the Portside Hotel had failed, he felt sure that she had not abandoned her desire to be avenged. So he had put into practice the methods he had employed when walking the rounds as a peace officer in a less than law-abiding section of a town. By doing so, he had made himself a far from easy target should any ambush be planned. None had materialized, but he did not regret having taken the precautions.

  As Dusty had guessed would be the case, the house to which he had been summoned had been carefully selected for its purpose. Small, one story and dilapidated, it was situated in what was now a derelict part of town. There was no other building within at least a hundred yards on any side. Even on such a moderately dark night, it would be almost impossible to approach unseen provided the occupants were keeping a watch.

  The house was in complete darkness and was, apparently, as deserted as the other buildings in the vicinity appeared to be. However, when “Gotz” opened the front door in answer to the small Texan’s knock, he found why there was no outward signs of occupancy. A lantern glowed feebly on a rickety table in the center of the room, but its faint illumination was prevented from showing outside by thick blankets hanging over the windows.

  “Why sure, just as soon’s you’ve backed off toward the table,” Dusty replied to the invitation to enter, noticing that the bearded anarchist seemed to be the only other person present. “It’s not that I don’t trust you-all behind me, but like I told you at the hotel, I’m a cautious sort of a feller.”

  “Whatever you wish,” “Gotz” answered, withdrawing as requested and watching his visitor advance across the threshold. “But hurry, please. You know it is best that nobody sees we are here.”

  On entering, alert for any possible treachery although he had no reason to suspect such was “Gotz’s” intention, Dusty’s attention was distracted from the anarchist to a door at the other side of the room. It began to move, but the lantern’s light was insufficient for him to see who was opening it.

  Watching the dark shape taking form at the door across the room, Dusty sensed rather than saw or heard a movement to his left. Then the door through which he had entered began to close behind him and he realized that it was not of its own volition. Before he could look in either direction, two men converged upon him from the rear and seized him by the arms with powerful hands.

  “Wha—?” the small Texan began, restraining his first impulse to struggle as he felt the strength by which he was grasped.

  “Welcome, Mr. ‘Rapido Clint,’ said the dark shape which was emerging out of the blackness of the other room, its voice feminine, mocking, and with a pronounced French accent. “Or should I say ‘Dusty Fog’?”

  “God damn it, ‘Gotz’!” the small Texan barked allowing himself to be hustled forward by his captors and watching the speaker walk into the light. Slightly taller than himself, as far as could be discovered, she was on the dumpy side under the hooded cloak which covered her from head to foot. Her face was covered by a black veil and she carried a short-barrelled Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver in her right hand. “If this’s supposed to try me out for your—!”

  “It is no use, Captain Fog,” the woman stated, before the bearded anarchist could reply. “I know you, even if you don’t know me.”

  “Like hell I don’t know you,” Dusty answered, as the men brought him to a halt by the table. “I just hope the Comtesse won’t be riled over you sneaking off when you should be serving your betters at the reception.”

  “Betters!” the woman repeated, her whole bearing indicating that the word was one for which she did not care. “Those grasping capitalist—!” The words trailed away as she realized what the comment that had provoked them implied and her voice rose a trifle as she continued, “How did you know me?”

  “Your helper there told me,” Dusty replied, nodding to where “Gotz” had retreated and was standing.

  “I’m not her—!” the bearded anarchist protested, having the kind of mentality which revolted at the suggestion that he was inferior to anybody else, especially a woman.

  “It was only a lucky guess,” the woman put in, drawing aside the veil to reveal she was Charlene’s maid.

  “Shucks no,” Dusty objected, the interruption having prevented “Gotz” from acting in the way he had hoped, “I can always recognize a servant.”

  “Soon there will be no servants!” the maid spat out, but she too failed to respond in the manner that the small Texan needed. “You won’t be alive to see the day, be assured of that!” Then, making an obvious effort, she regained control of herself and looked at “Gotz.” “I will go back now, before I’m missed.”

  While the conversation had been taking place, Dusty had been studying the men who were holding his arms. They were big, well made, brutal-featured and, apart from each having a revolver thrust into his waist belt, dressed after the fashion of ordinary sailors from a merchant ship. A glance downward had informed him of how they had approached so quietly. Their feet were bare. However, his judgment of the situation warned him that the time was not yet ripe for an attempt to free himself.

  “My hired help’ll have something to say about that,” Dusty warned.

