by J. T. Edson
‘We’ve got it all,’ Giselle announced at last, hurrying out of the house.
‘Don’t forget that key,’ warned the Kid.
‘I won’t,’ the brunette replied. She closed the door and left the key on the outside but did not lock it. ‘I’ve left a note telling Simmy that I’ll be down at the saloon until dinner time.’
‘Will he figure anything suspicious about that?’ the Kid demanded, watching the girls boarding the wagon. ‘You and Emma never acted friendly.’
‘It’s all right,’ Giselle insisted. ‘Before Simmy left for the hollow, I told him that I meant to take over the saloon if Emma was killed. He’ll think that’s what I’m doing.’
‘It’ll maybe buy us some more time then,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Get aboard, ma’am, so’s we can be going.’
With all the women in the rear of the wagon and its canopy’s flaps closed, the Kid leapt astride his roan. Hubert set: the team into motion, swinging them away from the street. As they reached the top of the slope, the Kid looked back to make sure they had not been observed and followed.
‘Three!’ Lampart finished and the crowd waited in silent expectation.
Instead of stepping straight off. Belle addressed Emma over her shoulder. Her words carried to the spectators’ ears.
‘Hey, slack-puller. You’re lucky I’m going to kill you. After last night, Ed wouldn’t waste his time bedding with a fat old whore like you.’
Letting out a shrill shriek of what sounded like genuine rage, Emma hurled her revolver aside. She twirled around, left hand shooting forward to catch hold of Belle’s right shoulder. With a jerk, the blonde swung the lady outlaw to face her and delivered a slap with the other hand. There was no faking with the blow. It impacted on Belle’s cheek, sending her reeling and, in part, causing her to drop the Manhattan.
Landing on one knee, Belle saw Emma rushing at her. With a yell, the lady outlaw plunged upwards, diving to tackle the blonde about the waist. Down they went, rolling and thrashing on the ground in a brawl every bit as wild as the one they had put up the previous night.
Although the crowd had come to witness a gunfight, none of them raised objections at the way things had turned out. Prudence and caution had caused them to stay on the edge of the hollow when lead might start flying. Once Belle and Emma discarded their firearms and resumed the kind of fighting which had entertained the onlookers at the Honest Man, the crowd began to move forward. Throwing a grin at Red, Waco contrived to keep the Chinese prostitute at his other side.
Walking to the waiting horses, Dusty watched the people moving down into the hollow. Lampart was going with them. Despite his gamblers having money wagered on the result, he could not resist the temptation to sample once more the erotic delight of watching two beautiful women embroiled in primitive conflict. Everything was still going as the small Texan had planned.
Dusty had realized from the beginning that a gunfight, even if its result could be faked, would not last for long enough to let the robbery be carried out and the wagon disappear over the rim of the crater. So he had told the two girls how to act. Belle’s reference to Emma as a slack-puller—which, like tail-peddler, meant a whore of the cheapest variety—and comment about the previous night had been sufficient to bring the blonde’s reaction without arousing the spectators’ suspicions.
‘Come on, Lon!’ Dusty thought. ‘Get things moving!’
If the Kid and his party had set to work as soon as possible, they ought to be coming into view soon. The longer the delay, the greater chance of something going wrong. Lampart might become aware of the ammunition guards’ presence in the crowd and order them to return to their post.
There was the wagon now!
Good for Lon and Hubert. They had remembered their orders and hidden the girls in the back of the wagon. Trust Lon to restrain any urge the bartender might show towards making the team go faster. If anybody should happen to see the wagon ascending the slope, there was nothing about it to hint at a hurried, illicit departure. However, the leisurely pace also had its disadvantages.
While Belle and Emma were aware that they must keep their fight going for long enough to let the wagon’s party escape undetected, things could go wrong. In the heat and excitement of the tangle, tempers might easily be lost and one or the other knock her opponent unconscious. So far, from all Dusty could see and hear, they were carrying out their assignment in a satisfactory manner.
