by J. T. Edson
‘Call me “Wolf”,’ Cavallier requested, as the other players looked at him, following the long-established Western convention that a person was allowed to choose whatever name he wished to supply.
‘My name is Patrick St John 10 -Haythornthwaite, dear girl, gentlemen,’ the Englishman introduced. ‘But that is something of a mouthful and, as my jolly old family are kind enough to keep sending me money to make sure I don’t go back home, most people prefer to call me “the Remittance Kid”.’
‘I say, dear boy,’ the Germanic-looking soldier put in, trying not too successfully to mimic the Englishman’s way of speaking. ‘All this is jolly old interesting, but how about letting us get on with the game?’
‘Good lord, old chap,’ the Kid answered mildly. ‘I didn’t realize you were British.’
‘Like hell I am!’ Dutchy ejaculated indignantly. ‘I’m a one hundred percent American and we licked you Limeys back in Seventy-Six.’
‘Good heavens!’ the Kid countered, hanging his hat on the back of the chair with his left hand while the right disappeared below the level of the table. ‘I hadn’t realized you were that old.’
‘What in hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Dutchy demanded, scowling menacingly.
Watching the interplay between the two men, Arlene could not decide what would be her best line of action. Well trained in all aspects of her work, she had already grown irritated by the two soldiers’ attitudes and sensed they could become troublesome. Newly arrived from big cities in the East, they were filled with notions of supremacy over the “hicks” they met west of the Big Muddy. 11 Furthermore, conscious of being only raw recruits, they had adopted a demeanor of blustering arrogance in the hope of passing themselves off as hardened and seasoned campaigners. So they might react to any interference on her part by increasing their belligerence. On the other hand, for all his apparent languor, she had formed the impression that the Englishman was well able to take care of himself. Which raised the point of whether she could rely upon him to do so in a way that did not bring the other soldiers who were in the barroom into the affair.
‘Only that the “licking” happened almost a hundred years ago, old boy,’ the Kid elaborated, still showing no sign of noticing the blond soldier’s growing truculence. ‘And you strike me as being somewhat too young to—’
‘I’ll strike you, you Limey son-of-a—’ Dutchy began, in a louder voice, making as if to rise.
‘Don’t get up, old sport,’ the Kid requested, without moving, but there was something in his manner which made the words more a combination of an order and a threat. ‘It really wouldn’t be advisable.’
‘Easy, Dutchy!’ Tony warned, being positioned so he was able to see as far as the Englishman’s waist. ‘That gun’s not sticking out from under his coat anymore.’
‘True, dear boy, true,’ the Kid admitted. ‘And the gun, as your friend calls it, is pointing in such a manner that you could develop a somewhat squeaky tone of voice if I was compelled to use it.’
‘Well now, me boyoes,’ called a voice with a heavy Irish brogue, accompanied by the sound of a chair scraping back. ‘And what seems to be wrong, I’m asking?’
Swiveling his head around, as did everybody else at the table with the exception of the Kid, Dutchy felt a mixture of relief and alarm as he looked at the big, burly, red-faced red-haired non-commissioned officer belonging to his regiment who was approaching. He was aware of Sergeant Magoon’s ability in a fight, but also remembered the instructions he and Tony had been given with regard to their conduct. However, he also saw that – one way or another – he was being offered an opportunity to avoid carrying the affair any further. While he had not wanted to back down, neither had he been able to see how he could do otherwise without putting himself into considerable danger.
‘Just a little disagreement, Paddy,’ Arlene supplied, having no doubt that the intervention would be beneficial. Not only was the sergeant fair and sensible, he had the greatest respect for Freddie Woods and would be disinclined to permit his men to become involved in trouble on her premises. ‘Dutchy likes to make jokes about people, but isn’t so willing to take them about himself.’
‘Damn it, serge!’ the blond recruit protested, feeling decidedly uncomfortable as Magoon’s cold gaze swung his way. ‘That tinhorn’s pulled a gun on me!’
‘A gun, old thing?’ the Kid inquired mildly. ‘Noisy, oily things which make most unsightly bulges under one’s clothes and completely spoil the hang of a jacket. I never use one.’
