Cure the Texas Fever (A Waxahachie Smith Western--Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  Being poked or struck as was most convenient to their assailant—whose dexterity implied long training in such a way of fighting—and either motion proving equally painful to the recipient, the rapidity of the small Oriental’s attack scattered the hard cases from around Charlie. Under different circumstances, particularly when in contention against an assailant they believed to be Chinese, one or another of them would have drawn a gun and ended the attack by using it. However, they were all mindful of the young Texan’s important family connections, and thinking these would extend to his rescuer, did not want to start shooting.

  “Get the hell out of here!” yelled the last man to leave the saloon, seeing faces peering through a rear window of the building across the street and realizing there could be an intervention, or at least witnesses to help describe them when the redhead reported the attack to the town marshal.

  Sharing the sentiment that prompted it, the other white men were only too willing to carry out the order, and they immediately joined the speaker in starting to hurry away. However, the same did not apply to the Mexican. Having regained his feet and stared for a few seconds at the blood from his nose that was smeared over both palms, he let out a profanity in his native tongue. Then, forgetting the warning that no weapons be used that had been given before they left the saloon, he reached across with his right hand and slid the long-bladed fighting knife from the sheath on his belt. Despite being wild with fury, the way in which he lunged toward the little Oriental indicated that he was dangerously skilled in the use of such a weapon.

  Hearing the yell of “Behind you, Danny!” from Charlie, the small man whirled around. He took in what was happening with a quick glance, and his right fingers gave a twist and tug on the handle of the cane. It turned, and from inside the bamboo emerged a long, brightly shining, slightly curved steel blade with a “reversed Wharncliffe” point. Even as the other weapon was driving his way in the low and deadly ripping slash favored by competent knife fighters, he retaliated. Nor, being handled by one so competent in its use, did having a twenty-eight-inch blade make it clumsy.

  Flashing around, the edge of the sword—it warranted no other designation—proved to be razor sharp. Biting into the Mexican’s arm just above the wrist, it passed through the bone and sinews as if they offered no more resistance than a sheet of paper. A scream of agony burst from the Mexican as, with blood spurting from severed veins and arteries, his hand and the knife dropped to the ground. Once again he stumbled backward, but this time his injury was far more severe.

  Already starting to join his companions in their hurried departure, the last hard case from the saloon saw what had happened to the Mexican. Being quicker-witted than his companions, as was proved by his allowing them to commence the attack upon Charlie while he remained in the background, he realized that such an injury would slow down the other’s escape to an unacceptable extent. What was more, he appreciated how allowing the wounded man to fall into the hands of the law was most inadvisable. Although Pedro was unaware of their employer’s identity, he could name all the rest of them and almost certainly would as revenge for being deserted. Feeling sure the local law would take action with alacrity in view of the important people who were involved, he knew this must not be allowed to happen.

  With those considerations in mind, the hard case took what he considered to be the only way out. Bringing his Colt from its holster, he sent a bullet into the staggering Mexican’s chest. However, he was not allowed to make certain that he had ended all chances of information being supplied by his victim.

  Given the respite he had needed so badly, Charlie had been able to clear his head and come to his feet. He was just erect when the shot crashed out, and he responded immediately. Although there had been no sign of his having a weapon on his person, he had been disinclined to engage in the task to which he was assigned without being armed. As had often been the case with other things in the past, he found himself grateful that his uncle Dusty had insisted he become almost as well versed in handling the concealed firearm he was carrying as he was a weapon drawn from a conventional gunbelt.

  Passing behind his back, having been prevented from availing himself of it sooner in the fighting, the redhead’s right hand brought a short-barreled Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver from the holster tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Although it had a double-action mechanism that removed the need to do so, he cocked the hammer with his thumb while raising it to shoulder height in both hands. Believing either he or his rescuer might be the next intended target, sighting quickly with the rear sight on the frame and the large-blade foresight at the muzzle, he sent a .44-caliber bullet between the white hard case’s eyes. He was ready to defend himself against the rest of the group, but they all continued to run away with barely more than a backward glance at their stricken companions.