At last, after what seemed a far longer period than it had actually taken, the wagon disappeared amongst the trees. With a long exhalation of relief, Dusty hung Belle’s jacket and hat—handed into his keeping by the lady outlaw before going out to take up the dueling position—on her saddle. Vaulting afork his grulla, he gathered up the other horses’ reins and set the three animals into motion. Riding on to the slope, he caused a hurried scattering of spectators anxious to avoid being ridden down. On reaching the front of the crowd, he saw that he had not come too soon.
With fingers interlaced in matted, sodden, disheveled hair, Belle and Emma knelt clinging weakly to each other. Their shirts had gone and they looked to be close to collapsing through sheer exhaustion. Leaping from his saddle, Dusty stalked forward. Silence fell over the crowd as they watched and wondered what the small Texan planned to do. Reaching the girls, he bent and gripped their back hair in his hands. Drawing the heads apart, he snapped them together with a hard, crisp click.
‘What the hell?’ Lampart barked as Dusty released the girls’ hair and they crumpled in a heap at his feet.
‘If these two bitches wanted to shoot it out, it was fine with me,’ Dusty replied, bending again and lifting Belle from Emma. Holding the lady outlaw in his arms, he continued his explanation while walking towards the horses. ‘That way, I’d’ve been shut of one or the other. I’ll be damned if I’m going to have them keep cat-clawing each other over me. Neither’s fit to bed with when she’s through fighting.’
‘But what are you planning to do with them?’ Lampart insisted, watching Dusty heave Belle belly down across her saddle.
‘I’m going to take ’em off aways, just me and them,’ Dusty explained and went to collect Emma. With the blonde draped limply over her horse’s back, he went on. ‘Comes night, I’ll bring ’em back tamed.’
‘But—But—!’ Lampart spluttered, wondering how he could turn the small Texan’s actions to his own advantage.
Slowly Dusty walked over and retrieved Belle’s Manhattan. A low mutter rose from the crowd, querulous in its timbre if not out-and-out hostile. Straightening up, he stuck the revolver into his waistband. Hooking his thumbs into the gunbelt, he swung around and left a descent of silence where his eyes had passed over.
‘Anybody who objects can step right out and say so,’ Dusty declared. ‘Only he’d best come to do it with a gun in his hand.’
There was no reply. Everybody present knew ‘Ed Caxton’ as the feller who had simultaneously out-drawn two of the fastest gun hands Hell had ever seen, then made wolf bait of a slew of other bad hombres who had crossed his trail. If any member of the crowd should accept the challenge, that man would die almost as soon as he mentioned his intentions. In every male mind—except possibly Lampart’s—lurked the same summation. They had seen a mighty enjoyable cat-fight. One which, way the contestants had been looking during the last few seconds, would have tamely ended in a draw through them both fainting from exhaustion.
So why get killed over it having been stopped?
‘Ed Caxton’ sounded like he aimed to keep both girls around. One thing was for sure if he did, they would be unlikely to grow friendlier. So, for all his proposed ‘taming’, there was always the chance that they would lock horns again. In which case, the wisest thing for every man present to do was let that big Texan tote them off—stay alive himself, and wait to see what the future held.
Seeing that he had made his point, Dusty mounted his grulla. He rode up the slope, leading the two horses and their inert burdens. Lampart watched him go, thinking
fast.
‘Didn’t some of you fellers have money bet on who won?’ the mayor inquired as Dusty rode over the edge of the top of the hollow.
At the words, Waco gave Red a nudge with his hip to warn her that she must play her part. Excitement glinted in her eyes. Springing by the youngster, she confronted the Chinese girl.
‘You quit a-pawing my feller, you slit-eyed whore!’ Red shrieked.
‘What you speak, round-eye calico?’ the Chinese girl spat back, for there was no love lost between the prostitutes and Emma’s employees.
‘I’ll show you what I speak!’ Red promised, conscious of being watched by both factions.
Ducking her head, Red leapt at and butted the Oriental in the chest. Reeling backwards, the girl sat down. Another of the brothel’s contingent made as if to attack Red. That did it. Already brought to a pitch of wild excitement by the fight between Belle and Emma, the two factions needed no more urging. Squeals and yells rose, then that section of the crowd exploded into a multiple tangle of hair-pulling, fist-swinging, screeching females.
‘You started th—!’ the brothel’s bouncer began, moving towards Waco.
