by J. T. Edson
‘Last I heard she was up Utah way, driving a stage,’ Pierce remarked. ‘Calamity, I mean. Helped U.S. Marshal Cole to bring in a gang of owlhoots.’
‘Cole?’ repeated the lawyer from South Texas. ‘I knew a Cole used to ride in Captain Jack Cureton’s Rangers in the War. Is that the same jasper?’
‘Sure is. He’s my cousin,’ Mark agreed and wondered how Solly Cole had got on with the volatile Miss Martha Jane Canary. vi
The subject changed to less provoking subjects than the identity of the Bad Bunch. After some of the Calamity Jane stories had been passed around, the men turned once more to Texas’ major industry and talking point, cattle. After a short time Mark remembered Tule Bragg and decided to take the foreman a drink. So he ordered four fingers of Old Scalp Lifter and carried the glass across the room.
‘Five’s the loser,’ announced the dealer. ‘Pay the coppered bet on it.’
‘That’s mine,’ Billy Wycliffe stated.
‘The red chip may be,’ Bragg put in quietly. ‘But that yellow with the copper on it’s mine.’
Silence dropped on the table and the other players began to draw away from the speakers. Under cover of the movement, Sandel eased around to halt on the opposite side of Bragg to his cousins. Mark found no difficulty in reaching the table due to a sudden and hurried withdrawal of standing players and kibitzers. In Texas a question of ownership around a card table could result in some fast, deadly and convincing arguments being used.
Slowly Billy began to swing on his chair seat in Bragg’s direction. At the same time his hand moved towards the Colt’s butt. Using a swivel-mounted holster, he did not need to draw the gun but could turn it still in the leather and fire through the bottom. Mark did not know whether Bragg had noticed how young Wycliffe wore the Colt and felt disinclined to wait and see. Not wishing to spill the drink in his left hand, the blond giant held it out to the side. Bending, he gripped the right rear leg of Wycliffe’s chair in his free hand and jerked it from under the dandy.
Letting out a yell of surprise, which turned into a yelp of pain, Billy lit down rump-first on the floor. In their own area, the Wycliffe clan packed considerable weight and authority. Few men around San Saba would cross them, and so they expected the same to apply wherever they found themselves. Unfortunately for their peace of mind, Mark Counter cared little for reputations and showed respect only to those who warranted it.
From the corner of his eye, Mark saw Shever drop from the table and reach for his gun. Bringing up the chair in a backhand swing, Mark crashed it straight into the stocky redhead’s face. Bright lights seemed to burst before Shever’s eyes and he reeled backwards, tripped then sat down hard. After which he flopped on to his back, losing all interest in the proceedings.
Like Shever, Sandel did not expect such a prompt, devastating disrespect to be shown for the clan Wycliffe. However, he considered it necessary to assert the family superiority, in the interests of maintaining their reputation of having never been curried below the knees. So he snaked a hand towards the offside Cooper’s butt. The move was fast, although not exceptionally so, and might have been capably performed had he been permitted to finish it.
When settling down to play, Bragg had removed his hat and hung its storm-strap on the back of the chair. He invariably kept his hair cropped short, which turned his head into a mighty effective weapon as Sandel discovered. Leaving his seat with surprising speed, Bragg butted the gangling Sandel in the belly. There was not even a growth of hair to cushion the impact, so Sandel felt like he had been struck in the stomach by either a cannon-ball or a charging bighorn ram. Pitching backwards, his hands folded on the injured area and he doubled over to collapse in a retching, twitching pile in the sawdust.
Across the room Churn Wycliffe threw over his chair, rose and started to reach for his Colt. Figuring that the man ought to be taking a hand at about that time, Mark had already swung to face him. The chair dropped as Mark’s right hand flashed down. Fingers curled around the smooth ivory handle of the right side Colt and slid it from leather. As it came out, Mark’s thumb eased back the hammer; but his forefinger remained straight along the trigger guard until the eight-inch barrel slanted away from him. In slightly over three-quarters of a second a cocked, lined Colt pointed in Churn Wycliffe’s direction with a finger around its trigger all set to turn lead loose.
