by Edson, J. T.
Bringing the big claybank gelding to a halt in front of the International Hotel, having accepted Tobin’s suggestion that it would serve as a good base from which to bring himself to the attention of those interested in hiring gun fighters rather than ordinary help, Smith dismounted. He was about to toss the reins over the hitching rail when a youngster came across the sidewalk and, by offering to take his mount to the livery stable, proved to be engaged upon a means of earning spending money he had sometimes followed at the same age. While agreeing to the arrangement and reaching into his pants’ pocket for a coin, he glanced to where two men wearing the style of clothing favored by professional gamblers were coming from the main entrance. What he saw warned him that he was unlikely to be ignored. The shorter was a stranger to him, but he recognized the taller and did not doubt this would be mutual. Hoping to avoid the trouble he felt sure would be forthcoming, he lowered his head and turned as if meaning to remove the bed roll from his saddle.
The hope did not achieve fruition!
‘Well what do you know, Tommy, it’s Whit Stokes!’
Chapter Eight – You Know Me As ‘Smith’. ‘John Smith.’
Hearing the words, Sergeant Waxahachie Smith felt a mixture of relief and annoyance!
While it seemed the taller of the men was still unaware of Smith’s true identity, which was to his advantage, the circumstances of their last meeting were not calculated to arouse friendly feelings. He had been working undercover to infiltrate a gang flooding Texas with counterfeit money and Herbert Wormsley was one of those involved in passing it via games of chance. However, it was a personal matter which had aroused animosity between them. Smith had intervened while the gambler was living up to one aspect of his unsavory reputation by assaulting with fists and feet the saloon girl who had the misfortune to be his current mistress.
The sergeant felt sure that the thrashing he had administered to Wormsley, who had tried to resist his intervention, would not be forgotten!
‘You’ve got me mixed up with somebody else, mister,’ Smith claimed, swinging his gaze to the speaker and stepping away from the boy and horse. ‘My name’s not “Whit Stokes”, nor ever has been.’
‘I’m not surprised you’re saying that, what you did,’ Wormsley asserted, shoving back the flap of his black cutaway coat to leave unimpeded access to the ivory handle of the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker in the cross draw holster of his gunbelt.
‘Why’d that be, Bert?’ inquired the second man, his manner that of a sycophant rather than a social equal.
‘You mind how the law jumped that “green goods game” I sent and asked you to come and sit in on up Lipscomb County way last year?’ Wormsley asked and, having received a nod of confirmation, continued, ‘Well, this here’s the son-of-a-bitch who sold us out to the Rangers afore you got there.’
‘That’s a hard name, hombre,’ Smith said quietly, noticing the boy was showing a ready grasp of the situation and starting to lead the claybank away without waiting to be paid.
‘You want me to call it you again?’ Wormsley inquired, the thought of how narrowly he had avoided arrest and lost a lucrative source of revenue being less motivation than remembering the beating he had taken at the hands of the newcomer to Flamingo.
‘I wouldn’t, was I you,’ the sergeant advised, knowing there was no chance of avoiding the confrontation and wanting to give the youngster time to get clear of the line of fire if possible. He was aware that several people were watching what was going on and, showing a typical Western appreciation for the potential danger, either taking shelter or standing still beyond hearing distance. ‘It casts a bad light on my momma.’
‘Ain’t nothing bad enough can be said about a tail-peddler’s sired a whelp to sell his amigos to the law!’ Wormsley claimed. ‘Don’t you reckon so, Tommy?’
‘I thought this was just ‘tween you and me,’ Smith drawled, his appearance seemingly relaxed despite him being tense and completely ready to take action. ‘But, seeing as it don’t look to be, you won’t mind my good buddy back there taking cards I reckon.’