Before the words ended, the blond youngster’s fist took the man under the jaw and knocked him from his feet. Like the ripples spread by throwing a stone into a pond, the fight developed until it engulfed every member of the crowd. Even Goldberg’s plump, pompous wife joined in, mixing it as gamely as any saloon-girl with her husband’s partner’s younger, prettier spouse.
A good ten minutes went by before Waco found himself close to Red. In that period, the fight had become general and a matter of attacking the nearest person of the same sex. Red sat astride Mrs. Goldberg and the jeweler’s wife, pounding indiscriminately at both while they continued to settle old scores. Grabbing the girl by the hair, Waco hauled her bodily clear of the melee. When she tried to turn on him, he first slapped, then shook her into a more pacific frame of mind.
‘That’s better,’ Waco growled, carrying her up the slope. ‘I’ll take you back to the saloon and you can get into something you can travel in.’
‘Wh—When do we g-go?’ Red gasped, brushing away her tears.
‘After I’ve done a lil job for Du—Ed,’ Waco replied.
Fortunately, Red’s exertions had left her in no state to think clearly. So she did not notice the blond youngster’s mistake. Clinging to him, she pressed her bruised, scratched face against his shoulder.
‘What’s the lil job?’ the girl asked. ‘Is it important?’
‘Enough,’ Waco answered.
The blond did not explain how if he succeeded in his ‘lil job’ he would most likely save the lives of many people—or that the penalty for failure was even more likely to be death.
Chapter Seventeen – Miss Nene, Meet Captain Dusty Fog
‘Howdy, Simmy,’ Waco greeted, strolling along the sidewalk to where the mayor was unlocking his front door in a decidedly furtive manner.
Lampart looked anything but his usual, neat, immaculate self. Unable to slip away before the general brawl had entrapped him, he had been compelled to fight back until he had dropped to the ground and feigned unconsciousness. By the time he had finally escaped, leaving the battle still raging, he had lost his hat, jacket and cravat. His torn shirt looked as if it had been walked on—and had. It had been his hope to reach his home without anybody seeing him, for he knew there would be those who wanted to know why he had done nothing to end the conflict. Although the street was clear, that blasted blond youngster had come through the alley and surprised him.
‘How did you get here?’ the mayor demanded ungraciously.
‘Same’s you. I got out soon’s I could.’
‘So it seems,’ Lampart growled, glaring at Waco’s unmarked features and all too aware of his own injuries. ‘What do you want?’
‘Some money out of our box.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Sure. Happen you don’t mind the chance of the saloon getting damaged.’
‘Huh?’ grunted the mayor.
‘I sure’s hell don’t aim to stay away from it,’ Waco explained. ‘And there could be them’s reckons Red ’n’ me’s to blame for that ruckus at the hollow. So I conclude buying drinks good ’n’ regular ought to change their minds. Talked to your lady down there, and she claims I’ve got a right smart notion.’
‘My wife’s at the saloon?’
‘Why sure. Taking on like she owns it.’
That figured to anybody who knew Giselle, the mayor mused. From what she had been saying when she had heard about the gunfight, his wife had expected her half-sister to be killed. So she had not waited to hear the result before going to assert her control of the saloon. One thing was for sure. No matter who ran the Honest Man, its profits—and losses—descended on Lampart. What young ‘Caxton’ said was true, too. After a night without a drink being sold—although many were consumed—due to that blonde bitch’s boastful stupidity, Lampart had no desire to incur further losses.
‘Come in and get what you need,’ the mayor ordered, wanting to get off the street as quickly as he could.
With which sentiment Waco heartily concurred. Nobody had seen him meet the mayor. Even Red was unaware that he had, having gone to her room to change ready for their departure. That made the blond youngster’s task just that much safer.
‘I allus got the notion Ma Goldberg and that fancy young wife of the jeweler’s didn’t cotton to each other,’ Waco commented cheerily as Lampart took him inside and locked the front door. ‘They sure was whomping each other all ways when I lit out.’
‘She always blamed Melissa for Goldberg getting caught out,’ the mayor answered, opening up his office. ‘I should have one of the Regulators here—’
‘You’ve got one,’ Waco pointed out. ‘Me. You made me one after we’d got rid of ole Basmanov’s bunch for you.’
