The Fortune Hunters

by J. T. Edson

  A click came to the bartender’s ears; one sound he recognised any time he heard it for just what it was. Turning his head towards the sound, he looked first into the muzzle of a Navy Colt, then at the cold eyes of Calamity Jane.

  ‘Leave it lie,’ she ordered in a low voice.

  Knowing Calamity, the bartender left it. He did not doubt that she would use the gun if he tried to raise the bean-shooter and blow the pebble at Mark’s straining back. Seeing he had no chance now of improving his boss’s chances, the bartender rested the flat of his hands on the bartop and watched the big Texan lift the weight.

  Mark brought the bar up to chest height, changed his grips, straightened his legs and exerted all his power. A gasp ran through the crowd as the great dumb-bell rose to arms’ length’ above Mark’s head and he held it there. For a good five seconds Mark held that great weight over his head. Sweat soaked his body and poured down his naked torso, his muscles bulged and writhed like he had a python under his skin, and his lungs felt they would burst.

  At last, in a silence that could almost be felt, Mark started to lower the dumb-bell, letting it swing down, and crash on to the stout timbers before him. For almost twenty seconds nobody moved or breathed loud in the room. Mark staggered slightly and Chaseman sprang to his side, helping him from the oak boards and to a chair at the nearest table.

  ‘Yeeah!’ Calamity screamed, firing a shot through the roof of the building.

  The shot and yell broke the silence and instantly almost everybody in the room began to shout, cheer, jump up and applaud the blond giant from Texas’ mighty effort.

  ‘What happened?’ Barraclough snarled, swinging to face his bartender under cover of the excitement following Mark’s lifting the dumb-bell.

  ‘Calamity Jane was in the night that bohunk near on lifted it and guessed why he let it drop. So she had a gun on me and that gal’d shoot a man.’

  Barraclough spat out a curse. On a previous occasion when he thought he might lose his money, a pebble blown by the bartender struck the weight-lifter—a bohunk, mid-European worker—causing him to lose his hold. That this crippled the man for life did not concern Barraclough, for it saved his money.

  Although the saloonkeeper would willingly have refused to keep his part of the bargain, he knew better than try. The crowd would tear his place, and him, apart should he welch on his deal. So Barraclough forced a sickly smile to his face and walked to where Mark leaned on a table with Calamity Jane and Chaseman at his side.

  ‘Here you are, friend,’ he said with false joviality, taking out his wallet.

  ‘Forget it,’ Mark replied. ‘I don’t want the money, but set up the drinks like the notice says.’

  That was some slight consolation for Barraclough. Anyway, he would make up the money not spent that night from the crowd in the future. Yet it hurt to think of the unprofitable night he was due to have. He could not see any man in the room showing moderation when free drinks could be had for the asking.

  ‘You heard the man,’ he said, turning to the crowd. ‘Belly up, it’s on the house until midnight.’

  Barraclough was not the only man who knew what to expect when free drinks were offered. Leaving the bandstand, Thackery made his way across the room and thought unpleasant thoughts about the workers he usually professed such admiration and friendship for.

  A man blocked Thackery’s path and he looked up to see who it might be, hoping to find some worker who had a greater interest in politics than in free drinks.

  ‘Mr. Thackery,’ Chaseman said, managing a smile at the man. ‘Would you come with me, please. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

  Cold fear hit Thackery at the words. This was his first trip into the wild and untamed West. Always before he campaigned in the East where the police, who he always spoke of in disparaging terms at other times, were on hand to save him from possible danger.

  Not having the courage to object, Thackery followed Chaseman across the room. He wondered what the workers would think of his being with the hated boss of the railroad, but need not have worried, none of them showed the slightest interest in anything but getting to the free drinks.

  Chaseman led Thackery to where Mark stood by the table putting on his shirt.

  ‘This’s Mark Counter, from Texas, Mr. Thackery,’ Chasernan introduced and nodded to where Calamity Jane stood holding Mark’s gunbelt. ‘And Miss Martha Jane Canary.’

