by J. T. Edson
Never one to take the slightest risk that could be avoided, Daly was about to ride away when he noticed what could offer another solution to his shortage of cash. The possibility was suggested by his having reminded himself that he could still sell Parker’s property and wishing the weapons had not been lost to him as a result of his flight. Taking out the field glasses, he assured himself that he was correct in his assumption. Both their discarded Winchesters and his companion’s gunbelt were hanging on the saddle of the second horse. However, the Texan had not brought along the corpse. Despite suspecting that all the cash and other valuables had been taken from it, as he would have done himself given the opportunity, the hired killer had realized how he might still benefit from the unusual conditions demanded by whoever had employed them to prove they had carried out their task.
Withdrawing to a safe distance and finding a place of concealment, Daly had watched the Texan disappear along the trail. Then, cursing the fading light, but grateful that nobody else had put in an appearance, he had ridden as quickly as he could to the scene of the thwarted attack. Finding the body of his companion had been easy. He had concluded that the man they had hoped to kill intended to report the matter to the sheriff of Deaf Smith County on arriving at Hereford and allow the peace officers to collect it. Covered by leaves and branches, its wolfskin jacket hanging above it to scare off scavenging wild creatures such as coyotes and turkey buzzards, it had been lying where it had fallen.
“You’ll be more use to me dead than you would’ve been was you alive,” Daly declared, kneeling beside the corpse after uncovering it. Lifting up the stiff right arm with his left hand, his other fingers slid the “Green River” knife from its sheath and he went on. “I’ll tell whoever’s going to pay me’s how the feller got you afore I downed him ’n’ I took the gloves off ’cause they got blood all over ’em while I was doing the cutting.”
Listening for sounds that would suggest somebody was approaching along the trail from either direction, the hired killer set about his grisly task with more satisfaction than distaste for what he was doing. There was no need for him to possess a knowledge of anatomy, or finesse. Manufactured from steel of an excellent quality and kept honed to a razor-sharp edge, the blade sliced into the flesh and tendons just below the heel of the hand without any difficulty. The wrist bones proved slightly more troublesome, but were quickly hacked through. Tossing down the severed hand, he wiped sweat from his face with his right sleeve. Then he set about removing the other hand. With this done, he wrapped them in the sheepskin jacket and cleaned the knife on the dead man’s shirt. Sheathing the weapon, he stood up and stretched. Without bothering to cover the corpse again, he went to fasten the bundle to the cantle of the horse that had belonged to Parker.
“Good-bye, you ornery son of a bitch!” the surviving hired killer said in a mocking tone, swinging astride his mount and directing a final derisive glance at the mutilated body. “And thanks for bringing me along on this chore. It’s going to pay off even better’n I figured.”
Chapter Eight – These Aren’t His Hands!
Riding in the direction from which he had come, Joel Daly left the trail to Hereford after covering about two miles and went along a much less used narrow track. Despite darkness having descended, he had experienced no difficulty in locating the rendezvous he had had described to him by Albert “Monte” Parker while riding in search of their intended victim. Wanting to locate the man who had employed his late companion and—unknowingly—himself without giving too much advance notice of his coming, he had held the two horses to a deliberately slow pace. His destination was a small line cabin showing signs of only rarely being used by the cowhands of the ranch for which it was built. Nevertheless, there was a horse tied to the hitching rail out front and he saw a faint chink of light at the edge of a piece of sack used as drapes for the window. Wishing he knew more about the arrangements that had been made for delivering the required proof of success and obtaining payment, he decided to act as if he were doing nothing more than visiting by chance in case somebody with a genuine right to be there should be inside.
“Hello the house!” the hired killer called. “Mind if I light and rest my saddle for a spell?”
“Who’s out there?” asked a muffled deep voice that had a Midwest accent.
“Name’s Monte Parker,” Daly lied, believing the introduction would have a meaning only for the man he had come to meet. “I was passing and reckoned I’d stop by for a night with a roof over my head, ’stead of sage-henning under the stars.”
