by J. T. Edson
‘Did you ever see a drama, ma’am, where the heroine buys some old down-and-out drifter a meal, only he comes out to be real rich and leaves her all his money in his will.’
‘Sure, I’ve played the heroine,’ she replied. ‘Corn like that goes down well with the rubes.’
‘Reckon that play Lon talked about couldn’t come true then?’ Waco grinned.
‘I only wish it would for me.’
Reaching out a hand, Waco took the whisky bottle and poured out a stiff drink, pushing the glass towards Joan.. Then he nodded to the Kid.
‘There’s seven of you to share it,’ drawled the Kid, never taking his eyes from Joan’s face. ‘But I’d say your cut’d be nearer two hundred thousand dollars than one.’
‘What’s this all about?’ Joan asked, searching their faces for some hint of cowhand humour and finding none.
‘Do you remember back when you was working in the Bon Ton in Dodge, and you set an old feller up with a meal?’ asked the Kid.
Screwing her face in a puzzled frown, Joan thought back to all the times she had bought needy folks meals. At first she could not think of any old man while she worked for the Bon Ton, in fact she had not been long in the Bon Ton’s employment, having a rooted objection to sleeping with the customers, picking pockets and rolling drunks even if the place did have the patronage and support of the Earp brothers.
‘Sure!’ she said, slapping her brow. ‘Some old bag-line bum—’
‘His name was Emo Thackery,’ the Kid put in.
‘Oh sure,’ Joan answered. ‘And you’re Dusty Fog.’
‘No, ma’am. I’m some better looking than Dusty. ‘Sides which he’s gone to Chicago after Thackery’s niece. I’m the Ysabel Kid and this’s Waco.’
‘You’re serious!’ she gasped.
‘No, ma’am. The Ysabel Kid, like I told you. And Elmo Thackery’s done left you a share of his fortune. All you have to do is go to Casa Thackery with us and see a lawyer.’
‘Nice feller, Elmo Thackery,’ Waco carried on after the Kid stopped speaking. ‘Or so somebody said, leastways, somebody somewhere must have said so.’
Joan barely heard a word Waco said. She turned a dazed, unbelieving face to the Kid and asked, ‘You mean that old feller I bought a meal for was Elmo Thackery, the richest man in Texas?’
‘Why sure, though I wouldn’t say he was the richest. I ride for Ole Devil Hardin myself.’
Ignoring the cowhand belief that his boss must be the best man alive, no matter what aspect was being discussed, Joan shook her head as if to clear it.
‘And he’s left me some money?’ she gulped.
‘We don’t know how much,’ Waco replied, grinning. ‘But he left you an equal share with six other folks. Reckon you could use that drink now.’
‘I reckon I could,’ Joan agreed and sank four fingers of rye whisky in a single gulp.
The bite of the raw liquor ragged her and made her cough, bringing tears to her eyes. However it also served to force coherent thought into her head. Such things did not happen in real life, folks didn’t come into a saloon and tell you that you’d come into a fortune—only this pair of cowhands had just done so.
If this’s a joke!’ she warned grimly.
Taking a letter from his pocket, the Kid slid it across the table to Joan. She took it up, extracted a sheet of paper from the envelope and read its contents with growing amazement and certainty that this was not a joke. Or, if joke it be, those two Texans had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to put it over on her.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said. ‘You know what I’m going to do?’
‘No, ma’am,’ grinned the Kid.
It was on the tip of Joan’s tongue to say she aimed to treat the house to decent drinks instead of the cheap whisky which had been served the first time.
‘How soon can you start back to Mulrooney with us, ma’am?’ Waco asked before she could speak.
‘Mulrooney? I thought the ranch was in Texas.’
‘Sure it is,’ agreed the Kid. ‘But we’re meeting some of the other folks, who get a cut of the will, down there.’
‘I’ll catch the noon train tomorrow. But this’s my night to howl.’
Grins came to two Texan faces. Way they saw it, Joan had a right to howl and they reckoned they could help her do it.
‘How do I attract folks’ attention?’ Joan asked.
‘You want to?’ grinned the Kid.