  ‘Howdy, Mr. Thackery,’ Mark said, tucking his shirt into his waistband.

  Although Thackery had been away from Texas for many years, and had lost any trace of a Southern accent, he knew that when a cowhand called a man ‘mister’ after being introduced, the cowhand did not like that person.

  ‘Where’s your wife to, Mr. Thackery?’ Chaseman asked.

  A brave man, fearing the evil head of the railroad might have ill-intentions against his wife, might have lied. Thackery was not a brave man.

  ‘D—down at a tent we hired.’

  Mark finished tucking in his shirt, then took his gunbelt from Calamity. For her part, Calamity eyed the girl Mark had lifted on to the table hopefully. The girl knew Calamity too well to try cutting in on a man whom the red-head had interests in.

  ‘Now Mark’s ready we’ll go along and see her,’ Chaseman remarked. ‘I hope you’ll both accept my hospitality for the night. The news we have for you may cause you to need more privacy than a tent could offer.’

  On leaving the bar, his passing unnoticed by the men he had come so far to sway with his eloquence, Thackery led the men to where his ever-loving wife waited patiently for his return in a mud floored little tent.

  Only Marlene Thackery was not patiently waiting. True she was in the tent, but had only just returned to it. Fury swept through her as she tried to comb up her red hair into the neat and tidy style which had been all the rage back east, but proved the very devil to keep neat while travelling, or living in a tent.

  A short time ago Marlene had been helping Barraclough with his book-keeping and his departure, with the warning to get back to her tent, did not please her. She heard her husband’s voice outside the tent and made sure the black, stylish travelling dress was buttoned up.

  ‘This is where we’re staying,’ Thackery said. ‘Are you ready to receive visitors, Marlene?’

  ‘As ready as I could be in this pig-sty,’ she replied, but under her breath, for it would never do for her to make such a comment about the living accommodation loaned to them by one of the workers.

  Expecting to find Thackery had brought a delegation of workers to see her, Marlene lifted the flap of the tent. It came as a pleasant surprise to see a handsome blond giant, a well dressed prosperous looking man with her husband, instead of the usual collection of surly malcontents Thackery, and her father before him, usually brought home to meet her.

  All in all, Marlene Thackery was a beautiful, eye-catching woman; Calamity Jane disliked her on sight.

  The woman’s beauty and eye-catching figure did not cause Calamity’s dislike, for Calamity was good looking and shapely enough to stand competition. Nor was it the predatory way in which Marlene eyed Mark; Calamity was not jealous by nature although she would have strenuously opposed anybody cutting in on Mark while at the saloon.

  No, Calamity looked beneath the face, reading the cold, arrogant and avaricious nature behind it. To a good-hearted girl like Calamity, Marlene Thackery’s type would always be an anathema.

  ‘What did you gentlemen want to see me about?’ Thackery asked, getting his confidence back.

  He had heard of business men paying unscrupulous members of the Socialist Labour Party handsomely to leave town and wondered if Chaseman intended to make him an offer. Of course he would not throw aside his principles—unless the price should be high enough, for after all, the men at the saloon showed him they were not truly interested in making the world a better place for themselves.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ Mark replied. ‘But your father is dead. Kill
ed in a riding accident.’

  ‘And I came to express my condolences and to offer you my hospitality in your grief,’ Chaseman went on.

  ‘We accept it, sir, thank you,’ Marlene replied before her husband could open his mouth, for she expected him to refuse: which only showed Marlene did not know Claude Thackery too well.

  For a pair of grieving kin-folks, Claude and Marlene Thackery appeared to be bearing up remarkably well. By the time they reached the comfortable visitors’ room of Chaseman’s private car, they had overcome their grief sufficiently to take an interest in why Mark came to bring them the news.

  ‘Your father asked my boss, Ole Devil Hardin, to gather in the legatees for his will-reading,’ Mark told the man and woman.

  ‘I hope you’ve found them all,’ Thackery replied, although his tone implied he hoped no such thing.

  ‘They’ll likely all be in Mulrooney by the end of the week and we’ll start for Texas comes Monday.’

