by J. T. Edson
‘What do you mean?’ snapped Gaunt.
‘Thackery was dead, only you knew,’ Dusty answered with a smile. ‘It’d look bad for you, if those attempts came off.’
‘Don’t say that, Dusty!’ growled the lawyer. ‘Don’t even say it as a joke.’
‘It was in poor taste,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’m sorry, Frank. But what I said could sound that way to the law.’
‘I know it could, Lord, I hated the thought of this business from the start, and it’s not getting better.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘I wasn’t too happy about getting involved in it myself and I’m getting less happy all the time.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRANKIE’S UNPLEASANT BED-FELLOW
ALTHOUGH dinner at Casa Thackery had never been a lively meal, the coming of the OD Connected men brought a change to the atmosphere. It might almost seem that the death of Elmo Thackery had lifted a cloud of gloom which lay on the house, for the room seemed brighter, the food more pleasant and conversation bounced around in a manner that had never happened while the rancher lived.
Sitting at one end of the long table, Mamie Thackery looked around the big dining room, which also served as a sitting room and had comfortable chairs, a couple of divans and a grand piano. Only very rarely did more than three people use the room; now, with extra lights and the best table-service, the room glowed with the kind of life that must have filled it in the days of the Spanish ownership.
Claude Thackery, who occupied the seat at the other end of the table, had come in with the determination to impose the full majesty of his person on the others. He found Aunt Mamie had already told the others she would not mind laughter and talk, nor regard it as an affront to her dead brother’s memory. For the first time Claude realised that he did not own Casa Thackery, but only had a share in the place. Even his wife, who wore her most daring evening gown, seemed to have voted for an entertaining evening instead of one of boredom.
‘Say, does anybody play that fancy piano?’ asked Mark when the meal ended and the table was cleared.
‘Jennie can,’ Mamie answered doubtfully. ‘Will you, dear?’
‘Go on, Jennie, please,’ Frankie put in.
The two girls had seen little of each other and Frankie wondered if Jennie was avoiding her for some reason. So Frankie hoped asking to hear Jennie play the piano would make her cousin become more friendly.
Throwing a glance at Dusty, Jennie crossed to the piano and raised its lid. Sitting down, she began to play the sort of music her grandfather had liked. Although she played well, Jennie was not playing the kind of music the people around the table wished to hear. They applauded her when she finished playing, but none of them wished her to play an encore. Sensing this, Jennie rose and left the piano.
‘I’ve never played one this fancy,’ Joan remarked, crossing to the piano and running a forefinger along the keyboard. ‘But I’ll give her a whirl if I can.’
‘Go ahead, Joan gal,’ Borg answered, for he was dining with the family instead of among the cowhands. ‘You’re one of the owners now.’
A slightly embarrassed silence followed the words. Dusty looked at Borg with cold eyes. He did not know how good a foreman the other might be, but he sure could not take his liquor. Borg seemed to have been celebrating his good fortune, for he appeared to have been carrying a fair load of coffin-varnish when he came in to dinner and made good use of the wine bottles through the meal.
For a moment none of the others spoke, then Mamie, throwing a look which ought to have chilled Borg, rose and walked towards Joan. The little saloongirl stood erect, eyes going to the faces at the table. On one only, Marlene’s, did she read mocking contempt, Borg leered at her with a slobbering lipped grin, Thackery eyed her in a manner she knew all too well, Jennie’s face remained an impassive mask, the others showed their annoyance at her embarrassment.
‘How about it, Joan?’ Mamie asked. ‘Do you reckon you could play Ole Dan Tucker for us?’
The friendly words seemed to break the tension, though not the hate and hostility on Marlene’s face. Sitting at the piano, Joan reached for the keys.
‘I can try.’
‘Hold it,’ Mark called. ‘Let’s heft back the table and twirl the ladies.’
‘Go ahead,’ Mamie answered. ‘I’ll get the servants, it takes half a dozen of them to move it.’
‘We don’t need them,’ grinned Mark. ‘Let’s tote her back, boys.’