That was the kind of smooth, practiced speed and ability which set the top gun apart from a man who was merely fast. Churn Wycliffe could read the signs and recognize Mark’s true potential as easily as a schoolteacher going through a child’s first addition papers. Such speed only rarely came without an equal skill at placing the bullets in any desired area. Nothing about Mark led Wycliffe to believe he faced an inaccurate exception. So the burly man spread his hands away from his sides in clear proof of his pacific intentions.
‘Take it easy, friend,’ he said in a voice deep as the growl of a Texas grizzly chewing cow meat. ‘And you-all, Billy, you stop that right now.’
Spluttering curses, Billy swung around still seated on the floor and reached towards his Colt. At his uncle’s bawled-out command, he removed his hand. Or it could be that he heard the cocking click of Bragg’s Dance Brothers Army revolver as the foreman threw down on him.
The boy shows some sense, mister,’ Bragg drawled as Wycliffe walked up. ‘Only not at a card table.’
‘Mind telling me what’s up?’ Wycliffe inquired with surprising mildness, or so it would seem to anybody who knew him.
‘I coppered a bet on the five, he didn’t and the card came out a loser,’ Bragg explained. ‘So he tried to claim my bet.’
‘That true, boy?’ demanded Wycliffe as Billy climbed sullenly erect.
‘It’s my—’ Billy began.
‘Don’t lie to me!’ bawled Wycliffe. ‘You didn’t have enough to buy yellow chips at this table. How about it, lookout?’
‘That was the gent there’s bet, the coppered yellow,’ the man in the lookout chair replied, indicating Bragg.
Three – A Visitor for Mr. Counter
For a moment Billy Wycliffe stood glaring at the lookout as if he could not believe his ears. Nobody up around San Saba would have dared to go against the wishes of a Wycliffe. What Billy failed to recognize, but his uncle saw all too clearly, was that they had passed out of their sphere of influence. While they could claim to be real big fish in their own small pond, the same did not apply in Austin. Not only did the blond giant dress well and handle a gun like a master, but he had been in some mighty important company. Any man on such amiable terms with Shanghai Pierce, to say nothing of the other dignitaries at the bar, could not be shoved around like some small town cow-nurse.
That fact alone weighed heavily, but Wycliffe had another point to take into consideration. Jake Jacobs might not have a high-class range of wares to peddle, but he supplied top-grade information on a number of subjects if the price be right. What the peddler passed on to Wycliffe made the burly man decline to become involved in trouble; especially against so obviously capable a man as the blond giant. Jacobs’ information called for the services of all the men Wycliffe could lay hands on. He stood a good chance of losing, permanently or temporarily, at least a portion of his help should they push the matter further.
‘You hear the man, boy?’ he growled at Billy. ‘Now just tell the gents that you’re sorry for the mistake.’
‘Like—’ Billy started to say.
A big hand clamped hold of his shirt front, bunching it up and shaking him like a terrier with a rat. Looking at his uncle’s face, Billy felt scared.
‘You do it, boy!’ ordered Wycliffe. ‘You hear me now!’
Set back on his feet, Billy glared his hatred at Mark and Bragg. For all that, he spat out. ‘All right, so I made a mistake.’
‘Now get the hell out of here,’ Wycliffe ordered. ‘And take Cousin Evan with you.’
Muttering under his breath, Billy helped the moaning Shever up. With his cousin’s arm around his ne
ck, feet dragging along, Wycliffe started for the door. Wycliffe stepped to Sandel’s side and hoisted him on to his feet. Snarling a curse, he slapped the beanpole’s hands away from the Coopers and shoved him after his two cousins.
‘Damned fool kids these days,’ Wycliffe said, watching the trio leave. ‘I don’t know what the hell they’re coming to. No hard feelings, gents?’
‘There's none on my part,’ Bragg assured him.
‘Or mine,’ Wycliffe declared.
‘You’d maybe best watch them, mister, ‘Mark put in. ‘They could get hurt if they come fussing around me again.’
‘I’ll see they don’t,’ Wycliffe promised and nodded to the glass Mark held. ‘You’ve got a mighty steady hand, friend, never spilled a drop.’
Which was the truth. All through the hectic few seconds of his intervention Mark neither dropped nor spilled any of Bragg’s drink. Twirling away his Colt, he corrected the lapse by tossing the contents of the glass down his own throat.
