by J. T. Edson
Anyway, Mark told himself, he could hardly claim to have been a model of truthfulness. Instead of mentioning anything of what he had seen and suspected, he had pretended that he had noticed the two men skulking in the bushes while making for the maple, but had not been able to see what they were watching. As soon as he had become aware that they were spying on Gianna, he had issued his challenge. Nothing in his story had suggested that he had been keeping the others under observation for at least a minute before announcing his presence.
Apparently everybody had been satisfied with each other’s explanations. Certainly there had been no embarrassing questions asked. Even the matter of how Sparlow intended to deal with his employees had not been mentioned. Instead, Marlene had suggested that they should all go to her house for coffee. If the speed with which the invitation was accepted had meant anything, there had been a mutual—if unspoken—disinclination to hold any further discussion on the incident. So they had chatted about inconsequential matters while drinking the coffee and then had gone their separate ways.
Even after leaving Sparlow outside the saloon, Viridian had not referred to the affair. Instead, he had asked if Mark would consider taking control of branding the cattle that Ribagorza had delivered. While completing the remainder of their short journey, they had discussed how much the big blond would be paid.
On their arrival, Viridian had kept Mark occupied for a time with an inspection of the factory and by describing how it was operated. Then, having told him to look around and decide what he would require, Viridian had left him and gone into the main building. After completing his examination and having made his plans, Mark had followed. Viridian had been with Roxterby as he had entered, but had climbed up on to the killing platform before he had reached them. As there had not been room for the youngster to join his host, he had watched the work in progress. By noon, he was growing bored and was not averse to being asked to participate.
Accepting the pith-cane from Roxterby, Mark glanced upwards. He saw Viridian nod, then give a cheerful wave and turned away.
‘Send him up!’ Viridian called through the exit.
‘Yo!’ Leathers’ voice responded, muffled by the gate at the lower end of the box-like structure.
There was a creaking sound as the gate was raised, followed by a drumming of hooves as the bull passed through and a thud as it was lowered again. Silence fell as the bull, finding itself in the gloomy, inclined ramp, came to an uncertain halt. Then, seeing daylight ahead, it began to ascend. Wafting upwards and into the ramp, the smell of the blood which had been spilled by its predecessors reached the bull’s nostrils. A low, deep and awesome-sounding bellow echoed hollowly through the air.
‘That’s a bull for sure,’ Mark commented to the floor supervisor. ‘Just listen to him give the blood-call. No cow, nor steer, sounds that deep and mournful.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Roxterby answered, moving to one side. ‘With the boss doing the killing, nothing can go wrong.’
‘I shouldn’t think it would,’ Mark replied. ‘He drops them as dead as a six day gone, stunk-up skunk.’
Drawn onwards by a combined wish to leave the passage and a desire to investigate the smell of the freshly spilled blood, which invariably exercised an irresistible fascination for its kind, xii the bull approached the top of the ramp. Big, powerful, with an enormous spread of needlepointed horns, it was a magnificent example of the creatures that were destined to rebuild the State of Texas from hide and horn. It would have been capable of several more years of reproduction, passing on its excellent physical qualities to the advantage of the breed. Instead, it was doomed to be slaughtered and disposed of in a very wasteful fashion.
Advancing in the confident manner of an animal that was sufficiently large and dangerous to have few natural enemies, the bull started to pass through the exit. At the top of the ramp, the floor became level for slightly more than the animal’s length and was terminated just beyond the opening. Finding itself upon what must have seemed like the top of a cliff, the bull stopped. Its head and shoulders were exposed so that the slaughter-man could do his work.
Giving the animal no time to realize the danger and retreat, Viridian swung the poleax. He seemed to be striking as he had on the previous occasions, but there was one very important difference. After he had spoken to Mark, he had changed the way in which he was grasping the handle.
The hammer-like section made the contact instead of the spike!
Although the bull crumpled forward, it was only stunned. Unaware of what had happened and seeing the animal collapsing in what appeared to be the usual manner, the Negro threw the trapdoor’s lever. The dazed, but far from incapacitated, longhorn was precipitated on to the floor below.