  ‘May I accommodate you for tonight?’ Chaseman asked. ‘A sleeping berth in one of the cars will offer more privacy than the tent.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Marlene replied, but she kept her eyes on Mark as she spoke. ‘Could you show us where to go, so we can recover ourselves in privacy?’

  ‘I’ll show you,’ Chaseman promised. ‘You may as well come and see your berth, Mark.’

  ‘Dang buzzards!’ Calamity Jane grunted, after the Thackerys disappeared into one of the line of luxurious berths reserved for important visitors to the construction camps. ‘If they’re grieving I’m Wild Bill Hickok, which same I’m not, my hair’s too short. What in hell did that gal ever see in him?’

  Many people wondered that when they saw the Thackerys. The answer was simple enough. On hearing that Thackery had a very rich father, Marlene married him in the fond hope he would put all the political poverty behind him and return to a life of rich, comfortable leisure. He failed to do so, but Marlene stuck to him—even though she occasionally helped gentlemen like Barraclough with their book-keeping while Thackery made his speeches—and cast her bread hopefully on the waters. Now at last it seemed the tide had come in bearing fancy iced cakes on its waves.

  After recovering from their grief, the Thackerys joined Calamity, Chaseman and Mark in the car and sat down to an enjoyable meal. They, the Thackerys, plied Mark with questions about the state of the cattle business in general and Elmo Thackery’s part in it in particular, showing a most unSocialistic attitude to the state of the old man’s finances.

  Finally they prepared to go to their beds, ready to make their departure on the morning train.

  ‘I’ll walk you home, Calamity,’ Mark suggested.

  ‘Why thank you ‘most to death,’ Calamity answered with a grin. ‘I surely do admire you Southern gentlemen, don’t you, Mrs. Thackery?’

  Marlene chose to ignore the remark and left on her husband’s arm.

  Shortly after one o’clock in the morning, Marlene left her bed. Slipping a robe over her nightgown, she threw a glance at her husband as he lay snoring in the other bed. Marlene left the berth and walked along the dimly lit passage to tap gently at another door.

  ‘Mr. Counter,’ she whispered, hearing bare feet padding across the floor beyond the door. ‘Mr. Counter?’

  ‘Nope, Miss Canary,’ replied a feminine voice. ‘What did you want with Mark?’

  ‘I—er—I wanted to know what time the train leaves.’

  ‘Nine-thirty,’ Calamity replied. ‘You’ve plenty of time. Good night.’

  Turning on her heel, Marlene headed for her bed. She could have sworn that the handsome Texan had been allocated that berth and felt puzzled at her mistake.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE LEGATEES HEAD SOUTH

  ELMO THACKERY’S death brought changes to a number of lives. Some of the changes showed among the people brought together by Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, as they gathered before Freddie Woods’ Fair Lady Saloon on Monday morning ready to start their journey to Casa Thackery.

  In planning the trip, Dusty Fog hired a covered carriage and a light wagon from Wells Fargo. These would travel faster than a single large covered wagon, carry all the supplies needed for the trip, and offer shelter for the women in inclement weather. On arrival at Casa Thackery, the two vehicles could be returned to the Wells Fargo office in Thackery City.

  Francine Thackery looked much improved by the change in living conditions brought about by her grandfather’s death. On the first evening after her liberation from Cohen’s clutches, Francine had been thoroughly bathed by a couple of sturdy police matrons, then had her hair combed and curled. Good clothes, decent food, and the natural resilience of youth had already thrown aside and driven off her fears and she was forgetting her ill-treatment at Cohen’s hands.

  If the change in Frankie, as she now liked to be called, was marked, it did not come up to the change in Claude and Marlene Thackery.

  Actually the change in Marlene was more mental than physical. She always dressed well, although the ring with a pyramid-shaped cluster of diamonds on her left hand was new. Now her face took on a haughty superiority and her manner became a rich man’s wife, or so she thought.