‘Sure.’
Rearing up from his chair, the Kid threw back his head and let out the most hideous scream Joan had ever heard come from a human throat. Waco added a wild cowhand yell and Joan, though taken by surprise, came in with a screech like a train going through a tunnel.
On the stage a group of tumblers had reached the high spot of their act and all six of them stood in a human pyramid. The yells spoiled their concentration and the pyramid collapsed faster than it had been built. Every eye turned to Joan and her companions, the floor manager started forward with a couple of bouncers tagging along on his heels.
‘Yahoo!’ Joan yelled. ‘Hit that bar again, boys, and serve them some decent liquor for once, you bardogs! Take the show folks a bottle of champagne.’
‘Have you gone crazy, Joan?’ the floor manager growled.
‘I’ve just had good news,’ she replied.
‘You’re stunk-up drunk!’ the manager spat out and eyed the two Texans. ‘And you pair best look through the doors.’
‘Hold it, Stan!’ Joan snapped.
Stan held it. He noticed that the bouncers showed a marked reluctance to tangle with the two young cowhands. Also he felt curious as to why Joan, who he knew could hold her liquor, should act in such a manner on the few drinks she had taken that evening.
‘What’s it all about?’ he growled.
‘The lady’s done come into money, friend,’ the Kid drawled. ‘Look at this, Stan,’ Joan went on, handing the man the letter.
Although he considered himself a shrewd poker player, with a face that gave only such indication of his emotions as he wished it to, Stan stared bug-eyed at the paper after reading a couple of lines. The more so because he had worked in Mulrooney and recognised Lawyer Talbot’s handwriting. Here was no cowhand joke, Joan really did have a share in a sizeable fortune.
‘Well,’ Joan said with a smile. ‘Do I set them up?’
‘Sure you can,’ the floor manager replied. ‘Good for you, Joan.’
By now the crowd realised something of more than usual importance had happened. Western crowds were never noted for looking gift-horses in the mouth, especially when the gift-horse carried free drinks with it. Once more they swarmed to the bar to accept Joan’s hospitality, although on this occasion they were treated to much better liquor, for the bartenders read the floor manager’s sign correctly.
‘Hey, Red,’ Joan said, catching the arm of the girl who shared the last pot in the card game. ‘Where’s Beegee?’
Of all the people in the saloon good old Beegee must be the one to help Joan celebrate. Joan intended to return all Beegee’s belongings, including the fancy red dress Beegee sneaked out of a shop knowing Joan wanted it. Not that Joan objected, given half a chance she would have done the same to Beegee. They had been friends for more years than either liked to think about and Joan wanted Beegee to share her good fortune. Perhaps Beegee would come along with her to collect the money, then settle down in some permanent town and open a dress shop. It had been their ambition to do so, even though neither of them really expected to ever achieve it; and both were reaching the age where the better class saloons thought twice before hiring them.
‘She went out, looked all riled up,’ Red replied, pulling her arm free so as to head for the bar and collect her free drink.
Wasn’t that just like old Beegee though? Getting her wild up and storming off when Joan had good news to share with her. All right, if that was how she wanted it, that was the way Joan intended to play it.
For the first time Joan
remembered how little clothing she wore. A grin came to her face. She reckoned Beegee would be fit to be tied if the blonde saw her in the red dress and wide brimmed hat. When Beegee got that way, things were likely to pop and Joan was so happy she wanted to do something violent. To hell with Homer Trent’s orders, after tonight Joan and Beegee would not need to care what the saloon’s owner thought.
‘Look, boys,’ she said to the Kid and Waco. ‘I’m going out the back and to the hotel to dress and fix my face. Come on down in about ten minutes and meet me. We’ll hooraw the town.’
‘Whatever you say, ma’am,’ the Kid replied.
‘Hey, Joan!’ yelled a woman. ‘You’re not running out on us now you’re rich, are you?’
‘Nope!’ Joan yelled back and the crowd fell silent to hear what she had to say. ‘I’m just going to the hotel to change into Beegee’s frock and hat, then I’m going to howl.’
