by J. T. Edson
‘I was, but I didn’t feel up to another huge meal followed by long speeches so soon after all the rest we’ve had since the Railroad Commission got here, I asked to be excused,’ Sangster replied. ‘I had a few things on my mind and decided to take a walk to try to sort them out. Before I realized where I was, I found myself in the alley across the street and saw those three talking in one over here. Then the man on the sidewalk left the others and went back along the alley. It wasn’t until I saw them taking out and hiding their left hand guns behind their backs that I guessed something bad was being planned. I’m not armed myself, so I wasn’t sure what to do for the best. Then I saw you coming and shouted a warning. I couldn’t do anything else, not having a gun. However, as I expected, you were able to deal with the two of them.’
‘Like I said, you saved me from the other hombre,’ Dusty asserted and, concluding from the way the New Englander moved restlessly that his comment was creating embarrassment, he decided to change the subject. ‘How bad is it, Doc?’
‘He won’t be trying to use a gun with his right hand for a spell,’ Farnsworth estimated. ‘But he’ll live.’
‘Well now,’ the Kid drawled, seeming to the injured man to become even more Comanche-like and menacing. ‘I’d not be so sure about that, was I you, Doc.’
‘Wh—What do you mean?’ Meacher croaked, his expression showing he had deduced the worst from the quietly spoken words.
‘You three yahoos tried to make wolf bait of Dusty,’ the Kid explained, his tone still mild even though his bearing was anything except that. ‘Which we’re wanting to know why you did it.’
‘W—We was hired to gun him down,’ Meacher replied. Then, seeking to acquire exculpation for his part, he considered he should make his companions appear more dangerous than would be the case if he used the names by which he had addressed them while they were growing up together. ‘’Least-wise Rocky Todd ’n’ Bad Bill Hamilton was. They made me come along with ’em.’
‘I just bet this gent here saw ’em a-twisting your arm something cruel to make you do it,’ the Kid said derisively. ‘Who-all hired you?’
‘He said his name w—!’ Meacher began, but gave a gasp as the doctor moved his shoulder and slumped into a faint.
‘He’ll talk better after I’ve fixed his wound,’ Farnsworth remarked. ‘And I don’t have anything with me to do it here.’
‘We’ll tote him down to the jail,’ Dusty instructed. ‘Happen that’s all right with you, Doc?’
‘I’d rather get his blood over things there than in my room,’ Farnsworth admitted. ‘So I’ll fetch my bag and join you.’
‘Bueno,’ the small Texan assented. ‘Lon, rustle up some help to get the bodies to the funeral parlor. When their amigo’s able to talk, we’ll ask where they hail from and whether there’s anybody we can notify of what’s happened to them.’
Four – Nowheres Near Big As Cap’n Fog
‘Say, Belle honey,’ drawled the man sitting at one side of the small table, raising his gaze from the ace, king, queen, jack and ten of hearts he had picked up. His deep baritone voice had the timbre of a well educated Texan and his gaze was redolent of amusement as he continued, ‘Do you speak French?’
‘Enough to get by,’ admitted the other player in the poker game, having dealt the hand. Her accent suggested a similar background, albeit from elsewhere in the South. Although she had not included “Belle” as part of her name when signing the register at the Railroad House Hotel, ‘Miss Marie Counter, Baton Rouge, Louisiana’, she raised no objections to being addressed by it. ‘What do you want to know?’
By any standards, each of the speakers was a magnificent example of their respective gender in the Caucasian subdivision of the human race!
This was especially the case with Mark Counter. Six foot three in height, with a tremendous spread to his shoulders and his torso trimming to a slender waist, he tended to stand out in any company. He had hung his wide brimmed white J.B. Stetson hat on a hook by the door on entering the comfortably furnished room at the rear of the hotel’s second floor. Doing so displayed that his curly golden blond hair was cut short in the accepted cowhand style. His bronzed features were almost classically handsome, but exuded a rugged force. Despite weighing over two hundred pounds, he gave no suggestion of being slow or awkward on his feet. Rather he moved with a springiness indicating a potential for considerable speed when required. Having a deputy town marshal’s badge on the left breast pocket of his tan colored shirt, his attire, while functional, was that of a Texas’ cattle country fashion plate. It was made of the finest materials and obviously tailored for him. Placed on the sidepiece, his brown buscadero gunbelt carried two ivory handled Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers in fast draw holsters and they clearly had seen much use.