Grasping the pith-cane ready for use, Mark walked forward to carry out his task. He had watched the other victims of the poleax sliding lifeless down the ramp and saw nothing different in the way that the bull arrived.
‘Hey, Mr. Counter!’ Roxterby called.
‘Yes?’ Mark inquired, looking over his shoulder but continuing to approach the animal.
‘Whatever you do,’ the supervisor began, ‘make sure that—’
‘Watch out, mister!’ yelled one of the Negroes who were moving forward ready to drag the carcass to the skinning beds. ‘It’s not dead!’
The last sentence of the warning was drowned out by an explosive, rage-filled snort from just ahead of the blond giant. Not that he needed to hear the words to know what had caused them. He had heard enraged longhorn bulls often enough to be able to identify the sound for what it was.
Swinging his gaze to the front, the big blond found exactly what he had expected to see—that he was in serious danger.
Not that Mark was given an opportunity to consider the matter at length. Unlike more domesticated breeds of cattle, a Texan longhorn did not lurch up rump-first, pausing on its knees to ‘pray’ as the cowhands called the action. Instead, it bounded to its feet with surprising speed for so large a creature. All in what appeared to be one continuous flow of motion, it rose, lunged forward, lowered then whipped up its head in a swing that directed its horns at the nearest living object—the big Texan.
Never had Mark better cause to be grateful for his quick wits and lightning fast reactions. Watching the bull’s head rising towards him, he observed that the tip of the left horn was ingrained with dirt. That implied it was what he had heard Mexican vaqueros—with their knowledge gained from bull fighters—describe as the ‘master horn’, the one favored by the animal when launching an attack. He noticed something else about the animal’s head, but in the urgency of the situation his mind failed to register what it might be. Before he could decide, he was flinging himself backwards and to his left.
There was the crash of a shot from behind and to the right of Mark. He felt something tug sharply at the inside of his right sleeve. Then he realized that the bullet must have cut through the material, without touching his flesh, in passing. Not that he gave the matter much thought. There were other things to occupy his attention. The horn could not have missed him by more than three inches. However, his rearwards bound carried him clear and the bull was going by. He landed with his right hand diving to the butt of its Colt, for he knew that the enraged and wounded creature—the lead had ended its flight in the bull’s chest—would have to be killed before it attacked another person.
Twice more Roxterby’s short-barreled weapon roared as he retreated rapidly before the approaching bull. Behind him, the colored men scattered as fast as their legs would carry them. None of them were armed and they all knew just how dangerous the charging animal could be. Both bullets followed the first into its chest cavity. The shots merged in with the rolling thunder of Mark’s Colt.
Catching his balance on alighting, the big blond completed his draw. He pressed his right elbow tight against his ribs, held back the trigger and used the heel of his left hand to manipulate the hammer. Fanning was not a means to be employed if extreme accuracy
was required, but—when performed by an expert such as Mark—there was no faster way of throwing lead from a single-action revolver. What was more, he was directing the bullets at a large target. Pivoting his whole body, rather than turning the barrel, he sent shot after shot into the animal’s shoulder, barrel, loin and rump.
Reeling, the stricken bull went down. Almost as soon as it had fallen, Sparlow sprang forward. He thrust his revolver’s muzzle against the point where the spike of the poleax should have landed and squeezed the trigger. There was a spasmodic heave and then the mighty body went limp.
‘What the hell happened?’ Viridian demanded, having sprang to the edge of the platform as if attracted by the commotion. He hoped that his disappointment did not show as he looked at the blond giant and went on, ‘Did he get you, Mark?’
‘Nope,’ the big blond answered. ‘But it was mighty close.’ Poleax in hand, Viridian hurried down the steps from the platform. Returning his revolver to its holster, Roxterby watched as Mark walked towards him. However, the big blond put away his Colt and bent to look at the hole in the bull’s head. Darting a glance at Viridian, the supervisor received a scowl in return. However, he had more to worry about than having failed to carry out the hide and tallow man’s instructions.
