by J. T. Edson
“Reward?” Anderson queried, despite having noticed the emphasis placed on the surname “Smith” and guessing the answer. Glancing involuntarily at his hands, the forefingers extended, he continued, “Then that’s the price you meant, Freddie, and it is him?”
“That’s our price, Matt, and it is him,” the beautiful woman confirmed with a smile. “A pardon will give him what he’s wanted for years: to be able to live peacefully in Texas without having some bounty hunter or over-officious lawman come after him. He’s kindhearted and doesn’t want to make life rough for them.”
“Do you think he’ll take a chance on coming back before the pardon’s been granted?” the governor asked.
“I know he will,” Dusty asserted with conviction. “Fact being, we’ve already been in touch with him by telegraph. He said, ‘Why, sure,’ and he’ll be coming back to Texas in a couple of weeks’ time.”
“And you’ll be meeting him ready to help out should any lawman remember he’s still wanted?” Anderson guessed.
“Not me,” Dusty corrected. “We figure that’s what would be expected and conclude to play sneaky. So it’ll be Mark on hand to say ‘Howdy, you-all.’ He’ll be better placed to do it, seeing’s how they’ll be meeting up where you might figure those white-faced cattle that some of us are counting on to replace the longhorns come from.”
“Does he know what’s wanted from him?” the governor inquired, without asking for more specific information regarding the location at which the rendezvous was to take place.
“Not all of it,” the small Texan admitted. “But Mark’ll tell him everything when they meet up.”
“In that case,” Anderson said with a ring of assurance in his voice, “Mark can tell him from me that he’ll be given his pardon if he can keep Mr. Smith safe and well for long enough to find the cure for the Texas fever. When that’s been done, he’ll have more than earned it.”
There was an expression of satisfaction mingled with disappointment on Dell’s face as he removed the mouth of the glass from the wall and crossed to replace it on his desk. Although he had been correct in his assumption that the subject of the meeting would be of great interest to the man to whom he was under orders to report such things, he realized that at least one important piece of information was missing. Nevertheless, he felt he had taken enough risks and, as the talking next door had turned to general matters such as a reception the governor was holding later in the day and to which the visitors were invited, he drew some satisfaction from knowing that he had overheard everything of consequence that was going to be said on the matter.
Unlocking and opening the door, the secretary glanced in each direction along the entrance hall. Nobody was in sight, and the same proved to be the case when he stepped onto the wide porch. The four-passenger surrey in which the Fogs had arrived was still standing at the hitching rail with the saddled horse ridden by the young man, dressed after the fashion of a cowhand, who had accompanied them to the mansion. The latter was nowhere to be seen, but this did not surprise Dell. Although no instructions had been given, knowing the butler invariably dealt with such matters without requiring any, the secretary concluded that the cowhand had been taken to the kitchen to be given a meal or some kind of liquid refreshment.
Putting the absence of the third visitor from his mind and satisfied that he had collected the information without detection, Dell went across the porch so he could deliver it without delay. The governor always kept a horse and buggy available for use, and Dell would have summoned a servant to fetch it for him in normal circumstances. In fact, wishing to establish his superior status around the mansion, he invariably did even when going to the nearby Capitol Building or the boarding house where he lived. However, although his destination was farther away than either and in a part of town he did not usually frequent, he had no desire for it to become known to the driver. Therefore, he considered it advisable to go there on foot.
Chapter Two – Dusty Fog’s Still A Man to Stand Aside From
“And that was how they left it,” Edmund Dell concluded, directing the words at the curtain hanging over the hatch in the wall of the room he had entered on his arrival at a small saloon on the fringes of “respectable” Austin. His voice held the self-satisfied timbre of one convinced he had achieved something beyond the abilities of another. “So I thought I had better come to tell you straightaway.”
“You didn’t hear anything else?” demanded a masculine voice from the next room. It had an accent that was impossible to define yet was suggestive of one with a good education. There was also an underlying cruelty and menace that the secretary found disturbing. “Not even the name of this feller they’re sending for, or where Mark Counter’ll be meeting up with him?”
“N-no—!” Dell gulped, startled by the malignancy with which the questions were uttered and losing his smug expression.
“Then all the trouble those soft-shell friends of yours went to so’s you’d be inside the Capitol Building and close to the governor still hasn’t been worth much,” growled the invariably unseen speaker to whom the secretary was under orders to deliver the news whenever he learned anything concerning the subject about which he had just finished speaking. “Has it?”
Although the secretary did not intend to state his point of view in so many words, he thought his efforts of the day were being belittled without cause. Until that afternoon, when reporting to the man in the same fashion, he had had nothing more to tell than that there was a regular delivery of newspapers from all over the state and elsewhere containing articles about the situation regarding the so-called Texas fever and how the governor read each one with great care.
Even without having come to know Matthew Anderson as well as a more competent spy would have done, Dell had concluded he was very concerned over the threat that was posed to the economy of Texas by the mysterious disease and was determined to take whatever steps might prove necessary to combat it. His reaction to the coming of Captain and Mrs. Fog, about whom the secretary had heard much in spite of the way in which the announcement of their arrival was made— especially regarding their connection with the cattle business—had suggested that he was calling upon them for assistance, and the subsequent conversation had verified this was the case.