In addition to answering to the name she had not included in her registration. ‘Marie Counter’s’ appearance suggested she had supplied false information in the register. On bringing Mark to her room, placing her be-ribboned, wide brimmed, flower decorated white straw hat by his Stetson on the hooks she had removed a realistic wig of curly and plaited blonde locks. Her own hair was brunette and cropped close around her skull. Furthermore, despite having conveyed a suggestion of being a trifle short-sighted downstairs, she put the gold rimmed spectacles she had worn by the gunbelt.
Also in her early twenties, ‘Marie’ was five foot eight inches tall. Although her face had slightly more than the modest amount of make-up permissible for a ‘good’ woman, neither this nor the fact that her top lip was swollen a little as if it had suffered an accident of some kind, detracted from the fact that she was very beautiful. She had on a frilly white cotton muslin organdie two-piece outfit designed to be decorous in cut and style. Nevertheless, the tight fit of the blouse tended to draw attention to the firm full swell of an imposing bosom and the way her torso trimmed to a slender waist. This widened to become curvaceous hips and the material of her skirt gave a hint of them joining shapely legs. There were no rings on her hands, implying she was single and, by convention, she should not be entertaining a member of the opposite sex—especially in such a fashion—without a chaperone.
Earning her living as a very successful confidence trickster Belle Starr—‘Marie Counter’ being her current summer name—had never been worried about the possibility of flouting accepted conventions. Having spent a most hectic few days, [12] she had considered she had had enough excitement for the time being and decided to relax in the company of the only man who had ever gained her affections. Learning he would soon be returning to Texas had given her an added inducement to see him. Nor, despite being on opposite sides of the law, had she been worried over the possibility of causing him embarrassment by doing so. She maintained secret caches of clothing and other items of disguise in many places throughout the West and had recently established one at Honesty John’s Tavern. Examining the contents of the two trunks stored there, she had selected a personality and alias she felt sure would prevent her true identity being discovered. Dressed and behaving in a fashion suitable for her pose as ‘Marie Counter’, she had come to Mulrooney by train early that evening. Taking a room at the Railroad House Hotel and informing the desk clerk that she was the blond giant’s cousin from Baton Rouge, she had sent a message to the jailhouse asking him to join her for dinner.
After eating in the hotel’s dining room, holding a conversation intended to convince anybody who might be listening of their suppose relationship, Belle and Mark had felt sure no suspicions would be aroused when they came to her quarters. With their hats, his gunbelt, her wig and the unnecessary spectacles removed, they had embraced more warmly than they had been able to do on meeting in the lobby. Then, extricating herself from his arms, she had suggested they played poker. If anybody who had seen the way she behaved downstairs had been present, the suggestion would have seemed out of character. What was more, in the light of subsequent events, it appeared Mark was either surprisingly unobservant or remarkably trusting.
/> While the blond giant took a seat at the table in the center of the room, the lady outlaw fetched an already opened deck from the top drawer of the sidepiece. Sitting down, she dealt the cards without either shuffling or offering them for him to cut. Despite knowing she was conversant with the etiquette of poker, instead of commenting upon the omission, he picked up his hand. On discovering he received a royal straight flush, he made the remark about the possibility of her speaking French.
‘What does deja vu mean?’ Mark inquired, again studying a hand which practically every poker player would have been delighted to receive.
‘Deja vu?’ Belle repeated and, although she suspected there was no need for the explanation, continued, ‘It means you think something that’s happening to you has happened before. But I can’t for the life of me think what that might be.’
‘I can,’ the blond giant stated. ‘But do we have to play out the hand?’
‘You might win,’ the lady outlaw asserted.
‘Or it could wind up in a standoff,’ Mark pointed out, despite being aware that the odds on having two such high ranking hands dealt pat were astronomical. [13]
‘Well that would be fun too,’ Belle claimed. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry.’