‘Then what’ve you got hid under the table?’ Dutchy challenged, feeling sure the sergeant would support him against a proven liar.
‘A badik,’ the Kid replied, bringing his right hand into view and laying the unusual looking device he was holding on the table. It had an eight-inch long blade like that of a pocketknife, but the hilt was shaped after the fashion of a pistol’s butt. ‘I took it off a Bugi pirate who was waving it around rather dangerously one night on a ship out of Singapore. I assure you, it wouldn’t shoot any—’
‘Why you sneaky—!’ Dutchy began, furious at the deception and starting to thrust back his chair.
‘That’s right, me bucko,’ Magoon growled, having been keeping an eye upon the two recruits and knowing the Englishman had just arrived, so the dispute had not arisen over the game. ‘I reckon it is time you were quitting.’
‘But!’ Dutchy commenced, watching the Kid return the badik to its sheath.
‘Sure and you wouldn’t be wanting to go squandering all your money gambling before you’ve had the courtesy to be buying your lovable old sergeant a drink,’ Magoon interrupted. ‘Now would you?’
‘I reckon it wouldn’t be right,’ Tony stated, guessing that to do otherwise would result in repercussions at a later date. Although they might have, it would not have been for the purposes he envisaged. Magoon’s motive was to prevent trouble which would have reflected badly upon his regiment’s behavior. ‘Let’s go and get them.’
‘Perhaps you gentlemen will allow me to buy?’ the Kid suggested. ‘And all of my fellow players, of course, in apology for having wasted so much of your time?’
‘That’s good of you, sir,’ Magoon declared, then favored his recruits with a baleful glare. ‘Which doesn’t let you two spalpeens out of doing your duty to me.’
Once the drinks had been purchased by the Kid, and Magoon had escorted the two soldiers to the bar, the game was recommenced. Although pleased by the way the situation had developed, Arlene watched the Englishman and Cavallier with, if not noticeably, great care. Neither struck her as being the kind who would sit in on a game with such modest limits. However, because of the small sums of money involved, she considered it was unlikely they were partners working together to fleece the other players. Nor, as she had been given a thorough education in the ways cheating could be performed either by individuals or as a team, could she detect any suggestion that it was anything other than skill and good fortune, rather than some means of manipulating the run of the cards, that was responsible for their successes.
‘Damn the luck, Kid!’ groaned the Texas cowhand, at the end of half an hour’s play, folding his two cards and looking at the queen of diamonds and king of spades displayed by the Englishman. ‘That’s the fifth time you’ve had twenty against my sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen.’
‘True, old boy,’ the Kid admitted, the complaint having been made in friendly fashion. ‘But, drawing such cards on the deal, mathematically your luck is better than mine.’
‘Whee-doggie!’ Tex drawled. ‘You-all’d best drive that one by again, amigo, it went too fast for me to drop a rope on it.’
‘As I said, mathematically, your luck in getting sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen is better than mine in drawing twenty,’ the Kid obliged and the other players fell silent, but showed a puzzlement equal to that of the Texan.
‘My luck’s better?’ the cowhand asked, frowning, as he was aware that a score of twenty beat one of sixteen, seventeen, o
r eighteen.
‘Mathematically better,’ the Kid supplemented.
‘Would this here mathe … matics have to do with adding and taking away?’ Tex asked.
‘It would,’ the Kid confirmed.
‘Well what you said just can’t be,’ the cowhand declared. ‘Because, after we-all’d added up what we was holding, you sure as sin’s for sale in Cow-town 12 took away from me.’
‘Ah yes, old boy,’ the Kid answered. ‘But, you were still mathematically luckier than I was.’
‘You prove that to me and I’ll buy drinks for the house,’ Tex stated.
‘I’ll settle for a five dollar bet against me,’ the Kid suggested, then turned his gaze to Arlene. ‘Unless that would be against the house rules, dear girl?’
‘It isn’t,’ Arlene confessed, intrigued by the conversation. ‘In fact, I’d be willing to take some of that bet myself.’