Although the sergeant was not a trouble seeker by nature, the role he had elected to employ on his latest assignment required that he proved himself tough and unwilling to ‘take no sass, but “sarsaparilla”’. What was more, he had felt sure he would be called upon to prove himself before he was accepted in the character he was playing. That he was to be allowed to do so against a man who only evaded inclusion on the pages of the Texas Rangers’ ‘Bible Two’ because of lack of proof, rather than innocence of crime, removed any slight inhibition he made have felt. Nor, he was certain, could he avoid locking horns with Wormsley. Certainly, even if to do so would not have been detrimental to his assignment. Letting it be seen he backed down would be unlikely to avert a confrontation.
Having drawn his conclusions as soon he was addressed by Wormsley, Smith had assessed the danger he was facing. He knew the taller of the pair to be a competent gun fighter, but felt sure the same did not apply to ‘Tommy’. Nevertheless, aware that the pair of them working in conjunction could prove too much for him to cope with, he attempted a hoary old trick in the hope of lessening the odds against him.
Unlike when trying to avoid recognition by Wormsley, the sergeant saw his latest ploy was working with the second gambler!
Convinced there could be an undiscovered threat close by, Tommy swung his gaze in the direction indicated by Smith’s brief nod. However, guessing what was intended, Wormsley did not duplicate his companion’s involuntary reaction. Instead, suspecting the reason for the trick, he sent his right hand across to the butt of his revolver. Swiftly though he moved, he discovered his intended victim was capable of even greater speed. Sufficient, in fact, to counteract the advantage he expected to gain from his weapon having a shorter barrel than that of the more conventional Models of the Colt Peacemaker.
Dipping his hand in the smoothly flowing blur of motion he had shown when surprised by Ransome Cordoba, Smith swept the revolver from its excellently designed holster. This time, however, he completed the whole of the sequence by releasing the thumbed back hammer. There was a crash of detonating black powder and a bullet sped through the air. Even as the Storekeeper Colt was coming out of the cross draw holster, lead entered between Wormsley’s eyes and, having ripped through his brain, burst out at the rear of his skull. Killed instantly, he was pitched backwards with the weapon flying from his no longer operative grasp. His body sprawled, with arms and legs thrown apart, on the sidewalk. While he had successfully evaded the consequences of numerous infringements of the law until that moment, including having beaten to death one of his mistresses, he had at last met a well deserved fate at the hands of a man he believed to be no more than another outlaw.
Satisfied there was nothing more to be feared from Wormsley, Smith swiftly recocked his Colt while swinging its barrel towards the second man. He found he had been correct in his assessment of Tommy’s character. Although the shorter gambler’s attention had been brought back, his reactions were too slow for him to pose any threat at that moment. Staring into the muzzle of the revolver as it was directed his way with great speed and menacing precision, he was equally alarmed by the coldly grim face of the Texan behind it. Much to his consternation, he found his fingers were unable to complete drawing his own weapon and, knowing the kind of company he had been keeping, expected to join his companion on the sidewalk at any moment.
‘Leave it in leather!’ Smith commanded, ready to shoot again if the need arose and hoping it would not.
‘S—Sure, Mr. St—!’ Tommy assented, the coldly drawled words restoring motion to his hand and allowing him to snatch it clear of the revolver. Recollecting how the Texan had disclaimed the name supplied by Wormsley, he made what he hoped would prove a suitable apology. ‘I wasn’t figuring to draw down on you, mister.’
‘I’m right pleased to hear that,’ Smith declared with mock joviality. ‘And to make sure you won’t be getting the notion later, did
n’t I hear you say something about how you was figuring on leaving Flamingo real soon?’
‘Y—You sure did!’ the gambler promised, without remarking that no such declaration of intentions had passed his lips. ‘I was only saying in there’s how I reckoned I’d be heading out as soon’s I’d got my gear together.’
‘Then I wouldn’t want to keep you talking when you’re so all fired set on pulling up stakes and going,’ Smith asserted, glancing along the street to where the sheriff and two deputies were approaching at a fast walk. Noticing nobody else was offering to come closer, even the boy with his claybank was remaining a short distance away, he decided he had better try to prevent his supposed criminal activities from being mentioned. Returning his gaze to the obviously frightened gambler, he continued, ‘There’s but one thing, though.’
‘What’d that be?’