‘I’m in no hurry,’ the blond giant declared with a grin, remembering the last occasion he and the lady outlaw had played poker in such a fashion. [14] ‘This’s my night off watch and I don’t have to get to the jailhouse until nine tomorrow morning.’
‘Then I’ll open with my blouse,’ Belle stated, reaching for the top button of the garment without waiting for her opponent to say whether he wanted to draw cards. Then her tone became irate. ‘Oh damn, who’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mark admitted. Coming to his feet, he walked across the room. One of the facilities supplied by the Railroad House Hotel was a system of speaking tubes which allowed communication between the rooms and the office behind the reception desk. Removing the cork from the brass mouthpiece to bring the high pitched whistle to an end, he listened and, stiffening, snapped, ‘The hell you say!’
‘What is it, honey?’ Belle inquired, knowing only something of considerable importance would have elicited the response.
‘Somebody’s bushwhacked Dusty,’ Mark replied.
‘Oh my god!’ the lady outlaw gasped, coming to her feet and her concern was not a pretense. ‘Is he—?’
‘No,’ the blond giant said, after having listened to the rest of the news which the clerk imparted, and his tone indicated the relief he was feeling. ‘He’s not hurt!’
‘Thank god for that!’ Belle breathed.
‘I’m sorry, honey,’ Mark apologized, ‘But I’ve got to go down to the jailhouse and see if Dusty needs any help.’
‘Of course,’ Belle assented without hesitation, despite darting a glance redolent of disappointment at the cards. In addition to knowing it was the blond giant’s duty as a deputy to report to the town marshal’s office, she also knew of the close bonds of loyalty each member of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit felt towards the others, and she had expected that decision to be made. What was more, having the greatest respect and liking for Dusty, she was willing to give any assistance her association with outlaws could produce if it was needed. ‘And I’m coming with you.’
‘Now we know who you are ’n’ where you’re from, which’d best be right happen you want to keep a whole hide,’ the Ysabel Kid said, the information having been given by the prisoner cowering on a chair. He sounded like a Comanche Dog Soldier eager to inflict cruel and painful treatment. ‘Who hired you to gun Cap’n Fog down?’
Recovering from the faint, Michael Meacher had found himself in what he realized was a cell. While he was receiving treatment, he had had his forebodings increased by hints from the doctor about the fate awaiting him unless he was forthcoming when questioned about the ambush. With the wound bandaged, he was fetched into the main office of the jailhouse by a pair of deputies who he had not seen before. Their attire respectively that of a successful professional gambler and an Army scout and they looked just as unfriendly and menacing as the Texans who had arrived at the scene of the ambush. Suspecting the worst, when ordered to sit down, he had crouched like a dog expecting to be whipped on the chair placed by the desk.
The posture adopted by the prisoner was not caused by the pain he was suffering. He was so perturbed by the coldly hostile faces of the five men wearing badges who were forming a rough half circle about him that he was barely conscious of the throbbing ache which still came from the bandaged injury. Until that evening, his sole contact with lawmen had been a brief acquaintance with the elderly and far from zealous constable of his home town in Illinois. He realized he was now dealing with far more dangerous and intelligent peace officers who were determined to get the truth from him. With that in mind, instead of saying ‘Mean Mick Meach’, he had given his real name and home town when Dusty Fog had commenced the questioning with a demand to be told who he was and where he came from.
‘N—Not m—me,’ Meacher denied, looking nervously from the intended victim to the Indian dark deputy and back. ‘It was Roc—!’
‘Happen we believed you, which we don’t,’ Waco interrupted, sounding as coldly threatening as he and all the others were contriving to appear. ‘Seems to me’s you’d’ve made certain sure’s you got to know who-all’d done the hiring.’
‘I—I didn’—’ Meacher began, diverting his attention briefly from Dusty to the blond youngster and intending to resume his earlier attempt to convince the obviously skeptical group that he had been an unwilling participant in the ambush.
‘The hell you didn’t,’ interrupted Deputy Frank “Derry” Derringer, whose knowledge of gambling had been put to good use since he became a peace officer.