  “Much any of them care what happens to you,” the maid sniffed, as “Gotz” darted a challenging look at her. “Two of them have been arrested for being drunk and the other is besotted by that aristocratic bitch who treats me like a slave. See he doesn’t die too quickly and throw his body into the sea, I wish it could be given to the pigs.”

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nbsp; “Whee-doggie!” Dusty ejaculated, watching the woman walking past in the direction of the front door. “Now there’s one good reason I don’t reckon I’d care for the brave new world you-all figuring to give the poor folks.”

  “What is?” “Gotz” asked, puzzled in spite of himself.

  “I’d sure hate to have to take orders from a woman,” the small Texan explained.

  “No woman gives orders to me!” the anarchist spat out.

  “It sure didn’t sound like you-all was giving them to her,” Dusty scoffed and, watching the anger that suffused the bearded face, he pressed onward with his plan. “Not that I reckoned you’d have much truck with women, being what you are.”

  “What I am?” “Gotz” came back, frowning with a lack of understanding.

  “Way I’ve always heard it,” Dusty said slowly, “your kind would rather have boys than girls.”

  “What do you mean?” the anarchist demanded, glancing to where the maid was starting to open the front door.

  “Come on now,” the small Texan drawled, his voice oozing contempt. “I don’t know what folks call your kind of scum where you-all come from, but over here the name’s a ‘swish.’”

  A snarl burst from “Gotz.” He had spent sufficient time in the United States to have discovered that the word “swish” was the derogatory name for homosexual. While aware that a number of his liberal intellectual associates qualified for the term, he felt nothing except revulsion for such an aberration. So he bitterly resented the implication that he indulged in such a practice, particularly when it came from a person of so insignificant an appearance.

  “You’ll soon find out whether I hit like a ‘swish’!” the anarchist bellowed, drawing back his right arm and stepping toward the cause of his wrath.

  “Mon dieu!” the maid croaked, staring out of the house as she was about to emerge. Jumping backward, her voice rose to a terrified shriek and she slammed the door. “His men are coming!”

  With his bunched fist driving out, “Gotz” was distracted by the woman’s warning. In spite of realizing the danger, he could not halt his actions. Unable to understand much more English than the basic words of command issued when working on a ship, the two men holding Dusty were startled by the commotion without knowing what the maid had said. So, although they started to look around and relaxed their holds a trifle, neither offered to release the captive.

  Slight though the reduction of the restraint upon him might be, it gave the small Texan the opportunity for which he had been waiting. What was more, his mocking comments to “Gotz” had produced the kind of response he had hoped for. The woman’s participation was an added bonus, although he was by no means surprised to discover that assistance was so close at hand.

  The sheriff had been willing to cooperate when he had heard Dusty’s proposals for dealing with the anarchists. The maid had all the contempt that most middle-class liberals had for the genuine working classes and she had not doubted that the two cowhands, who were now approaching the house, had behaved in such a manner that the sheriff had had to arrest them. Having Waco and the Kid follow close enough to be able to intervene, instead of walking with him, had been one of the precautions the small Texan had taken against an ambush by Beguinage’s woman. There were two extra pairs of keen and unsuspected eyes helping to keep watch for trouble. However, as there was no cover for them between the nearest buildings and the house, they had not attempted to approach until he was inside and holding the attention of the occupants.

  Taking advantage of the loosening of his captors’ grips, Dusty rolled his head aside and caused “Gotz’s” fist to pass without touching him. At the same moment, he snapped up and bent his left leg. Carried onward by the impetus of the abortive blow, the anarchist received the small Texan’s knee just below his breast bone. For all that, he might have counted himself fortunate. The attack was intended to strike his testicles, but had been mis-timed slightly. While the impact hurt and sent him staggering backward for several steps, he was far from incapacitated.

  Paying only the scantiest attention to what the men were doing, the maid dashed across the room. Beyond hoping that her companions could cause a sufficient delay to let her make good her escape, she gave no thought to what might happen to them. Once she was outside, she could seek refuge at the home of a sympathizer until a way could be found for her to flee the country. As a precaution, she was carrying the means to blackmail the local anarchist into doing as she desired.

  Passing through the second door, a frightening thought struck the woman. She realized that she had seen only two of the small Texan’s companions approaching and wondered where the third might be. Even as she remembered that he had still been at the reception when she left to warn her companions of “Rapido Clint’s” true identity, the memory gave her no comfort. There might be other men surrounding the building. Drawing the hammer of the Webley to fully cocked, regardless that its double-action mechanism rendered this unnecessary, she swore that she would kill anybody who came between her and freedom.