‘How much, dear girl?’ asked the Kid.
‘Five dollars,’ Arlene requested, unable to see how she could lose.
‘Was you so minded, Kid,’ the brakeman hinted, ‘I’d take me five on it as well.’
‘You’re both on,’ consented the Englishman.
‘Give me ten dollars?’ the townsman inquired.
‘With pleasure, old boy,’ the Kid agreed.
‘I’ll take fifty dollars of it,’ Cavallier put in.
‘If you wish, dear boy,’ the Kid assented and, after the money had been laid upon the table, he went on, ‘First, though, we all agree that the more difficult a thing is to achieve, the more fortunate one is when it happens?’
‘Sure,’ Tex drawled, when the others had exchanged looks and nods of concurrence. ‘But I still don’t—’
‘It’s like this, old boy,’ the Kid explained. ‘There are one hundred and thirty-six combinations of two cards which total twenty in every deck of fifty-two. Count them, if you wish, but I already have. On the other hand, there are only one hundred and two combinations adding to sixteen, ninety-six adding to seventeen and eighty-six to eighteen. Therefore, it is more difficult to make sixteen, seventeen, or eighteen, than it is to make twenty. So, when you lose with one of them to a hand of twenty, you are mathematically luckier, but – because of the rules of the game – financially unluckier.’
For a moment, silence fell over the table. Leaning back in his chair, the Englishman watched as the others digested his words.
‘Well I swan!’ the cowhand whooped, slapping a hard hand on the top of the table. ‘Took that way you’re right as the Injun side of a hoss.’ Pushing five dollars across the table, he went on, ‘I don’t reckon’s how you’d be kind enough to write all them fancy figures down for me, now would you-all? That way, I’ll be able to spout ’em when I get back home and everybody’ll reckon I’m a man with real learning.’
‘I’d like to have them as well,’ the brakeman seconded, sharing the Texan’s belief that he could use the Englishman’s line of reasoning to win bets.
‘I’d like to oblige, gentlemen,’ the Kid declared. ‘But I promised my aunt, the Dowager Duchess of Brockley, who presented the formula to me, that I wouldn’t divulge it.’
‘Shucks,’ Tex protested, doubting that there was any such person. ‘She’d never get to know about it if you did.’
‘Writing always gives me cramp,’ the Kid replied, waving a languid right hand.
‘Maybe five simoleons would ease it?’ Tex hinted.
‘Ten per copy assuredly would,’ the Kid stated and, as the two men each passed him the required sum, he took a pencil and notebook from his jacket’s inside pocket.
Scowling a little at the thought of how he had been tricked out of fifty dollars, Cavallier was on the point of requesting a similar list when he glanced across the room and stiffened slightly. His male associate and another man were coming through the main entrance. Although they looked his way, they continued walking towards the bar.
‘I’ll see your turn through as the bank, Kid,’ le Loup-Garou advised, counting out the money to pay his lost wager. ‘But then I’ll have to call it quits.’
‘As you will, old thing,’ the Kid replied cheerfully.
‘And how did you enjoy yourself while I’ve been working?’ demanded the occupant of the room the Kid was renting at the Railroad House Hotel, when he walked in about three-quarters of an hour after Cavallier had withdrawn from the game.
‘I didn’t do too badly,’ the Englishman admitted. ‘Won around a hundred and fifty of those dollar things you colonials use instead of sensible pounds, shillings and pence – and le Loup-Garou’s arms have turned up.’
‘I know,’ the person to whom the words were addressed replied. ‘And I’ve found out how they’re to be delivered.’
‘Spoilsport!’ the Kid complained, having made a similar discovery. ‘Oh well, what do you say to taking a stroll to see if we can get an idea of when they’re going to make the delivery – and try to decide how we’re going to stop the arms getting there.’
Chapter Three – She Won’t Hurt Them Too Badly
‘No, dear girl,’ the Remittance Kid declared with complete confidence, as he and his companion were strolling towards the southern front corner of the Fair Lady Saloon some thirty minutes after he had left to return to the Railroad House Hotel with his anticipated information. ‘Le Loup-Garou didn’t recognize me any more than “Father Devlin” or his good lady “wife” recognized you and I. There’s even less reason why he should. He didn’t make such a close acquaintance with me as they with us and I neither look nor sound as I did the last time he had an opportunity to see me. 13 By the by, I saw Miss Freddie Woods, briefly as luck would have it, as I was leaving.’