‘I thought I was going to hit you,’ Roxterby said as Mark straightened up and looked at him. The explanation was, in part, also designed to exculpate him with his employer. ‘You jumped between me and the bull just as I was pulling the trigger.’
‘It seemed like a good thing to be doing at the time,’ Mark answered, wondering if there had not been a wound in the bull’s head as it rose to attack him. ‘Anyway, there’s no real harm done, except for a nick in my sleeve. And I’d rather it was there than in me.’ He turned to Viridian, continuing, ‘What the hell went wrong, Austin?’
‘It must have started to drop its head just as I hit,’ the burly man replied. ‘So it was only stunned. I’ve had it happen before, haven’t I, Mr. Roxterby.’
‘More than once, boss,’ the supervisor agreed, silently cursing his bad luck. ‘That’s why I was ready to start shooting.’ Although Viridian had refused to part with more than two hundred and fifty dollars, due to Widge’s failure to kill Marlene as well as de Froissart, he had offered to make up the full amount if Roxterby would perform another service. The supervisor was supposed to shoot the big blond if the bull had failed to gore him.
Knowing that there was no way he could prove otherwise, Mark accepted the explanation. However, he had no intention of placing himself in a similar situation. So he stated that he would leave the slaughtering and use of the pith-cane to experts.
‘Being a cowhand’s good enough for me,’ Mark finished. ‘And I reckon I’ll do something I know I can handle. So I’ll go and see about that branding you want doing.’
‘Just sing out if there’s anything you need,’ Viridian offered, satisfied that the youngster did not suspect the truth about the ‘accident’.
‘I’ll want three or four OD Connected branding irons made up,’ Mark requested.
‘Why?’ Viridian inquired.
‘To make the brands look natural,’ Mark explained. ‘I don’t reckon any of you men can handle a running iron xiii well enough to do that. And those ranchers who’re coming have enough cow-savvy to know the difference.’
There was another point, although Mark had no intention of mentioning it. The copies of the OD Connected’s branding iron would be evidence to disprove the lies that the partners were planning to tell Ole Devil Hardin.
‘How do we get them?’ Viridian asked.
‘I’ll have the blacksmith make them up,’ Mark replied. ‘It’s not a hard job.’
‘I’ll come with you, so that he won’t ask any questions,’ Viridian declared, wanting to prevent the youngster from being with his wife when he was not present.
Although Mark guessed what was behind the suggestion, he did not argue. However, before they could leave, a herd of a hundred head was delivered. None of the men who accompanied it had been in Fort Worth and they were eager to hear about the result of the Ranch Owners’ Convention. While Viridian had been talking with their leader in the office, the rest of the men drove the cattle into the large corral which already was holding Ribagorza’s unbranded stock. Leathers did not know about the use to which the Mexican’s cattle were to be put and Mark refrained from enlightening him. On discovering what had happened, after the men had left to collect their money from Schweitzer, Viridian insisted that the two bunches were separated. Doing so took the rest of the afternoon.
An annoyed Viridian accompanied Mark to Pilar. He blamed Leathers for the extra work and inconvenience, due to the youngster having claimed that he was using the backhouse when the two herds had been allowed to mingle. They were riding by the jailhouse when Viridian heard his name called. Looking around, they saw Schweitzer coming from the building. From the expression on his face, something appeared to be disturbing him.
‘Hi, Bernie,’ Viridian greeted, bringing his horse to a halt. Although puzzled by the look on his partner’s face, he went on, ‘Did you pay those fellers ’
‘Austin!’ the storekeeper interrupted, his face working with anxiety. ‘Austin. It’s—It’s—Joe! ’
‘Joe,’ Viridian repeated, dismounting. ‘You mean Joe Profaci?’
‘Yes! ’ Schweitzer confirmed.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Viridian asked.