  “Gracias, Danny!” the redhead said after the surviving would-be assailants disappeared around a corner. “I’m right pleased you came back when you did.”

  “The man who came out of the back door there had a horse,” the small Oriental replied, cleaning the blade of his sword with a handkerchief and returning it to its bamboo-covered sheath. His English was excellent, with a sibilant timbre that was different from the tones generally employed by the majority of Chinese. iv ”I went after him, but he’d gone from sight by the time I got to the corner, so I thought I’d come back to tell you about him. What now?”

  “I’ll stop here and tell the law what’s come off,” Charlie replied, glancing to where the Mexican’s body gave a convulsive shudder and went limp. “Looks like he’s cashed his chips and won’t be able to help us any. You’d best get back to the governor’s place as fast as you can make it. I’ve a notion that the jasper Miz Freddie calls a ‘civil servant’ could be in real bad trouble, which don’t worry me a whole heap except I reckon Uncle Dusty’s going to want to ask him what brought him here and who he was talking to. What’s more, I’ll be real surprised if between us we can’t sort of persuade him all loving and gentle to tell us everything we want to know.”

  Chapter Four – I’m Getting Too Old For Doing This

  “It looks as if our dear friend, the civil servant, has decided to come back instead of taking the rest of the day off,” Mrs. Freddie Fog commented as she and her husband were on the point of leaving the Anderson mansion at the end of a longer stay than they had anticipated. “I’ve never known one of them to be so eager to work.”

  Before the Fogs could take their departure at the conclusion of the discussion they had had with the governor, the state’s attorney general had arrived for an informal visit. Knowing him to be a man whose integrity and discretion could be relied upon implicitly, as well as a friend of long standing, Freddie and Dusty had decided to inform him of the arrangements that were being made to try to produce a cure for the so-called Texas fever. On learning of the condition regarding the man who was to be brought in to protect Frank Smith while the work was being done, he had stated that he thought the pardon could be granted without too serious political repercussions in the event of its success. However, they had mentioned neither their suppositions with regard to the secretary nor the activities in which their companions were engaged.

  Talking over the issue with Dusty before they left the OD Connected ranch, possessing a justifiable mistrust of what her British background led her to call “civil servants,” v Freddie had claimed that Dell—whose position qualified him for that category in her opinion—was the most likely prospect for any betrayal that might take place. Nevertheless, being fair-minded, she had admitted that her supposition might prove to stem from nothing more than personal prejudice. Therefore, neither she nor Dusty had discounted the possibility of there being other candidates among the domestic staff at the mansion or working in the Capitol Building who would have similar opportunities to obtain and misuse confidential information. Accepting that they could not achieve anything should the traitor be at the latter, they had arranged for Hank Blaze to
remain on the premises with the means to go after a suspect using some form of transportation, while his elder brother, Charlie, and Danny Okasi kept watch from the street beyond the front fence and were ready to follow anybody who left on foot.

  On taking his departure, Edmund Dell had made an error of deduction when failing to see Hank. Although invited by the elderly Negro butler to go into the kitchen for a meal or some liquid refreshments, Hank had claimed to be suffering from the result of the previous evening’s festivities in town and asked if he might have a beer in the cool shade offered by a summer house that offered him an unrestricted view of the front of the mansion. This was done, and he had been able to watch the secretary without being observed in return.

  Having noticed the furtive way in which the secretary was behaving on coming through the front doors, Hank believed that the suspicions expressed by “Miz Freddie”—as his sibling and many other people referred to his aunt out of respect and fondness—could be justified. Therefore, waiting until Charlie and Danny Okasi were going after Dell, he had returned the empty beer schooner to the kitchen. In the course of an otherwise innocuous conversation with the staff, he had contrived to learn that Dell generally left in the buggy.