‘I surely hope that, when the great siezer there asks you what happened, you don’t let on why Wormsley was all set to call me down. ‘Cause what was between us was personal’ and nothing to do with that “green goods game” up to Lipscomb County. Fact being, the law got on to us ‘cause he talked too much when he was in liquor, not through me selling out to ‘em.’
‘Bert allus talked too much when he was drunk,’ Tommy claimed truthfully, deciding his deceased companion could have had some other cause of animosity, but wanted to put the blame for the betrayal and breaking up of the counterfeiting gang upon the Texan as a means of obtaining his assistance in settling whatever was the real trouble between them. ‘You can count on me to say the right things, Mr. St—mister!’
‘I’m real pleased to hear it,’ Smith declared, returning the staghorn handled Colt to its holster. However, there was still an undertone of menace in his voice as he went on, ‘Just
mind that you do like you say. And another thing—!’
‘Y—Yeah?’ the gambler inquired.
‘Don’t you mention the name Wormsley called me to anybody at all!’ the sergeant commanded. ‘Should you be asked, you know me as “Smith”. “John Smith!”’
~*~
‘Excuse me, sir!’
Hearing the words while accepting the key to the room he had taken at the International Hotel, Waxahachie Smith looked around. He had just arrived to check in after being treated in a way intended to give support to his pose as a gun fighter seeking employment. Having first questioned the onlookers, including the surviving Gambler. Sheriff Daniel
confirmed his supposition that there was more to the newcomer than was the case with the usual run of hired gun fighters. ‘I trust you’ll not think I’m taking too much of a liberty, but are you here in search of gainful employment?’
‘I’m always willing to listen, at least, when I’m being told about it.’
‘Would you be willing to work for me?’
‘Doing what?’
‘I’ve made arrangements to purchase a large herd of cattle in Mexico and I’d like to hire you to ensure the money for them reaches their owner.’
‘Don’t you have any of your own crew you can send with it?’
‘Naturally I’ll be sending along enough of my cowhands to handle the herd. But they aren’t trained fighting men and, going by what I saw out there, you are. So I’d like to have you with them as a guard.’
‘Huh huh!’ Smith grunted. He knew ranchers occasionally bought herds below the border to help supply the meat-hungry East, but realized there could be more involved where the offer he had received was concerned. ‘Sounds easy enough.’
‘You’re far too intelligent to believe that,’ Besgrove stated with a smile. ‘Which is the reason I’d like to hire you.’
‘Why me?’ Smith queried. ‘I’ve only just hit town and, what I’ve seen ’round and about, there’s plenty of others you could’ve taken on.’
‘I want a man who not only knows how to shoot, but when not to shoot and you proved on the street that you know both. Anybody who takes even less money than you’ll be guarding into Mexico is likely to have to fight to keep it. So I want a man along who can fight, but won’t go out of his way to make trouble. I believe you fill my needs. Are you interested?’
‘Well now, I’m kind of being one of the idle rich at the moment. So I wasn’t figuring on hiring out for a spell. Tell you what, though. Leave it a couple of days, less’n time’s pressing heavy on you, then we’ll talk again.’
‘As you wish,’ the Englishman sighed and reached inside his loose fitting jacket. ‘May I pay you a retainer as an option on your services?’
‘Nope,’ Smith refused. ‘I don’t never get myself so obligated I’d be obliged to take on a chore happen something else comes up to make me want to say, “no” to it. Tell you what, though. Should I decide against taking on, you’ll be the first to hear.’
‘I’m obliged to you for that, sir,’ Besgrove stated, finishing his drink and holding out his right hand. ‘And I hope you will come around to accepting my offer, but I must know by Monday evening at the latest.’
‘You’ll know one way or the other by then,’ Smith promised, deciding he liked the look of the clean cut Englishman without allowing this to change his objectivity. ‘Thanks for the drink, sir. Now I reckon I’ll be getting up to my room.’
