Trigger Fast

by J. T. Edson

  Using the prerogative of an old friend, the Kid took his horse to Bent’s private stables and found, as he hoped, an empty stall. He meant to attend to his horse before thinking of himself. With Nigger cooled down, watered and supplied with both grain and hay, the Kid left his saddle hanging on the burro in the corner. He drew the old ‘yellow boy’ from the saddleboot and headed for the bar-room.

  Although busily occupied in wiping over a glass with a piece of cloth, the bartender found time to look up and nod a greeting to the new arrival.

  ‘Howdy, Kid,’ he greeted. ‘Looking for Wes Hardin?’

  ‘He here?’

  ‘By the wall there, playing poker with the boss.’

  The bartender and the Kid exchanged glances and broad grins. The poker games between Wes Hardin, Texas gun-fighter, and Duke Bent, owner of Bent’s Ford, were famous along the cattle trails. In serious play and skill the games stood high for both men were past masters at the ancient arts of betting and bluffing known as poker. Yet neither had ever come out of a game more than five or so dollars ahead for they played a five to ten cent limit. This did not affect the way in which they played for they gave each deal enough concentration for a thousand dollar pot.

  Before he crossed the room, the Kid looked around. The usual kind of crowd for Bent’s Ford looked to be present. A few cowhands who spent the winter up north and were now either headed home or waiting in hope of taking on with another trail drive. Travelling salesmen, flashily dressed, loud-talking, boastful as they waited for stage coaches. A trio of blue uniformed cavalrymen and a buckskin clad scout shared a table. None of them looked to have just finished a long, hard ride.

  ‘Anybody new in, Charlie?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re the first since sundown,’ the bartender answered.

  ‘Check this in for me then,’ drawled the Kid, passing his rifle to the other man who placed it with the double barrelled ten gauge under the bar counter.

  With his weapon out of the way, the Kid crossed the room towards where Bent played poker. He stood for a moment studying Bent’s burly build, gambler style clothes and remembering the big man made this place almost singlehanded, brought it to its present high standard by hard work and guts. Bent had been a cavalry scout, one of the best. He’d also been a lawman, tough and honest. And Bent was all man in the Kid’s eyes.

  With his back to the wall in the manner of one of his kind, Wes Hardin, most feared gunfighter in Texas, studied his cards. He was tall, slender, with a dark expressionless face and cold, wolf-savage eyes. Hardin wore the dress of a top-hand with cattle, which he was, he also wore a gunbelt which carried a brace of matched Army Colts in the butt forward holsters of a real fast man with a gun. He was that too.

  ‘I’ll raise you!’ Bent said, fanning his cards between powerful fingers.

  Will you now?’ replied Hardin. ‘I’m going to see that raise and up it.’

  The Kid watched all this, knowing the two men were completely oblivious of his presence. He moved around to see Hardin’s cards, a grin came to his face and he did something no other man in the room would dare to do.

  ‘Should be ashamed of yourself, Wes,’ he said, ‘raising on less’n pair of eights like that.’

  Slamming down his cards with an exclamation of disgust Hardin thrust back his chair and glared at the Indian-dark boy before him. The customers at near-by tables prepared to head for cover when guns roared forth.

  ‘Hello, Lon,’ said Hardin, relaxing slightly when he saw who cut in. ‘What damn fool game you playing, you crazy Comanche. I was all set to bluff Bent clear out of the pot.’

  ‘Huh!’ granted Bent. ‘You didn’t fool me one lil bit.’ He raked in the pile of chips and started to count them. ‘Make it you owe me a dollar fifty, Wes.’

  ‘Bet you over counted, like always.’

  The two men glared at each other. They began a lengthy argument, each man casting reflections on the other’s morals and general honesty. Things passed between them, insults rocked back and forwards, which would have seen hands flashing hipwards and the thunder of guns if spoken by a stranger.

  Somehow the argument got sidetracked as, alternating between recrimination and personal abuse, they started to argue heatedly about a disputed call in a wild card game some three years before. Just what this had to do with the present disagreement passed the Kid’s understanding as neither of the men had held the disputed hand, in fact had not even been in the pot where it came up. A burst of laughter from the Kid brought an end to the argument and they turned their anger on him, studying him with plain disgust.