‘A most charming, if somewhat unusual, lady, from all I’ve heard,’ remarked the young woman on the Englishman’s arm.
‘I know,’ the Kid replied.
‘Do you know her?’ the young woman inquired, but with more curiosity than jealousy in her tone, considering the affectionate way in which she was behaving.
‘Rather well,’ the Kid admitted.
‘Does she know you?’ the young woman asked, sounding less concerned than might have been expected considering the nature of her and her companion’s occupations and the business which had brought them to Mulrooney, Kansas.
Although the Englishman had introduced himself to the other blackjack players as Patrick St John-Haythornthwaite, only the Christian name of the imposing title was strictly correct. Haythornthwaite had been his mother’s maiden name. He had not lied when stating his nickname was ‘the Remittance Kid’, but he was far from being the waster paid by his family to stay out of England he claimed to be. He was Captain Patrick Reeder of the Rifle Brigade, 14 seconded to the British Secret Service and the assignment upon which he was currently engaged had brought him to the Kansas railroad town.
What was more, the young woman walking arm in arm with the Kid was not what she conveyed the impression of being. Five foot seven in height, she was very beautiful and, while slender in build, was neither flat-chested nor skinny. Her hair was completely concealed beneath a bluey-green, brimless and turban-like ‘togue’ cap from the front of which rose a small plume of white egret feathers. When in view, it proved to be blonde and cut boyishly short. High necked, her light blue walking-out costume had its jacket-type bodice extending to waist level on the front and sides and its three-tailed basque overskirt had the center tail turned back and fastened low on the center of its back. Two rows of white lace trimming on the ‘sailor’ collar gave the ensemble its name. Both jacket and basque were decorated by similar trimming and silver buttons. Close-fitting, the sleeves flared slightly at the wrists. Emphasizing the hips in its snugness, the skirt had a tie-back fanned out in a short train and trimmed to simulate an over-skirt. From beneath it peeked the toes of dainty black shoes. An open parasol, which matched the costume, rested on her right shoulder and the left hand, tucked through the Kid’s arm, held a dainty vanity bag.
Well dressed as she was
, there were a few things about the young woman which suggested she was not exactly the class of person usually to be accommodated at the select and most expensive hotel in Mulrooney. She wore just a trifle more make-up on her face than was deemed socially acceptable. In addition, costly as the jewelry which sparkled on her ears, wrists and around her neck appeared to be, it was slightly too ostentatious for good taste. Also, in spite of speaking with the accent of a well-educated Southron, it occasionally slipped and she would employ terms suggesting a less cultured background.
Having studied the Kid’s companion with growing disapproval since her arrival, the chief desk clerk at the hotel believed her to be either a saloongirl or an actress. He also suspected, correctly that they were not married in spite of the wedding ring she frequently found ways of displaying. Shrewd as his deductions were, based upon the consummately skillful way she had given him the impression from which he had formed it, she was much more than the current mistress of a professional gambler. Her name was Belle Boyd. During the War Between the States, she had earned the sobriquet, the Rebel Spy. However, she was now a member of the United States’ Secret Service and working in co-operation with the British agent.
‘She has done since we were children, old thing,’ the Kid confessed. Then, glancing at the front doors of the saloon, he came to a stop. ‘Drat! I hope those two young blighters aren’t going to come this way. They may not have forgotten, or forgiven, our little contretemps earlier.’
Fortune favored the Englishman before Belle could ask what had caused his comment. On emerging from the saloon, swaying slightly in a way which suggested they had taken a couple more drinks than was advisable, the two cavalry recruits found something to attract their attention in the opposite direction.
‘Which do you reckon it is, Tony?’ Dutchy inquired, his voice slurred although he tried to make it sound tough and commanding. ‘Is it a man, or a gal?’