Parting company with Besgrove in the entrance lobby, the sergeant found the dining room unoccupied and the desk clerk was absent. Going up to the first floor and turning along the passage, he ran his gaze over the masculine figure leaning a shoulder against the wall at the door of the room for which he had received the key and concluded this was the unseen observer. Clad after the style of a working cowhand, a supposition given credence by the less than ‘professional’ style of his gunbelt and its holstered Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker, the man was of medium height and thickset. Looking to be in his late forties, solidly fleshed, there was an air of command about his deeply bronzed and heavily mustached face which suggested his identity to Smith.
‘Howdy, Mr. Drexell,’ the sergeant greeted.
‘Did Monocle Johnny point me out?’ the rancher inquired, his accent that of a native born Texan.
‘Nope,’ Smith replied. ‘Somebody was watching us going into the bar and, finding you up here waiting for me, it doesn’t take the know-how of a Comanch’ medicine man to figure that somebody was you and who you must be.’
‘You called it’s right as the Injun side of a horse,’ Bradford Drexell declared, extending a large and hard hand to be shaken. ‘Would you be open for hiring?’
‘Not right now.’
‘No offence meant, but would that be ‘cause you’re already hired on some place?’
‘Nope. It’s ‘cause I’ve got enough money not to need to work. I wouldn’t want you to think of me’s being lazy, though. My momma always claimed I was bone idle and, like it says in the Good Book, Eleven, Twenty-Three, Sixty-One, don’t never make a liar of your momma.’
‘Which surely wouldn’t be the right ‘n’ honorable thing to do, it being in the Good Book,’ Drexell admitted, trying to remember whether he had heard that particular biblical quotation mentioned in the past. Although unable to recollect having done so, being a shrewd judge of character, he was duplicating Besgrove’s summations with regards to the man he was addressing being very different from the usual run of hired gun hands. ‘But would you be willing to think about taking on a chore?’
‘I’m always willing to think about work, even though I’ve never taken kind to doing any,’ Smith claimed. ‘But whether I said “yes” or “no” to a chore would depend on what I was being asked to do and how urgent it’d be for me to start at it.’
‘What I want is for you to ride my range.’
‘As a cowhand?.’
‘I’ve got all the cowhands I need. Good fellers, but they’re not trained gun fighters. Happen it comes to shooting against the cow thieves who’re working hereabouts, I want a man like you to lead them.’
‘Why me?’
T saw the way you handled things on the street.
You’re damned fast, but you only downed the one of them. The rest of those—!’
‘Hired guns?’ the sergeant offered, as the explanation was ended with something close to embarrassment.
‘Hired guns,’ the rancher confirmed. ‘No offence meant. The rest of ‘em who’re around town would’ve dropped the other tinhorn as well, just for being there. And that’s not the kind of help I aim to hire. The last thing I want is for some innocent cowhand getting made wolf bait just ‘cause he’s on my land. Will you take the chore?’
‘Give me to Monday to decide whether I am to go or stick around,’ Smith requested. He concluded that, on the surface, his visitor’s primary reason for wanting to hire him was much the same as that of the Englishman. Having accepted he was what he was pretending to be, each apparently believed he would prove less likely to provoke trouble than any of the other hired guns around the town. However, he did not discount the possibility that one or the other had an ulterior motive for seeking his services. ‘I’ll let you know then for certain.’
Chapter Nine – I’m Not Toting a Gun
‘Thank you, Mr. Smith,’ Ransome Cordoba said, having just completed a round dance and joined in the applause for the small band on the rostrum. As usual when attending the weekly dance, her hair and dress were Anglo rather than Hispanic in style. ‘By the way, how far off being the world’s best dancer did you tell me you were?’
‘Far as I can bring to mind offhand, I said I wasn’t even the one hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred and sixty-first,’ Sergeant Waxahachie Smith replied. Taking the girl by the arm and escorting her to where the rest of her party were gathering after having been on the dance floor, he continued, ‘Why?’
‘You’re much too modest,’ Ransome asserted, having found the man she had helped to save earlier in the week to be light on his feet and well versed in the steps of the varsouvianna in which he had been her partner. ‘After dancing with you, I’m sure you must be the one hundred and twelve thousand, three hundred and sixty-first.’