Eager hands lifted the heavy table and moved it to one side, putting it against the wall. Mamie, with Frankie’s help, moved back the carpets to leave a dance floor as large as in many a saloon and plenty large enough even for cowhand-style dancing.
‘Let her rip, Joan!’ Mamie called.
With deft touch, though not always hitting quite the right note, Joan began to beat out the rollicking rhythm of Ole Dan Tucker. While Joan had played on a number of saloon pianos, none had been as classy an instrument as the one she now sat at. A smile came to her face as she hit a sour note, for she decided she could always lay the blame on the piano sounding so good.
‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ Mark said, walking across the room to where Mamie and Marlene stood talking.
Marlene’s smile died away, for the tall Texan held out his hand to Mamie and led the old woman gallantly on to the floor. Nor was Marlene’s temper improved when she saw the Kid escort Jennie out and Waco take Frankie, although it appeared that Frankie did all the taking.
‘How’s about you ‘n’ me twirling a few, Marlene?’ Borg asked, lurching up to the woman and scooping her into his arms before she could answer.
At another time Marlene might have enjoyed dancing, but Borg breathed wine and whisky fumes into her face and danced cowhand style; a dance fashion which had little grace or regard for the music in it.
At last Joan brought the tune’s beat to an end and received both applause and requests to play some more. Lawyer Gaunt stepped from where he had been standing with Dusty by the punchbowl on the side-piece and walked towards the piano.
‘Let me take the stool, Joan,’ he suggested. ‘We need some more lady partners to share out.’
‘I’ll wear me a heifer brand, if you like,’ Waco called from where Frankie clung on to his arm and plied him with eager questions.
‘What’s that?’ she asked.
Mark explained. ‘Lot of times out here at a dance, there’s not enough girls to go around. So some of the fellers have a white rag tied round their arms and that makes ‘em gals for the night. We call it wearing a heifer brand.’
‘Sure, and the feller wearing one gets to sit with the ladies all night,’ the Kid went on.
The explanation left Frankie with an interesting choice. Either she could have Waco as a partner, or, if he wore the heifer brand, she was able to sit with him between dances.
‘If I play the piano we shouldn’t need it,’ Gaunt grinned, having heard how things stood between Waco and the girl and wanting to join in the fun.
‘Lay to it, colonel,’ grinned the Kid, slapping his shirt pocket. ‘Dang my hide, I’ve left my makings.’
‘So have we,’ chorused Mark, Dusty and Waco, who knew their friend’s absent-mindedness where tobacco and papers were concerned.
‘I’ll go up and get them,’ he grinned. ‘My grandpappy allus told me pale-faces was mean.’
‘But how about me?’ Jennie put in a trifle too quickly. ‘I’ll be left without a partner. You know Dustine doesn’t care for dancing.’
‘Why, ma’am,’ answered the Kid with a flourish, ‘I could never refuse a beautiful lady.’
‘Nor m,’ Borg said. ‘Especially when she’s rich.’
Luckily the music started up and Mark’s hand fell on the Kid’s sleeve. With a cold look and unspoken promise to have words with Vint Borg at a later date, the Kid took Jennie on the floor and the dancing started once more.
Only two men were not dancing, and Joan looked at them. She knew Dusty did not care for dancing, her eyes wen
t to Thackery. Joan had a warm and friendly nature, she had also been a saloongirl for so many years that it was almost second nature to jolly up a miserable looking man. Poor old Claude looked right out of it, for his wife had been almost hauled bodily on to the floor by Borg. Crossing the room, Joan reached out a hand.
‘Come on, Claude,’ she said, in the tones she used so many times under similar circumstances. ‘Let’s show these lead-footed hoppers how it’s done.’
Although Thackery had always been too busy to learn dancing, Joan was adept at steering such persons around and making them look as if they knew what they were doing. Before the dance had half finished, Thackery was adding fancy little twirls and twists of his own and thoroughly enjoying himself.
At the end of the tune, Thackery ignored his wife’s scowls and led Joan to the punchbowl where he began to regale her with tired old jokes. Joan’s saloon training had taught her to laugh and appear to be enjoying a customer’s efforts to amuse her. So she fed Thackery’s ego—and increased Marlene’s hatred, which did not worry Joan at all. Marlene was unable to get away from Borg, which probably was just as well.