‘Of course,’ Lampart grunted and waved his hand towards the boxes. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Gracias,’ the youngster drawled, walking by the desk. Scooping the Colt from it, he turned and threw down on the mayor. ‘Only I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You’ve done what?’ Lampart spat, staring at the Peacemaker as it lined on his chest.
‘Changed my mind,’ Waco repeated, thumb-cocking the revolver. ‘So, if you’ll open up that drawer with the “magnetic” battery in it, I’ll touch off your ammunition supply and head for home.’
‘Home? With a price on your head!’
‘Shuckens, that’s not worrying me one lil bit.’
‘Do you reckon that the Army will forget what you’ve done just because you’ve got rid of my ammunition?’ Lampart sneered.
‘Just what have I done?’ Waco countered.
‘Helped to kill a colonel, sergeant and six men,’ the mayor reminded him.
‘You shouldn’t believe all you read in the newspapers, Mr. Mayor,’ the blond youngster drawled. ‘Those fellers’re no closer to heaven—or hell, I’d say in Paddy Magoon’s case—than down to the OD Connected.’
‘The—?’ Lampart gulped.
‘The OD Connected. That’s our spread. Me, the Ysabel Kid—and Dusty Fog’s.’
‘Dusty Fog?’ croaked Lampart.
‘Yes sir, Mr. Mayor,’ Waco confirmed. ‘My “Brother Ed’s” Dusty Fog. Now open that drawer, or I’ll do it myself.’
‘Can you?’ Lampart challenged.
‘I can give it a whirl. This room’s pretty thick-walled. I could burst the desk open without making enough noise to be heard outside of ’em.’
‘You’ve a point,’ Lampart admitted sullenly, hanging his head in dejected fashion. He walked around and sat behind his desk. Without looking at Waco, he opened the required drawer with his left hand. ‘Here you are.’
For all his beaten aspect, Lampart was grinning inwardly. In addition to having been a successful stage illusionist, he was also a skilled maker of magical tricks and gadgets. Being aware of the type of people with whom he would be d
ealing, he had put his inventive genius to work in Hell. Not only had he fitted a secret door to the cellar which held his wealth, but he had equipped the desk with a protective mechanism. The latter had already proved its worth.
On their last night alive, Glover and Eel had not meant to return to Hell. So their use as a future source of revenue had ended. They had not attempted to draw their guns until he had shouted the unnecessary warning—and by that time it was too late. In fact, he had even been compelled to pull out Eel’s weapon to make his story ring true. Fortunately, Cowper had been close enough to the building to hear the shots. Rushing in to investigate, holding his gun, naturally, he had died at ‘Ed Caxton’s’ hand.
Except that the big Texan was not ‘Ed Caxton’, if the blond youngster was telling the truth. He was Dusty Fog and he had come with his two companions to destroy Hell.
Which raised the question of why Fog had sent the young blond to handle the dangerous task of blowing up the Kweharehnuh’s reserve ammunition supply.
Most likely the blond had asked to do so, as a means of winning acclaim and, probably, higher financial rewards. Judging the Rio Hondo gun wizard by his own standards, Lampart decided that Dusty Fog would be only too pleased to let another man take the risk. Whatever had happened, the blond was going to pay for the rash, impetuous offer with his life.
Still keeping his head bowed, so that no hint of his true feelings would flash a warning to his victim, Lampart rubbed his left foot against the inner support leg of his desk. A click sounded and a section of the desk’s top hinged up close to his left hand. Out of the hole exposed by the section rose a block of wood. On top of the block rested the ivory-handled Webley Bulldog which had taken Basmanov’s, Glover’s and Eel’s lives. Scooping up the weapon, he lifted his eyes to Waco’s face and a mocking smile twisted at his lips.
Ever since organizing the escape of so many badly wanted criminals, Lampart had felt a growing sense of his own brilliance. He had brought Hell into being, arranging for it to become the lucrative proposition which it now was. With each achievement, he had grown more certain that no lesser man could equal his superlative genius, or defeat him in a match of wits.