  Feeling Dusty’s movements, the two men obeyed their instincts and tightened the grips on his arms. By doing so, they were inadvertently playing into his hands. Braced by them and allowing them to support his weight, he raised both legs and brought them down hard. Due to the haste that was necessary if the next part of his plan was to succeed, he achieved only part of his purpose. Descending, the heel of his left boot landed far from gently on the near side man’s right toes. The other missed its mark, coming down between the feet of the man at the right. So, although the stricken captor gave a howl of agony, let go, and staggered away, his companion still clung on.

  Seeing that “Gotz” was not collapsing and—while still being propelled backward—was already dipping his right hand into the pocket of his pea-jacket, the small Texan realized the knee had failed to produce the desired result. He also appreciated that there must be no delay in ridding himself of all restraint. In spite of the pain caused by the stamp on his bare foot and the blood oozing from split open toenails, the first of the captors also had not fallen and was clawing at the revolver in his waist belt. The move lacked the cohesive purpose of a highly competent gun-fighter, but it was sufficiently swift to pose a dangerous threat. Nor dare Dusty rely upon the Kid and Waco arriving soon enough to remove it. There was too much noise in the room for him to hear their approaching footsteps and he did not know how far away they had been when seen by the woman.

  Bearing that thought in mind, Dusty gave a surging heave with his right shoulder. Already somewhat off balance due to his sudden change from submissively passive to very active, the man holding him was not prepared for such a response. Furthermore, the great strength his powerfully muscled small frame was capable of exerting came as a complete surprise. Almost lifted from his feet, the man felt the arm wrenched from his grasp as he was flung aside.

  Alarmed by the apparent ease with which the diminutive Texan was escaping from the clutches of two larger, heavier men, both of whom he knew to be very strong, “Gotz” managed to come to a halt. He was already grasping the butt of his Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker, but decided against trying to lift it from the pocket. Instead, jerking back the hammer, he tilted the barrel forward and fired through the thick woollen cloth of the peajacket.

  Hearing the shot as she was opening the back door, the maid neither paused nor looked back. Stepping from the house, she found herself confronted by a dark human shape. While unable to discern who it might be, she saw the figure’s right hand thrusting toward her. It was clenched, but—as it did not appear to be holding anything—she decided that the intention was to catch her by the shoulder, or knock her down with a blow. Instinctively and without any conscious guidance, the Webley R.I.C. revolver lifted and she squeezed the trigger, which required only a light pressure with the action cocked. Nor, at such close quarters, was there any need for her to take aim. Yet, in spite of delivering a Boxer cartridge’s1 .422 caliber bullet to the center of her assailant�
�s chest, which elicited a squeal that was feminine in its timbre, she had not reacted quite swiftly enough. Even as the figure was jolted away from her, she felt something thin and sharp being thrust into the left side of her throat. Whatever it was sank deeply before being withdrawn as its wielder tumbled backward.

  Inside the building, for all the difficulty involved when using even a short barrelled revolver in such a manner, the bearded anarchist came very close to achieving his purpose. As the muzzle blast from the detonated black powder was igniting his pocket, the expelled bullet flew to rip off Dusty’s hat.

  The small Texan did not allow himself to be deterred or distracted by his narrow escape. While relieving himself of the second man, his left hand was already crossing to the right-side Colt. Being aware of the problems involved when discharging a firearm as “Gotz” had done, he saw no reason to change his intentions. At that moment, the man with the injured foot was the most immediate danger. He was already liberating his weapon and was under no restrictions as to how he could use it. Flowing from its holster, Dusty’s bone-handled Colt was turned, lined and fired in a blur of movement. While it, too, was aimed by instinctive alignment, its owner had no cause for complaint over the result.

  Looking around as the bullet struck the man between the eyes and killed him instantly, Dusty noticed in passing that “Gotz” was being compelled to withdraw his hand from the burning pocket. Then his gaze went to the last of the anarchists, who had been brought to a halt by colliding with the wall. He too was far from out of action and demonstrated an ability as a gun-handler on a par with that of his now dead companion. So it was obvious to the small Texan that he must be dealt with before any further attention could be devoted to his leader.

  At that moment, something observed out of the corner of his eye warned Dusty that his position was becoming even more desperate. Despite the flames, “Gotz” had not released the Storekeeper and was bringing it clear of the pocket.