‘Let’s have another dance!’ Thackery whopped, putting his arm around Joan’s waist and hugging her.
‘Take it easy, cowboy,’ Joan grinned, twisting free of his arm. ‘I’ll have no wind left to dance if you hug me like that.’
‘Now that’s an idea,’ Thackery replied, winking at her. ‘Then you and I can go out on the porch and sit a spell.’
With the skill of a professional saloon pianist, Gaunt saw danger signs in Thackery’s actions and his wife’s scowls, so began to thump the piano keys.
‘Lon,’ Dusty called, ‘I’m going up to the room to collect a handkerchief. Do you want me to bring your tobacco? No? I didn’t think you would.’
‘Loncey,’ Jennie said as Dusty left the room, ‘I feel a little tired. Will you excuse me. I want to collect my fan from my room.’
‘Sure, Miss Jennie,’ the Kid replied.
Dusty had just reached the head of the stairs and was turning on to the passage leading to his room when he heard the patter of feet behind him. At the same moment he heard the sound of a door closing, his room’s door or he was no judge of direction. The passage had only a small lamp which gave poor light, for its wick had been turned down.
Nobody should be up on the bedroom floor at this hour of the night and all the people who had any legitimate right to enter the rooms were downstairs. Dusty started forward and thought of the four gunbelts in his room. The prowler had a fair choice of weapons and Dusty was unarmed, except for his bare hands and his feet. Sure, his knowledge of Karate, ju-jitsu and roughhouse brawling gave him an advantage in a fight, but not against a man with a gun.
‘Dustine!’
The voice brought him to a halt. He turned and found Jennie coming towards him.
‘Should there be anybody up here?’ he asked.
‘Of course not. The servants all finished work after dinner.’
To Dusty it seemed the girl spoke louder than usual. He could see worry lines on her face and wondered what caused them. However, there was the matter of the closing door to be investigated before he took time out to inquire.
‘Stay here, Jennie,’ he ordered and started to cat-foot his way towards the door.
‘Dustine!’ the girl gasped. ‘I’m frightened.’
The words stopped him in his tracks. Turning, Dusty found the girl approaching with her arms held open. Then she was close to him, arms around his neck and mouth thrust against his, kissing him.
‘I’m afraid, Dustine,’ she gasped into his ear. ‘I’m afraid of what might happen as a result of Grandfather’s will.’
Again her mouth found his, kissing him, but he did not kiss back. There had always been something about Jennie which repelled Dusty. He did not know what caused the repulsion, yet he felt it more strongly than ever. Dusty was also puzzled by Jenny’s attitude and wondered what caused it. Despite her pallid and fragile appearance, Dusty knew Jennie to have wiry strength and a cold, detached courage. It was most unlike her to be afraid, or to admit to it even if she was.
Gently Dusty eased himself free from the girl’s arms and moved her back to arms’ length, looking at her face and reading worry if not fear on it.
‘Dustine, perhaps one of them might try to kill some of the others to increase their share of Grandfather’s money,’ Jennie gasped as Dusty turned once more towards his room. ‘They might even kill me!’
‘They won’t,’ he replied.
‘I—I’ve seen the way Vint Borg looks at us—and Aunt Marlene and Uncle Claude,’ she went on. ‘I’m afraid, Dustine. Please say you’ll protect me.’
‘You know I can’t stay here permanently,’ Dusty answered.
‘At least stay for a few days. I’m sure they’ll have made their move before that and you will catch them out. Grandfather always had faith in your ability.’
‘All right, if it’ll make you feel any better I’ll stay until Monday. Then I’ll have to be heading for home.’
Turning, he walked towards his room. The door was closed, just as it had been when he and his amigos went downstairs. Standing to one side and against the wall, Dusty reached out, turned the knob and thrust the door open. If anybody was inside Dusty did not intend to give them a nice, clear target at which to shoot.