Picking up the red dress and hat, Joan entered the back room to gather up the jewellery which lay scattered on the table after the other players in the game had helped themselves to their property. It would make old Beegee pot-boiling mad if Joan turned up wearing her jewellery as well as the dress and hat.
Joan left the saloon by the rear door and went along the back alley to the small flea-bag hotel where she roomed. Nobody was in the hall and Joan climbed the stairs to the poorly lit passage where her room lay. She unlocked the door, pushed it open and entered.
A noose of rope dropped over her head and shoulders and clamped tight on her arms. The hat and frock fell from her hand, she let out a startled squeal and felt herself being pushed forward towards the bed. Two more loops of the rope came over her head and drew tight on her arms. Taken by surprise, Joan could not stop herself being shoved forward until she fell face down on the bed. A knee rammed into her back, holding her down, a mouthful of bed clothes prevented her from screaming; not that it would have done much good screaming, for the hotel catered for saloon workers, most of whom would be out at work.
Struggling wildly, but with no result, Joan felt her hands drawn behind her back and secured. Her unseen attacker sat with knees astride her and weight on her back. Then the weight eased off, a hand gripped her hair, pulled her head up from the pillow and, as she opened her mouth to scream, released the hair and pulled one of her own stockings around her face in a gag.
Rolling over, Joan found herself looking up at laughing Beegee. Bending, Beegee grabbed one of Joan’s ankles, reaching for the other leg. Kicking wildly, Joan tried to buck herself free of the hands which held her ankle and escape from the ropes. Twice Beegee grabbed and missed, then managed to get a noose around the free ankle and draw the rope tight. She ignored Joan’s angry splutters as she fastened the ankles together.
‘Now who’s come off second best?’ Beegee grinned, rolling Joan on to the bed. ‘What’s wrong, Joanie, cat got your tongue?’
Leaving Joan lying back down on the bed, Beegee went to pick up the dress and put it on. She lifted Joan’s vanity bag which had fallen with the clothes and tipped the entire contents into her own bag. After putting on the hat, Beegee came across the room and stood with hands on hips grinning down at Joan.
‘Your make-up’s all smeared, Joanie,’ she said and dipped a finger into the pot of rouge on the dressing table, rubbing her finger on the tip of Joan’s nose and leaving a red stain. ‘That’s better. Now for some eye-shadow.’
By the time Beegee had finished, Joan’s nose looked like a clown’s and she appeared to have two glorious black eyes. All the time she had struggled and tried to free herself, but failed. At last Beegee stepped back and stood with hands on her hips, admiring her work.
‘It’s an improvement,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m going for a last look at the Buffalo Hide, Joanie. Don’t bother to see me out. I’ll tell somebody what’s happened to you—before I catch the midnight train.’
‘It’s time we went to collect Miss Shandley,’ Waco drawled, looking at the clock on the wall.
‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Ain’t that just like a woman, though. She done forgot to tell us which hotel she’s staying at.’
‘It won’t be the Bella Union or the Grand,’ drawled Waco and went to where the floor manager stood. ‘Where at’s Miss Shandley live?’
‘Along the street there, at a small hotel down on Crail Street. You turn left here and it’s first on the right.’
On leaving the saloon Waco and the Kid strolled along the sidewalk towards the junction of Crail Street. Already the town seemed to be waking up, people on the sidewalks going about their business or looking for pleasure. Yet Crail Street, lying just off the main entertainment area of the town, was silent and empty as the two Texans reached it.
‘I don’t like it,’ said the Kid. ‘It’s not natural for a chore to go this easy.’
‘Sure is restful, though,’ Waco replied. ‘Coming up here and—say, there’s Miss Joan now, new red dress and all.’
Ahead of them lay a small hotel, some three buildings down the street, and facing it a livery barn. A small shape in a daring red dress and wide brimmed, flower decorated hat, came from the hotel’s front door, showing in the light of the hall lamps.
Even as the two Texans started forward to meet the woman, they saw a couple of dark shapes detach themselves from the shadows by the livery barn. Flame spurted twice from the shapes, the flat crack of shots ringing out. The small shape jerked under the impact of lead and fell against the hitching rail and from there went down.