‘I did now,’ he said. ‘You’ll watch them three, mister?’
‘We’re just now pulling out and won’t be back,’ Wycliffe replied. ‘No hard feelings on either side I hope, gents.,
With that he turned and walked out of the room. Some of the crowd looked disappointed that the affair ended so tamely. Others showed their relief at not being too close to a gun battle where stray bullets might start flying. Naturally such an event could not pass without discussion and comment.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen the Wycliffes back off,’ said one of the players at the chuck-a-luck table. ‘They don’t go that easy most times.’
‘Most times they’re not up against one of Ole Devil’s floating outfit,’ the man handling the dice cage replied.
‘Is he Dusty Fog?’ inquired another player.
‘Nope. Mark Counter.’
‘Man. If Dusty Fog’s faster than him, that’s real rapid.’
‘You expecting a war, Shanghai?’ asked Mark, returning to the bar for a replacement drink.
With a grin, Pierce slid his Colt back into leather. ‘It’s not every day you see Churn Wycliffe sing low that ways. Not that I blame him, mind.’
Which, coming from a man who made more than one allegedly tough Kansas trail town marshal hunt for his hole, was quite a tribute to Mark’s ability and toughness. The general feeling in the place seemed to be that Mark acted in the best possible manner and showed considerable tolerance in not taking more severe measures against the trio. So the house manager raised no objections to the blond giant’s continued presence; although he told the bouncers to make sure that none of the departed Wycliffes’ returned. While a gunfight brought publicity and an increase in trade, it could also come a mite expensive to the fittings and furnishings.
Mark had intended to leave after buying Bragg the drink, but changed his mind. Not a man to back away from any trouble forced on him, he did not go out of his way looking for it. If Churn Wycliffe wanted to take his nephews out of town and so avoid further friction, Mark had no desire to prevent him from doing it. To walk outside while they gathered their horses could be interpreted as an open challenge.
‘You figure they’ll leave, Shanghai?’ he asked.
‘If Churn says for them to, they will,’ the rancher stated. ‘Those three, and all the clan’re real scared of him. What’re you fixing to do now?’
‘Have another drink and go,’ Mark replied. ‘Way Tule’s stacking up the chips, it’ll be a fair piece afore he’s ready to leave. So I’ll be on my way.’
‘There wouldn’t be a gal around, would there?’ grinned one of the party.
‘Would you believe me if I said “no”?’ Mark asked.
‘Oh, sure,’ grinned the man in a tone which meant he would not. ‘We all believe you, now don’t we, boys?’
‘As much as we believe that all Banker Snodgrass’s interested in’s that red-headed gal’s paintings,’ grinned the second rancher.
‘Is that what he told you?’ inquired the South Texas lawyer. ‘The last one was his niece from Boston.’
‘Not this one,’ said the man who started the conversation on its present line. ‘Or if she is, she’s the first Boston gal I ever heard that sounded like a Georgia peach-blossom.’
‘She must be real rich, way Snodgrass took to her,’ grinned the rancher.
‘Likely she won’t stay that way when he’s through,’ put in the youngest member of the group.
‘There’s times you talk too much,’ warned the lawyer. ‘Saying things like that out loud could wind you up getting called out with a gun, or hauled into a legal court.’
‘She sure is a real good-looking gal though,’ Pierce commented, watching Mark all through the conversation.
‘Real good-looking,’ the blond giant said in a non-committal tone. ‘Well, I reckon I’ll be pulling out.’
‘Not me,’ Pierce drawled. ‘Who’s for a few hands of poker?’
‘Did somebody say poker?’ called Bragg from the faro table ‘Cash me in, friend, I hear sweet music.’
If there was little chance of getting the foreman away from the faro table, Mark knew none at all would separate him from the kind of poker game Pierce meant to start. Still, Mark declined to play.
‘I reckon I'll go to bed,’ he said. ‘You wanting to use my room, Tule?’
‘At the Houston?' yelped Bragg. ‘That’s not my kind of range. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.’
Walking from the saloon, Mark put aside all thoughts of the red-headed girl and Banker Snodgrass. Maybe Wycliffe told the truth; but if he did not and planned to avenge the insult on his family, walking the streets day-dreaming would be a good way to wind up lying in the dirt and looking like a horse tromped you.