  What’s amusing you, you danged Comanche?’ Hardin growled.

  ‘You pair are,’ answered the grinning Kid. ‘I’ve seen you both lose and win plenty without a word, in high stake games. Yet you’re sat here whittle-whanging over who won a measly dollar fifty.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand it at all, Kid,’ Bent answered. ‘It’s all a matter of principles, which same you’ve got none of.’

  ‘Man!’ whooped the Kid. ‘Happen principles make folks act like you pair I sure don’t want any.’

  Hardin’s face grew more serious, though only men who knew him as well as the Kid and Bent would have noticed it.

  ‘Where at’s Dusty and Mark, Lon?’ he asked. ‘I tried to make Moondog City, when I heard about Cousin Danny.’2

  ‘We handled it, Wes.’

  ‘Cousin Dusty all right now? He felt strong about that lil brother of his.’

  ‘He’s over it now.’

  From the way the Kid spoke both men knew the subject was closed. He did not intend talking about the happenings in the town of Moondog. The sense of loss he felt at the death of Dusty’s younger, though not smaller brother, still hung on. He did not offer to tell what happened when Dusty, Mark, Red Blaze and himself came to Moondog. They came to see how Danny Fog handled his duties as a Texas Ranger and had found him beaten to death. Danny Fog died because the town did not dare back him against Sandra Howkins’ wolf-pack of hired killers. The Kid did not care to think of the days when he, Dusty and Mark stayed in Moondog and brought an end to the woman’s reign of terror.

  ‘Been any sign of the OD Connected herd yet?’ asked the Kid, not only changing the subject but also getting down to the urgent business which brought him north.

  ‘Nope, we haven’t seen any sign of it,’ Bent replied. ‘You fixing to meet up with it here?’

  ‘Was. Only we got us a mite of fuss down below the Texas line. Might take us a spell to handle it and we don’t want Red Blaze coming down trail to help us, or waiting here for us to join up.’

  Due to having been followed the Kid was more than usually alert and watchful. So he saw the man who entered the saloon and stood just inside the doors, looking around. One glance told the Kid this man had not been on his trail, for the trailer had been a westerner and the new arrival anything but that.

  He stood maybe five foot eight, slim and erect. His sober black suit was well pressed and tidy, his shirt white and his tie of eastern pattern and sober hue. Though his head had lost some of its hair and his face looked parchment-like, expressionless, he carried himself with quiet dignity as he crossed towards where Bent sat at the table. Halting by the table the newcomer coughed discreetly to attract attention to himself.

  ‘Has Sir James’ man arrived to guide us to his residence, landlord?’ he asked in a strange sounding accent.

  ‘Nope,’ Bent answered, having grown used to being addressed as landlord by this sober looking dude. ‘Did you pass anybody on the way north, Lon?’

  ‘Nary a soul,’ replied the Kid. ‘You all expecting somebody, friend?’

  Swivelling an eye in the Kid’s direction, the man looked him over from head to toe. The Kid had ridden hard all day and his black clothes did not look at their best, but he reckoned that to be his own concern. To the Kid it seemed this pasty-faced dude did not approve of him or his trail-dirty appearance. This annoyed the Kid, never a man to allow a dude to take liberties with
him.

  Bent knew this and cut in hurriedly, saying, ‘Mr. Weems here’s expecting one of the Double K to come and guide him and his folks down to the spread.’

  At first Bent had not taken to Weems. Weems came down from the north with two big Conestoga wagons, each well loaded, but drawn by good horses of a type rarely seen in the west, great heavy legged and powerful creatures which Weems called shire horses. The two wagons had been driven by a pair of gaunt men dressed in a style Bent had never seen before. Two women rode in the wagons and, strangely to western eyes, they did not ride together. Bent suggested that the men shared a room and the two women another. The suggestion was greeted with horror by all concerned, the two drivers insisting it wouldn’t be proper to share a room with Mr. Weerns and the pretty, snub-nosed, poorly dressed girl stated firmly she could not possibly use the same room as Miss Trumble.