Nothing happened so Dusty entered, moving cautiously. A lamp on the dressing table shed a faint light, but enough for Dusty to see he had the room to himself. Crossing the room, Dusty turned up the light and looked around him. Everything seemed just as they left it. Walking to the window, Dusty saw it was still fastened on the inside and outside lay a sheer drop. Not even a Rocky Mountain goat could climb the walls of the building.
‘What’s wrong, Dustine?’ Jennie asked from the doorway. ‘You act like you expected someone in here.’
‘Where’s the key to the cupboard?’ he replied. ‘It was locked when I tried the door.’
‘They key was lost a long time ago,’ she answered. ‘That’s why we brought the big wardrobe in here. Whatever you think you saw must have been imagination, Dustine. These passages aren’t well-lit and the shadows play tricks.’
‘You could be right at that,’ he agreed, collecting a handkerchief from where he had dropped it on the bed.
‘Dustine,’ she said quietly, standing before him. ‘I—I said a lot of foolish things just now. About—about—you know—I didn’t really mean any of them.’
‘Then why say them?’
‘I—I wanted to see you alone, to find out if there is anything between us. If anything could bring us together as Grandfather wished. I can see now it can’t come. Please forgive me.’
‘I do.’
‘If you wish, you can go home tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Jennie. I reckon we’ll do that,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Come on, let’s get downstairs.’
On their arrival in the dining-room, Dusty and Jennie found another dance in progress, with the Kid standing calling sets.
After bringing the dance to a close, the Kid turned and called:
‘Hey, Dusty, did you bring my makings?’
‘I never thought you’d get round to using them,’ Dusty replied. ‘They’re the same ones you had when we first met up on the Brownsville trail.’*
‘I’ll go fetch ‘em,’ the Kid grunted. ‘Getting so a man can’t—’
‘Who’ll dance with me if you go, Lon?’ Jennie put in. ‘You know Dusty doesn’t like dancing and everybody else is partnered up.’
‘If you put it that way, Miss Jennie,’ grinned the Kid, ‘I’ll just naturally stay on here—happen one of these gents loan me the makings.’
For an hour the party went on. Dusty watched Jennie and wondered about her actions. The girl had always been something of a snob, and it surprised Dusty to see her dance with a hired hand, even if the man was one of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. Yet she danced with the Kid and between dances persuaded the
other men to loan him tobacco and papers.
Watching the others, Dusty saw that both Borg and Thackery were well on their way to being drunk. Both had punished the punchbowl and the ranch’s liquor supply, and neither could take their drink. Borg grew more sneering and insulting. Thackery fawned over Joan in a manner which embarrassed her and the other occupants of the room. More to prevent a scene than for any other reason Mark had started to dance with and entertain Marlene. This did not please Borg, but even as drunk as he was, the foreman had more sense than tangle with Mark Counter.
Crossing the room, Borg halted at Waco’s side as the youngster sat telling a wide-eyed Frankie about some of the things which happened while he helped Dusty run the law in Mulrooney.
‘That’s it, boy,’ Borg said, slapping the youngster on the shoulder. ‘You got it made with that little gal. It ain’t everybody can marry young and rich.’
While Waco accepted that he would most likely always be the ‘boy’ to Dusty, Mark and the Kid, he objected to any other person calling him by that name. He also did not like having drunks slobber over him.
Coming up from his chair, Waco drove his right fist into Borg’s stomach. He had learned fist-fighting from Mark Counter and knew how to throw a punch. The blow caught Borg squarely and folded him over. Up lashed Waco’s left fist in a backhand blow which lifted the man erect and set him up for the right cross to the jaw. Borg spun around and crashed to the floor, rolled over once and lay still.
A dull red flush crept to Waco’s cheeks as he realised what he had done and that every eye in the room was directed at him.
‘Poor old Borg,’ Mark drawled. ‘He’s done fainted away.’
‘I figured he’d get around to it,’ answered the Kid. ‘Whereat’s he sleep, Aunt Mamie?’
‘I’ll show you,’ she replied. ‘Bring him along.’
The Kid and Waco took Borg’s arms, Mark lifting his legs, and they carried the unconscious foreman from the room, following Mamie to Borg’s quarters on the ground floor.