‘H—He told Rock—us—his name was “Will Smith”!’ Meacher declared hurriedly, concluding things would go badly for him unless he supplied what few answers he could.
‘Smith).9 Deputy Albert Tickles’ Barrel snorted, having accepted the post of jailer after his retirement from being a scout for the U.S. Cavalry. [15]
‘Th—That’s what he tried to make us figure he was called,’ Meacher hastened to elaborate. ‘But he let on who he really was while he was talking to us.’
‘Now who’d that be?’ the Kid prompted.
‘Will Little,’ Meacher supplied, watching for and failing to see any suggestion that the name was known to his interrogators. ‘Little, like them jaspers you had fuss with a few days back. You’ve got a couple of them in there.’
‘We have,’ the small Texan conceded. ‘But they haven’t mentioned any of their kin being hereabouts. What did this “Will Little” hombre look like?’
‘H—He was dressed and talked like a bee—!’ Meacher replied and realized the derogatory term would be inadvisable in his present company. ‘Texan.’
‘A Texan?’ the Kid put in disbelievingly. ‘All the Littles’s we locked horns with hailed from Missouri.’
‘He could’ve tried to sound like a Texan, so’s we wouldn’t know who he was,’ Meacher suggested, his face showing fright. ‘He’d been telling us his name was “Smith” until he let “Will Little” slip out.’
‘Where did you meet this jasper?’ Waco demanded.
‘On the street in Brownton,’ the prisoner replied. ‘He come after us when we’d got run out o—left Honesty John’s Tavern.’
‘I’d say you’d got it right first time ’bout why you lit a shuck,’ the Kid asserted, wanting to squash whatever spark of spirit had caused the revision. ‘They do tell Honesty John’s mighty picky about who-all he lets in.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Derringer supported. ‘Anyways, seeing’s how he wouldn’t give it all to knobheads like you afore you’d done your chore, where’d you fix to meet whoever he is to get the rest of your pay?’
‘At the Big Bull,’ Meacher replied, naming the rendezvous in the hope it would lead to the arrest of the man he blamed for his predicament
. ‘It’s down by the—!’
‘We know where it is,’ Waco interrupted, then looked at Dusty. ‘He’s likely heard what’s come, off and lit a shuck by now.’
‘Could be,’ the small Texan agreed. ‘What does he look like?’
‘L—Look—like?’ Meacher repeated in a flustered voice. ‘Was he good looking or ugly?’ Waco inquired.
‘I couldn’t say for sure,’ Meacher admitted worriedly. ‘H—He’d got a beard’s covered most’ve his face.’
‘What color was it?’ the blond youngster asked. ‘Brownish,’ Meacher supplied, after a moment’s thought. ‘Like his hair.’
‘Most men’s beards’re the same color as their hair,’ the Kid injected dryly. ‘How tall was he?’
‘Tall?’ the prisoner gasped.
‘Tall, god damn it!’ the Indian dark Texan thundered, looking at his most savage; which meant he presented a very terrifying aspect to the already frightened young man. ‘I’m getting quick sick of having to keep on asking things’s don’t get a straight answer!’
Despite the menacing aura exuded by the Kid and the other deputies—all of whom were much taller and, on the surface, more impressive in appearance—Raymond Sangster noticed Meacher appeared most disturbed by the small Texan. In fact, although he repeatedly glanced at whichever speaker was addressing him, his gaze quickly returned to Dusty and was redolent of awe. Dangerous as he showed he considered the others must be, it was apparent who he considered posed the greatest threat.
Remarking that Dusty probably wanted to reassure his wife that the ambush had failed, the New Englander had offered to help Waco carry the unconscious prisoner and allow the Kid to go to tell her. On the way to the jailhouse, his belief that the small Texan intended to try and discover who had hired the trio was verified. He had also noticed Doctor Farnsworth had not hesitated before agreeing to help when told how this could be done. Before the plan could be commenced, the Kid had returned accompanied by Derringer and Barrel, each of whom had left what he was doing as soon as he heard the news. Despite being off duty that evening, they had stated their willingness to remain and give assistance in creating the atmosphere which the prisoner had found so alarming and conducive to a desire to answer the questions he was asked.