‘This deputy’s just arrived from Bryan,’ Schweitzer explained, jerking a thumb to where a leathery old timer wearing a peace officer’s badge was coming from the building followed by Jesse Sparlow. ‘He says they found Joe’s body in a draw about five miles south of town. He’d been robbed and murdered.’
‘When did it happen?’ Viridian demanded, without displaying any of the distress that his partner was exhibiting.
‘Two, three days back, according to the doctor,’ the Bryan lawman replied. ‘He allows it must’ve happened around Sunday.’
Fifteen – Now I’ll Have to Kill You
Marlene Viridian was in anything but a pleasant temper as she swept downstairs and glowered around the deserted entrance hall of her mansion. Clad in a diaphanous nightdress, over which she had drawn a negligee that was no more substantial, and with slippers on her bare feet, she had clearly not been long out of bed. The time was almost noon, but early rising had never been one of her virtues.
Despite Marlene’s repeated tugs at the bell-rope by her bed, her Negress maid had not arrived with breakfast and to help her dress. Nor had her shouts from the door of the bedroom produced any response. So, donning her negligee, she had come to find out what was causing the delay. For all the signs of life, she might have had the big house to herself.
‘Henry! Marge!’ Marlene yelled, glaring about her furiously. ‘Where the hell are you? Come here, damn it!’
There was no reply. Scowling malevolently and promising to fire every one of the servants, Marlene stalked across the hall and looked into her husband’s study. It was deserted and from there she went to the sitting room. Opening the door, she let out a low, puzzled exclamation. Dressed as she had been the previous morning and barefooted as she so frequently went, Gianna Profaci was sitting on the chaise-longue.
‘What the hell?’ Malene began. ‘Who let you in?’
‘That’s not a nice way to talk to the grieving widow of your dead partner,’ the Italian woman complained, although little in her tone or appearance qualified her for such a description. She came to her feet, picking up the vanity bag which had been by her side. ‘But then, you never have been polite to me, have you?’
‘Have you seen the servants?’ Marlene demanded, ignoring the comment and walking forward.
‘Yes,’ Gianna replied and slipped her right hand into the mouth of the bag. ‘I told them to go home.’
‘You’ve done what?’ Marlene yelped, her voice rising higher with each word.
‘I’ve sent them home,’ Gianna answered and a mock
ing smile played on her lips. ‘As we’ve always been such good friends, I didn’t think you’d want them around to see me arrest you.’
~*~
At about the same time that Gianna was making her remarkable statement to Marlene, Mark Counter was standing talking with Austin Viridian and Gus Roxterby by the factory’s disposal chute. All around them, the bustle of working men went on.
The big blond had seen little to suggest that the hide and tallow man had regretted the death of his second partner. Rather, Viridian had appeared puzzled and worried, but not nearly as much as Schweitzer had been. The storekeeper had seemed to be very alarmed and almost frightened by the news.
Acting in his capacity as constable, Jesse Sparlow had asked both partners to join him in the jailhouse’s office and discuss the matter. Although Mark had not been included in the invitation, nobody had raised objections when he had gone with them.
According to the deputy who had brought the news from Bryan, the body had been found by two men who were out hunting. An examination of the tracks in the vicinity had suggested that Profaci had been killed elsewhere, then carried across his saddle and thrown into the draw. He had been shot in the back, probably with a rifle, and his pockets had been emptied. As yet, his horse had not been located.
Questioned by Sparlow, the deputy had said that there had been no footprints or anything else to supply a clue to the murderer’s identity. However, it had appeared that only one man was involved. Without waiting to be asked, the gambler had given an account of his movements while in Bryan. He had spent the evening and night in the company of a girl who worked in the Two Bulls Saloon, leaving her at around noon on Sunday and returning along the stagecoach trail to Pilar. The deputy had then claimed that Profaci had taken his departure, heading south, shortly after sun up. While that had not completely exonerated Sparlow, it had provided him with a reasonably sound alibi. If the two partners had been suspicious of him, they had concealed their feelings.