  The Fogs’ relationship with Hank had not been mentioned on their arrival at the mansion. In fact, it was implied that he was merely a hired hand accompanying them to carry out menial tasks. Making the excuse to the butler that he wanted to find out how much longer his “boss” and “Miz Freddie” would be at the mansion, so he would know whether to take care of their animals—which in truth had come only a fairly short distance from the hotel and at a leisurely pace, so had not suffered any neglect by being left ready for immediate use at the hitching rail—Hank had been taken to the governor’s private office. Brought into the entrance hall, on being informed of what had taken place and the young redhead’s discoveries regarding Dell, Dusty had said he should remain in some point of vantage in case somebody else left.

  With the discussions and other amenities concluded, having excused themselves on the grounds that they wanted to return to their hotel and dress for the reception in the evening, Freddie and Dusty were on the point of having Hank fetched from wherever he was waiting so they could take their departure. However, their attention was drawn to the sight of Dell coming along the street.

  “Maybe he found out he’d forgotten something when he got to where he’s bunking down and’s come back for it,” the small Texan suggested, looking through the open door across the wide expanse of a well-kept lawn fringed by beds of flowers to where Dell was approaching the front gates of the property along the street. “Anyways, I don’t see any sign of young Charlie or Danny coming after him.”

  “That could mean, wherever he went, they must have thought it wasn’t for a harmless reason,” the beautiful woman guessed. “So they decided they’d be better employed by letting him go and following whoever he’s been to see.”

  “Could be he’s only come back to fetch something he forgot to take home with him,” Dusty suggested, but his voice implied no conviction in the supposition.

  “It could,” Freddie conceded in a tone redolent of disbelief. “But if that was the case, I’m sure either Henry or Danny would have come back to t—!”

  Before the beautiful woman could complete her comment, there was a dramatic interruption.

  Although Pampa did have his origins and spent his formative years in the vicinity of the town from which he took his sobriquet, his participation in various illicit activities had compelled him to spend the past few years east of the Mississippi River. For some of the time, he had been employed by a private detective agency that lacked scruples where the handling of assignments was concerned and did not inquire too closely into the past of the men they hired. Having carried out similar tasks in other cities, putting the skills he had acquired to use, he had contrived to follow Dell without being detected. What was more, before he had gone far, he had satisfied himself that the red-haired young Texan was not coming after him. Having gone only a short distance, taking notice of the furtive way in which the man he was following behaved, he was convinced that his employer was correct in the assumptions mentioned while they were talking in the back room at the saloon.

  While hurrying along the streets, Dell had constantly glanced to his rear as if expecting to spot somebody on his trail. On a couple of occasions, in spite of the precautions that were taken to avoid detection, he caught a glimpse of Pampa. However, because he was watching specifically for the young redhead, he did not pay any more attention to the big hard case than he had in the saloon. Therefore, he arrived at the gates of the mansion without realizing he was in danger. Nor was he given an opportunity to discover how dangerously wrong his lack of awareness in this matter had been.

  Having observed the way the secretary had acted just before leaving the saloon and noted where he was going, but not guessing the reason, Pampa decided to act upon the orders he was given by the man in the back room. A glance around told him everything was as he wanted. Looking through the iron railings surrounding the property and along the lengthy gravel path across the well-kept gardens, he could not see the couple who were about to leave, although the front door of the mansion was open. Nor was there anybody else either in the grounds or on the street. Satisfied upon that point, he felt sure he could carry out his task without interference. What was more, because the rest of his immediate surroundings were just as devoid of people, he stood a good chance of getting away without being seen. Upon reaching that gratifying conclusion, he drew the long-barreled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker from its shoulder holster.