  It took Bent a short time to understand the social standing so firmly ingrained in these English travellers. They did not live by the same standards as the men of the West. To the girl, Weems called her a ‘tween maid, it was unthinkable that she should room with so exalted a person as Miss Trumble who appeared to be a housekeeper of some kind. So he arranged for the girl to use a small room while Miss Trumble and Weems took two of his expensive guest rooms and the two men insisted on spending the night in the wagons.

  ‘You-all work for Keller, mister?’ asked the Kid, his voice sounding Comanche-mean.

  ‘I am Sir James Keller’s man,’ replied Weems haughtily and laying great emphasis on the third and fourth words.

  ‘Never took you for a gal!’ answered the Kid, getting more riled at the thought of a dude trying to make a fool of him.

  Once more Bent intervened in the interests of peace and quiet. ‘Mr. Weems is a valet, Lon,’ he said.

  ‘A valley?’ asked the Kid, sounding puzzled and wondering if Bent was joining in some kind of a joke.

  ‘V-a-l-e-t, not v-a-l-l-ey,’ Bent explained.

  ‘A gentleman’s gentleman,’ Weems went on, as if that would clear up any doubts the Kid still held.

  ‘Like Tommy Okasi is to Uncle Devil,’ Hardin put in, helping to clarify the duties of a valet in a manner the Kid understood.

  ‘Never heard ole Tommy called anything as fancy as a valet,’ drawled the Kid although he knew now what Weems did for his living.

  ‘There’s not likely to be anybody up here today,’ Bent told Weems. ‘If your boss hasn’t anybody here in the morning you could send a telegraph message to Barlock and let him know you’ve arrived here. Or you could see if there’s anybody going down trail who’ll act as a guide. But you won’t be able to start until the morning either way.’

  ‘Thank you, I yield to your greater knowledge.’

  With that Weems turned and walked towards the bar. Bent looked down at the cards, then raised his eyes to the Kid’s face. The struggle between possible financial gains at poker and his keenness at quartet singing warred for a moment and music won out.

  ‘Say, Lon,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can get up a quartet and have us some singing.’

  Always when the Kid visited Bent’s Ford on his way north or south, Bent expected a session of quartet harmony. He possessed a powerful, rolling bass and enjoyed throwing it into the melody, backing the other singers. The Kid stood high on Bent’s list of tenors and the Kid was always willing to oblige. Knowing Dusty did not expect him to return before morning, the Kid could relax and enjoy quartet singing in good company.

  ‘Let’s go and find us some more singers,’ drawled the Kid.

  ‘Got us a baritone,’ Bent replied. ‘Whiskey drummer over there. Now all we want is another tenor. How about you, Wes?’

  ‘Never took to singing since pappy used to make me get in that fancy lil suit and go into the choir back home.’

  ‘I’ll get around and ask, Lon,’ Bent said, as Wes Hardin refused to be drawn into the quartet.

  The Kid and Hardin headed for the bar while Bent made a round of the room looking for a second tenor without which no decent quartet could exist. The two Texans took beer, further along the bar Weems leaned with a schooner of beer in his hand looking off into space and speaking with nobody.

  ‘Not another tenor in the place,’ said Bent in a disappointed tone, joining the other two at the bar.

  His words carried to Weems who walked towards them.

  ‘I suppose there is no chance of getting started for the master’s residence tonight?’ he said.

  ‘Nope, none at all,’ Bent answered.

  ‘Then may I join your quartet?’

  The other men showed their surprise for none of them thought Weems to be a likely candidate for joining in a quartet.

  ‘You?’ asked the Kid.

  ‘One sings occasionally,’ replied Weems calmly. ‘I recollect the time Sir James’ butler and I formed a quartet with the head keeper and head groom. Of course they weren’t in our class, but we felt the conventions could be waived at such a time. Without boasting, we made a pretty fair quartet.’

  The meaning of Weems’ words went clear over the heads of his listeners. Not one of them understood the strict hierarchy of servants in upper-class households. Nor were they greatly concerned with such things as conventions, being more interested in getting buckled down to some singing.

  One problem might present itself, the choice of songs. Weems could hardly be expected to know old range favourites.

  ‘Shall we make a start with Barbara Allen?’ asked Weems.