‘Take ‘em, boy!’ the Kid ordered.
One of the shapes whirled to face the two Texans. He brought up his hand, for they could tell the shape was masculine, sending a bullet from his gun at the advancing Texans.
All in one flickering blur of movement, Waco came to a halt, dipped his right hand, brought out the Army Colt from its holster at his right side and shot at the man. He shot instinctively, without using sights, although the range was greater than most folks would have cared to chance such shooting over. The man who fired at him staggered back a couple of steps; which was good, lucky—or both—shooting on Waco’s part. However, the man did not go down, nor did he drop his gun, for he fired again. Raising his Colt shoulder high, Waco shot to kill. He sent a bullet into the man’s head and dropped him to the ground.
Ignoring the yells and footsteps on the street behind him, Waco moved forwards, making for where the small shape in the red dress lay sprawled on the edge of the hotel’s porch.
The second man had turned and run instead of standing his ground. He reached the safety of the livery barn’s end and disappeared down the side alley almost before his pard died.
Leaving Waco to take care of the first man, the Ysabel Kid went after the second. Cold rage filled him as he raced along the alley at the other end of the livery barn. The Kid did not know why the man might have killed Joan Shandley, but he sure as hell did not intend to let him get away with it.
Turning the corner of the building, the Kid saw his man swinging afork a horse. The old Dragoon Cult came from the Kid’s holster even as the man reached for the reins of his pard’s horse which had been standing by the other animal ready for a quick departure.
‘Going someplace?’ the Kid asked.
His words brought the man swinging to face him. Up lifted the man’s right hand, the left coming across to strike back the Colt he held, hammer and fan off shots.
Fanning might not be the most accurate way to shoot, but it sure as hell could empty a single-action gun faster than any other method. It could also make things real interesting for the man at the wrong end of the gun.
After two bullets narrowly missed him, the shooter showing riding skill in the way he stayed afork his horse by knee-pressure alone, for fanning took both hands, the Kid decided he had had enough. Flinging himself to one side in a rolling dive, the Kid lit down in the shadows of the barn. His black clothing merged with the shadows and yet he, with an almost cat-like ability, could see enough of his man to be able to shoot st
raight.
The old Dragoon bellowed out like a cannon. A .44 calibre, soft lead ball weighing a third of an ounce was propelled through the seven and a half inch barrel of the Dragoon by the expanding gases of forty grains of black powder. When it struck flesh, such a bullet had a terrible disruptive effect, tearing muscle, sinews and bone. The Kid saw his man thrown bodily from the saddle as his bullet struck home, crash on to the corral fence and slide down it to the ground. Spooked by the shots, the two horses broke away and fled into the darkness.
Coming to his feet, the Kid walked towards the still shape on the ground. He kicked the revolver away from the man’s side, but it was only a reflex action, the kind of precaution a man took automatically if he was wise in such matters. One glance told the Kid he did not need to bother about the man, there was no danger in that direction.
A noise and a faint glinting of light sent the Kid gliding into the blackness of the shadows once more. He did not know how the approaching person stood in the matter and so took no chances. Creaking loudly, the livery barn’s rear door opened and a scared looking Negro held out a lantern to peer from the barn.
‘Who-all’s out there?’ he asked in a quavering voice. ‘And if you-all going to shoot, don’t bother. I don’t want to know.’
‘You’d best stay inside,’ the Kid replied, not showing himself. ‘There’s a dead man out here.’
‘Ah sure hopes dat ain’t him a-talking to me, sah. Ah’s going back inside.’
‘Give me the lamp first.’
Hesitantly, looking ready to drop it at a second’s notice, the Negro extended the lamp and gave a startled jerk as the Kid emerged silently from the shadows and took it.
‘You-all the living one, sah?’ asked the Negro.
‘I hope so,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Man never can tell though.’
Thrusting the lamp into the Kid’s hand, the Negro ducked back into the barn and slammed the door. The Kid walked towards the still shape of his victim, hearing feet thudding as people ran along the alley he used to reach the rear of the building.