Mark’s caution proved unnecessary, which did not mean he regretted showing it. From the lack of incidents he concluded that Wycliffe had carried out his promise to lead the trio out of town. Entering the imposing Houston Hotel, Mark went to the reception desk and rang the bell for the night clerk. Unlike the smaller hotels of the range country, one could not reach over and take a room key from the rack. So Mark leaned on the desk and waited. His eyes went to a large book lying closed by the inkwell. Following the growing trend in the East, and to show that Austin had risen above the status of a rough, uncurried range town, the Houston maintained a register of its guests; something likely to be regarded as showing an unnecessary inquisitiveness in most places west of the Mississippi River.
Two men entered the building and walked across to the desk. Turning the register, one of them flipped it open. Although no snob, Mark did not regard the pair as being potential Houston guests. One of them stood almost Mark’s height, although without a corresponding heft, wore a derby hat, town suit, shirt, tie and boots. His face bore a tough, mocking sneer as if he felt that he did Texas a favor by being there. Studying the man, Mark noticed that the right side jacket pocket sagged as if carrying a heavy weight. Not a gun, for the bulge made was the wrong shape and he carried a light caliber Colt butt forward at his left side.
Something in the second man’s attitude attracted Mark’s attention. Tall, lean, dressed in range clothes, his mustached, tanned face was not that of a city dweller. Hanging in a fast-draw holster, an Army Colt showed signs of much use. The man looked Mark over from head to foot, with particular emphasis to his features. In a way it reminded the blond giant of a rancher examining a stud horse or bull and estimating its marketable value.
Another man once looked at Mark in such a manner. Remembering the circumstances, an uneasy feeling crept over him. Before he could decide what action to take, Mark saw the night clerk appear from a door behind the desk. Indignation showed on the clerk’s face as he stepped hurriedly forward, spun the register back to its original position and closed it with a bang.
‘Was there something?’ he demanded with studied politeness.
‘We want a room,’ the city man replied.
‘Sorry. We’ve no vacancies.’
‘Maybe this’ll ch—’ the city man began, reaching into his jacket’s inside pocket.
‘Let it ride, Quigg,’ growled the other man, darting a glance in Mark’s direction. ‘There’s other places we can try.’
For a moment Quigg seemed inclined to dispute the point, then followed the other’s gaze. ‘Sure, Burbage, there’s other places. Let’s go find one.’
‘You want your key, Mr. Counter?’ the clerk asked after the two men left.
‘Why sure,’ Mark agreed. ‘Any messages?’
‘None, sir. Do you want a call in the morning?’
‘Not unless a telegraph message comes. Good night.’
‘Good night, sir.’
Taking his key, Mark crossed to the stairs. Before going up, he glanced at the door and saw the two men standing outside. Neither looked back, or showed any sign of entering the building, so Mark walked upstairs and along the corridor of the first floor. Reaching room number twelve, he slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
Instantly Mark felt something to be wrong. The room was in darkness and usually a place like the Houston left a lamp lit for its guests’ benefit. Stepping forward cautiously, Mark caught a sweet aroma which most certainly had not been present when he left earlier.
The door closed of its own volition—or did it? From behind it came a soft rustling sound. While almost sure what was happening, Mark took no chances and turned towards the sound with his right hand dropping gunwards. Then two arms went around his neck, a firm, yet undoubtedly feminine body pressed against him and warm lips crushed on to his mouth, kissing hard and passionately. Certain that he did not need to fear his visitor, Mark put his arms to a better use than drawing weapons and kissed back.
Freed at last from his unseen caller’s grasp, he asked, ‘Is it all right for me to light the lamp?’
‘Go to it,’ replied a gentle, cultured female voice.
For the first time Mark realized that more than normal night darkness caused the pitch-black condition of the room. The Houston ensured its guests’ privacy by fitting thick drapes to the windows. However, the management allowed each guest to decide whether to make use of the facility. Although Mark had not drawn them before he left, they appeared to be pulled together now. Taking a match from his pocket, Mark rasped it on the seat of his pants. He found the lamp and applied the flame to its wick. Not until the lamp’s light bathed the room did he offer to turn around and face his visitor.