  Thackery now wore a Stetson hat, fringed buckskin jacket, white shirt and bow-tie, with levis tucked into riding boots. He might have added a gunbelt, but caution held him from making such a purchase. The Southern accent he had worked so hard conceal came back to his voice. He, the last living son, would have much to do with the running of the ranch and his dream of a brave new world for the down-trodden workers had faded the moment he realised he now belonged to the employers-of-labour class.

  Almost as marked was the change in Joan Shandley. Her friends would hardly have recognised her had they seen her. She wore a sober, modest black travelling dress and no jewellery, and her face had none of its usual merriment. The death of Beegee Benson hit Joan hard and she was quiet, subdued, ignoring Marlene’s hostility and biting comments about her presence in the party.

  Although the Ysabel Kid and Waco checked carefully, they could learn nothing about the hired killers. The two killers had been in town for a week, but nobody knew much about them. Nor could any of the Buffalo Hide Saloon staff remember seeing the men inside on the night of the killing. So the reason for the killing remained a mystery. Dusty Fog, on hearing of the incident, made no comment on it, but insisted Joan stayed at the Fair Lady while in Mulrooney and that she and the other legatees were watched all the time by his men.

  The idea of the surveillance pleased Marlene at first, but she found her husband suddenly developed an interest in her wellbeing and never left her side. This had the effect of cramping her style and preventing her making the most of Mark Counter’s company. However, she consoled herself with the thought that she ought to have a chance to become better acquainted with the blond giant before they reached Texas, or might even be able to hire him to work on their ranch.

  ‘Let’s get ready to roll,’ Mark called. ‘Joan, you and Mrs. Thackery share the carriage.’

  An angry frown creased Marlene’s brow. Only the previous evening she had graciously given Mark permission to call her by her Christian name. She did not overlook how he still addressed her as ‘Mrs.’ and called that cheap bar-room slut ‘Joan’.

  ‘I’ll ride the wagon, Mark,’ Joan said quietly, knowing how things stood between herself and Marlene, and hoping to avoid unpleasantness.

  ‘Can I ride the wagon, too?’ Frankie asked, glancing at Waco who sat on the wagon box and shook his head in a negative manner to Mark.

  ‘Sure, go ahead,’ grinned Mark, who had seen the youngster’s head shake. ‘You take the reins of the carriage, Mr. Thackery.’ While it did not fit into Thackery’s conception of a rich rancher’s duties to drive a carriage, he saw none of the other men intended to do so. Climbing on to the box, he unwrapped the reins and cast an apprehensive eye at the two spirited-looking team horses.

  Swinging on to the sidewalk, Mark went to the batwing door
s of the saloon and looked inside to where Dusty stood talking with Freddie Woods.

  ‘We’re ready when you are, Dusty,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be right out,’ Dusty replied, then shook Freddie’s hand. ‘We’ll have to be moving, Freddie. Telegraph me happen you can make it down to Texas after the trail drive season and I’ll not take out on any chores while you’re visiting.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Freddie promised.

  Their parting seemed to be rather stilted and formal, but both were satisfied, for they had said their good-byes in a more satisfactory manner earlier and in privacy. Freddie raised her hand to wave as Dusty went through the doors and from her sight. Wondering if there would be an opening for a lady saloonkeeper in Rio Hondo County, Freddie turned and walked towards the stairs meaning to catch up on some of the sleep she had missed over the weekend.

  Dusty threw a last look at the saloon before he mounted his seventeen hand paint stallion. Already Mark sat astride his equally large bloodbay stud-horse and had Waco’s paint’s reins looped around his saddlehorn. The Kid lounged to one side afork his magnificent white stallion, an animal that looked even wilder and more dangerous than its master. Half a dozen spare team horses were roped to the rear of the wagon. All appeared to be as Dusty ordered it to be the previous night.

  ‘Let ‘em roll!’ he ordered.

  After the first few worrying moments Thackery found he could handle the carriage horses, and soon had himself convinced that he drove them because he was the best man for the job. On the wagon’s box Joan smiled a little as she watched Frankie’s attempts to attract Waco’s attention and the young cowhand’s equally determined efforts to avoid the girl’s juvenile infatuation.