“I’ve told you that Anderson is taking steps to have a cure found for the Texas fever,” the secretary pointed out sullenly.
“And I already knew he would be,” the unseen man growled. “That’s why you were told to find out what those steps were going to be.”
“I’ve let you know that he’s called in Fog to help him,” Dell objected with closer to a whining petulance than defiance. “And how they’re going to have somebody fetch this Frank Smith, whoever he might be, and have somebody guarding him while he’s looking for the cure.”
“I never thought for even a goddamned minute they’d let him do his work without having him well guarded while he’s at it,” the man in the next room stated sarcastically. “So it’d be a big help if we knew who the feller doing the guarding’s going to be, or where he’ll be collecting and taking Smith.”
“From what I heard,” Dell said, “they won’t be going to either Fog’s OD Connected or Mark Counter’s MC.”
“That sure narrows it down,” the unseen speaker commented, but without showing any hint of being impressed and mollified by the latest piece of information. “There’s only the rest of Texas for to go hunting around, which can’t be more than a few thousand square miles. Knowing who the feller they’re going to use as Smith’s guide is could help us find him.”
“They never mentioned his name, or where he could be meeting and going to take Smith,” the secretary reminded sulkily, wondering what would happen if he should lunge forward and jerk aside the curtain. Despite realizing that recognizing the man beyond it might put him in a stronger position where their future negotiations were concerned, in view of the coldly menacing manner in which he was always addressed, he lacked the courage to make the a
ttempt. “Only that he’s been sent for and Counter’s going to meet him when he reaches Texas in a couple of weeks—and that will be happening at Brownsville.”
“How’d you figure that out?” the unseen speaker inquired, his voice still giving no suggestion of an improvement in attitude.
“From what I’ve heard, that’s where most of those white-faced cattle Fog mentioned arrive from Europe,” the secretary explained. “He said that was where the meeting would be, and as Anderson didn’t ask any more questions, I realized he must mean Brownsville, because that’s where most of them are being landed after they’ve been shipped over from England.”
“Wasn’t anything else said?”
“Well, yes. There was something, but it wasn’t anything useful.”
“I’ll be the judge of that!”
“Whoever they’re sending for is wanted for a crime,” Dell explained, forgetting the mention Dusty Fog had made about Mark Counter being better situated than himself to carry out the rendezvous.
“How do you know?” the man asked, unaware that a vital piece of information had not been supplied.
“The Fog woman said whoever it is would want a pardon for helping,” Dell answered, wishing he could see how the news was being received. “But knowing that doesn’t help any unless I can find out his name, and I’ve a feeling doing it won’t be easy. In fact, I’ve already learned all I can without running the risk of being caught at it.”
“Then take whatever goddamned risks you have to!” commanded the man in the next room. “I want to know who the feller is.”
“My friends wouldn’t want me to get caught doing it!” Dell protested in alarm. “I’d be fired, and they need me there!”
“And I need to know his name,” the unseen man pointed out savagely, concluding that the secretary’s concern was caused by the possibility of forfeiting a lucrative position rather than worrying over the reaction of his “friends” to its loss. “There’re fathers in Fort Worth who didn’t like the kind of games you and your two soft-shell schoolteacher buddies used to play with their little boys after class. You got clean away when the other two stretched hemp for it. But unless you get me everything I want to know, the folks in Cowtown are going to find out where you’re at. I’m getting paid good money to make sure nobody finds the cure for the Texas fever, and I’m not going to let your getting fired spoil my chances of doing it. So you’d best get me what I want to know, and fast, or I’ll let them folks up there know where you can be found.”
“B-but—!” Dell began, and his demeanor showed something closer to fear than just alarm over the threat.
“You’d better get going,” the man in the next room interrupted. “And don’t be long before you come back with the feller’s name and everything else you can get on him. I’m not known for being strong on patience.”
Opening his mouth to make a protest against the ultimatum, Dell thought better of it. He suspected that, although he could not see beyond the curtain covering the hatch through which the conversation was taking place, his interrogator was able to watch him. With that disturbing possibility in mind, he tried to keep hidden his animosity and the alarm that had been aroused by the threat. Swinging around with what little dignity he could muster, he went quickly to the door that he had locked on entering. Turning the key, he drew it open and was about to go out when he found he was unable to do so.
“Is this whereat the game is?” inquired a voice with a Texas drawl and the somewhat slurred timbre suggestive of intoxication.
Standing just outside the room, holding a wad of paper money in his left hand, the speaker was in his early twenties. He had a bronzed, freckled, pugnaciously good-looking face. A flat cap of Eastern style sat at an angle on a mop of untidy fiery red hair and he was dressed in a three-piece brown suit, a white shirt with a detachable celluloid collar, and a multihued necktie. However, instead of being some form of town dweller’s footwear, his black boots had the calf-high legs, sharp toes, and high heels that experience had taught cowhands were best suited to the specialized needs of their work. Despite this indication of him being one of that hard-riding, hardworking and harder-playing breed, dressed up fancy for a visit to the city, he did not appear to be armed in any way.