  ‘Take the lead, friend,’ replied the Kid.

  It took them but the first verse of the old song to know Weems could handle his part and was no mean tenor in his own right. The room fell silent as the customers settled back to listen to real good singing.

  After four songs, all well put over and with Weems showing he could lend a hand at carrying a melody even if he did not know the words of the tune, Bent called for liquid refreshment. This gave the Kid a chance to talk to Weems and to try to learn more about Sir James Keller.

  ‘What sort of feller’s your boss, friend?’ he asked.

  ‘Sir James?’ replied Weems. ‘A gentleman and a sportsman. My family has served his for the past six generations.’

  ‘Why’d he come out here?’

  ‘I never asked.’

  The Kid grinned, warming to Weems. If anybody had questioned him about some of Dusty, or Ole Devil’s business he would have made the same reply, in much the same tone. Clearly Weems felt the same loyalty to his boss as a cowhand did to the outfit for which he rode. However the Kid hoped to try and learn if Keller knew what went on around and about his spread.

  ‘Maybe he reckons to make a fortune out here,’ drawled Wes Hardin.

  ‘We already have a fortune,’ sniffed Weems, just a trifle pompously. ‘The master felt we might have a better chance of development out here. After all there is so little scope left in England these days. The whole country’s going to the dogs. Why shortly before we sailed a junior footman at Lord Granderville’s, in my presence, addressed the butler without calling him mister.’ To Weems this clearly amounted to the depths of decadence, a sign of the general rottenness of the times. To the listening men it sounded incomprehensible. If a Texan called a man mister after being introduced it meant he did not like the man and wanted no part of him.

  Bent took up the questioning and Weems, with the mellowing influence of a couple of beers, talked of the life he led in England. He might have been discussing the habits of creatures from another planet as he described the strict social distinctions between servants. It now became clear to Bent why a between-stairs maid did not consider herself good enough to share a room with so important a person as a housekeeper. The term brought grins to Texas faces. In their world a house did not mean a home and housekeeper sounded like a fancy title for the madam of a brothel. Weems broke into a delighted chuckle as the Kid mentioned this, trying to picture the puritanical Miss Trumble in such a capacity. He talked on but there was no snobbish fe
eling in his words. To him it stood as a way of life, one with a code as rigid as that which ruled the lives of cowhands in their loyalty to their brand.

  During the talking, even though absorbed by Weems’ descriptive powers, the Kid stayed alert. He saw the stocky man who entered the bar room and stood just inside looking around with watchful eyes. For an instant he looked at the Kid, then his eyes passed on, but the Kid had noticed just a hint of recognition in them. The Kid studied the newcomer, noted his dandy but travel-stained clothes, the low hanging Tranter revolver from the butt of which a right hand never strayed. The man looked like a tough hired killer, one of the better class than the pair he’d run across on Double K, or the group he helped chase from Lasalle’s, but one of their breed.

  Possibly the man might be a guide come to take Weems and his party to the ranch. His next actions proved this to be wrong. The man did not cross to the bar and ask for information about the Weems’ party. He sat with his back to the wall and close to the door, and ordered a drink from a passing waiter. Which same meant if he came from the Double K it was not to meet Weems, but to follow the Kid.

  ‘Let’s have another song,’ suggested Bent, getting in another round of beers. ‘Give us the Rosemary-Jo Lament, Lon.’

  ‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Soon’s I’ve been out back.’

  Shoving away from the bar, the Kid headed across the room and out of the door. He gave no sign of knowing the man might be after him, but sensed eyes on him as he left the building. Two horses which had not been there when he entered, stood at the hitching rail. That meant he guessed right, the man was the same who followed him north.

  For some moments after the Kid’s departure Dune sat at the table and waited. Then he emptied his glass in one swallow, rose and walked through the doors into the night.

  The night lay under the tight of a waning moon, but he could see well enough for his purpose. He glanced at the two horses, they had brought him from the Double K although he did not travel at speed. He might have caught up with the Kid on the range but did not fancy taking such a chance. He had ridden steadily, keeping reserve energy for a hurried departure. Clearly the Kid had friends in the bar-room and they were not going to take kindly finding him murdered.