  Cocking the revolver’s action with his thumb, the hard case lined it at shoulder height with both hands. Making sure of his aim, he fired. Even as the smoke of the detonated powder left the muzzle and the barrel rose to the recoil’s kick, his instincts suggested that he had made the hit he wanted. Sure enough, caught in the back of the skull by the .45 bullet, Dell was pitched forward to sprawl face down in front of the open gate.

  Having seen more than one man shot in the head, Pampa was satisfied that he had prevented any chance of the betrayal he and the man who had given the orders felt sure would take place when young Blaze reported where the secretary had been and he was questioned.

  Turning and starting to walk away swiftly, the hard case was on the point of replacing the Colt in its holster when he discovered that his escape might not prove as easy as he had envisaged.

  Hearing the shot and watching Dell going down, Freddie and Dusty reacted promptly, albeit in different fashions.

  “Henry!” the beautiful woman shouted. The word rang through the mansion and its grounds with a volume first acquired while hunting foxes in rural Leicestershire before she was compelled to leave England and kept up throughout the varied, frequently hectic and eventful, career she had had since circumstances brought her to spend the rest of her life in the United States. “Henry Blaze!”

  Leaving his wife to summon assistance, the small Texan hurtled through the front door. Crossing the porch, he went to where the horses were standing. Snatching free the reins of the mount belonging to Hank, a sixteen-hand bay gelding selected from his mount at the OD Connected as being well suited for traveling a long distance and also capable of a fair turn of speed, Dusty turned it away from the hitching rail.

  Letting out a yell of “Yeeagh!” as he had so often while leading Company C of the Texas Light viCavalry in surprise attacks on the Union troops in Arkansas during the War Between the States, Dusty set the animal into motion. While doing so, he grabbed the low horn of the double-girthed Texas range saddle in both hands. Pulled forward, he used the momentum to help him vault and swing astride the horse’s back with the deft ease that bespoke long experience in matters equestrian. Finding the stirrup irons and inserting his feet without the need to look down, aided by the sharp toes of his boots, he used his heels to induce a greater speed. While galloping along the drive, he gripped the reins in his tee
th and, sitting erect, removed his jacket. Having tossed aside the garment, he retrieved the reins and looked at the motionless shape by the gate in passing. Only one glance was required to inform him that Dell would not be able to answer any questions.

  Going through the gate, the small Texan did not have any difficulty in ascertaining the identity of the secretary’s killer. Lined with estates similar in layout to the one he was leaving, albeit with different styles of elegant main buildings, the street stretched straight and wide for about half a mile. Much to his relief, there was only one person on it. That meant there was no danger of some harmless and innocent bystander getting caught up in the gunplay that, since the man was holding a revolver, he felt sure was unavoidable.

  Although Pampa had been born and reared in the town from which he had taken his nickname, he had spent the past few years following the trade of hired killer in various big cities outside his home state. Therefore, despite having noticed the horses standing in front of the mansion while preparing to kill Dell, he had failed to take them into account as a possible threat to his safety. Always a town dweller and never having worked as a cowhand, his long absence from Texas had further caused him to forget how practically every man in the cattle-raising areas immediately thought of riding a horse rather than using one harnessed to a vehicle of some kind, when needing to go anywhere in a hurry. Therefore, it was not until he heard the drumming of rapidly approaching hooves that he realized pursuit had been started far more quickly than he had anticipated.

  Glancing over his shoulder, the hard case let out a snarl of anger at the sight of the rider coming from the entrance of the property and turning the horse his way. Pampa was moving swiftly, the Hersome gaiter boots being far more suitable for walking and—if necessary— running than a cowhand’s footwear would have been. For all that, he knew he could not flee at a sufficiently rapid pace to escape whatever threat was posed by the man on the fast-striding animal. Refraining from putting away the Colt, he swiveled around and brought it up. Concluding that he would have time for only one shot before the pursuer was upon him, and taking into account how the animal’s head partially shielded the rider, he directed the bullet to where his instincts in such matters suggested it would do most good under the circumstances.