“What game?” Dell snapped.
Even while speaking, the secretary wondered why the man confronting him seemed vaguely familiar. Having no regard for cowhands regardless of how they might be dressed, because they never treated him with the kind of servile respect his middle class-middle management parents had always encouraged him to believe was his rightful due, he did not number any of them among his circle of acquaintances. Despite something almost forgotten stirring in his memory, he could not bring it back to full recollection in his disturbed frame of mind.
“I heard tell there’s a poker game for decent stakes down here,” the red-haired Texan declared, retaining his position. “Which being, having only run across pikers wanting to play for nickels and dimes since I hit town and, being flush with payoff money, I concluded I’d drift on by ’n’ sit in for a spell.”
Before Dell could repeat the denial or force the nagging thought to take further shape, the young man stepped forward. Startled into an involuntary retreat by the sudden and unexpected movement, Dell was followed across the threshold. His gaze flickered to the curtain and he was relieved to see it was still in position across the hatch.
“Dagnab it!” the Texan growled, gazing around the otherwise unoccupied room. “Maybe it’s next door.”
Thrusting the money into his jacket’s inside right pocket while speaking, the redhead strolled over with deceptive speed and, standing to one side, jerked open the curtain. However, his curiosity was not satisfied. In the interim, whoever was on the other side had closed and, as proved by the push the Texan gave it, fastened the wooden hatch. Giving a casual-seeming shrug, he walked with a similar appearance of nonchalance past Dell. Following him, the secretary watched with some alarm as he tried the next door and found that it was locked. Although he did not receive any response from inside when he knocked, six men gathered around a nearby table tensed a little as if expecting something to happen.
Five of the group, four white men and a Mexican, looked like typical range-country drifters who—although not of the top quality—made their living by selling their guns. Taller than the others and of Caucasian birth, the sixth was equally tough-looking. However, his features were reddened rather than having been tanned by long exposure to the elements, and he did not have the appearance of one who spent much time outdoors. A brown jacket of Eastern cut and a tan Stetson in the style of Texas were hanging on the back of his chair. He wore a white shirt, black string tie, brown trousers, and Hersome gaiter boots. Where the rest carried their weapons on gunbelts, his Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker revolver was in an open-fronted spring-retention shoulder holster suspended under his left armpit.
“Aw, hell!” The redhead sighed after having knocked again without receiving any sign that the room was occupied. Swinging on his heel with an expression suggesting annoyance, he directed his gaze to the six men and, giving no indication of noticing the coldly threatening way they were studying him, he continued, “Looks like I heard wrong. Do you fellers know where I can find me some action?”
“Try the Iron Mistress down to Bowie,” suggested the tallest of the group, referring to a saloon in the poorer section of the town. Despite his attire, his accent indicated he was from northern Texas. “What I’ve heard, you’ll ‘most always find a game or two going on there.”
“Gracias,” the redhead thanked, and he started to turn away. “I reckon that’s just what I’ll do.”
Having gone by the young Texan while the request for information was being made to the group at the table, Dell almost scuttled across the barroom. He was just about to pass through the batwing doors when, causing him to pause momentarily and look over his shoulder, memory flooded back to bring further alarm and consternation in its wake. He remembered h
aving watched through the window by the front door of the mansion as the Fogs were approaching along the drive from the main gate. The woman was driving the four-passenger surrey, and they were accompanied by a cowhand who was not brought with them to meet the governor. The secretary had not been interested in the young man at the time. On setting out for the saloon, seeing that the young man’s horse was hitched by the surrey, Dell had decided that he was still on the premises and forgot about him.
Now the situation had changed drastically.
Except for the way in which they were dressed, the rider at the mansion and the apparently not-quite-sober young man here at the saloon were so alike that they must be brothers and most probably twins!
Although Dell realized that there could be some completely innocuous explanation for the redhead’s presence, drinking and gambling forming a notable part of cowhand behavior when they were in town, his every instinct warned that such was not the case on this occasion. It seemed highly unlikely that coincidence alone was responsible for the brother of the rider with the Fogs to not only have selected the saloon to which the secretary had come, but to believe there was a poker game in one of the two rooms where he had been talking with the unseen man.
With a chilling sense of apprehension, Dell concluded that there was only one explanation for the unexpected turn of affairs: His treachery had been suspected. Therefore, he had been followed by one of Dusty Fog’s hired hands—whom he would be less likely to notice than anybody the governor could assign to the task—to obtain evidence of his perfidy.
A sensation of terror flooded through the secretary as he arrived at the unpalatable conclusion. On his return to the mansion and the arrival of the young Texan to tell where he had been, he would be questioned about his reason for paying the visit, and he was unable to think of any reply that would offer a believable explanation. Therefore, having provided what could be considered as proof that he was betraying his trust, the very least he could expect was to be discharged from the well-paid position that his sponsors had taken considerable trouble to obtain for him.