“Come ahead,” the speaker inside the building authorized, but without giving the slightest indication that the name meant anything to him.
Dismounting and securing the reins of the horses to the hitching rail, Dale studied the animal already there as well as he could in the poor light. It was an ordinary-looking animal, with no discernible brand to disclose its ownership. However, the cheap range saddle carried neither a rope nor a bedroll. Even without his voice having indicated he was not a Texan, the former omission suggested that the rider was not a cowhand caught at too great a distance to reach the ranch for which he worked and was merely taking shelter for the night. On the other hand, being without the latter implied that the man inside had not come far and did not intend making a lengthy journey on leaving.
Despite the conclusions he had drawn, although a top-class pistolero would not have considered the precaution necessary, Daly made sure his Colt Peacemaker was loose in its holster before going closer. Then, because of the doubts still left unsettled by the invitation, he decided against taking the bundle inside until knowing more about the man who had spoken. He went to the building, but as soon as he opened the door he wished he had been more circumspect. A bull’s-eye lantern on the dilapidated table in the center of the room was positioned so that it threw its beam of light straight into his eyes and, creating a dazzling effect after the darkness outside, left everything beyond it in deep shadow.
“What’s this?” the voice demanded from the darkness, its timbre suspicious and even menacing. “You aren’t Monte Parker!”
“Nope,” Daly confirmed quickly, keeping his right hand well clear of the holstered Colt and raising the left to shade his eyes from the light without improving his vision to any great extent.
“I heard two horses coming up,” the still-unseen speaker commented, his tone challenging in a way suggesting that the words were backed by a lined up and cocked gun.
“Monte took lead when we jumped the feller you sent us after,” Daly explained hurriedly, guessing that he was covered and would be shot unless he was convincing.
“He didn’t tell me there’d be two of you.”
“If you knew Monte Parker, you know he was too goddamned cagey to work alone if he reckoned it’d be risky. And he wouldn’t tell nobody, even the folks’s hired him, anything more’n he figured they should know about the way he was fixing to do the chore. Anyways, she’s been done and I’ve got what you asked for outside.”
“Why didn’t you give the signal we arranged?”
“Like I said, Monte was always a cagey son of a bitch who played his cards close to his vest. He didn’t tell me nothing about no signal.”
“Then who are you?”
“Name’s Hank Smith—!”
“Smith?” the unseen speaker repeated, with such a chilling intonation that the hired killer felt a twinge of alarm that showed on his sallow face. “Why the hell did you pick that n—?” Then, because the reaction caused by the first word had been noticed, a note of mocking irony came into his voice as the question was amended. “I suppose it was just the first one to come to mind when you decided to use a summer name.”
“Y-yeah!” Daly admitted quickly, wondering what had produced the response to the very common surname he had selected. “Like I said, Monte reckoned going after that jasper was a two-man chore and asked me to back his play. Only, he got downed afore I dropped the feller. I reckon he forgot to tell me about the signal
you’d fixed up when he said where we was to come and meet you.”
“From what I know of him, he more likely wasn’t intending for you to stay alive long enough to be brought here and paid off,” the voice said dryly, then took on a note of getting down to more important business than the possibility of Parker’s treacherous intentions. “Well, have you got them?”
“They’re outside,” the hired killer replied, realizing that the first comment was in all probability correct and that, as Parker had been better with a gun than he was, the trap laid by the Texan could have saved his life. “I figured on find—!”
“Go and fetch them,” the speaker ordered. “You got here earlier than I figured, and I don’t want to stay here any longer than necessary.”
Feeling uneasy, Daly turned and left the cabin without trying to complete his interrupted explanation. Having collected the bundle from the cantle of Parker’s saddle, he returned. On going through the door, he found that the lantern had been moved so that its light was no longer directed into his face. However, beyond its limited range of illumination, he could still only just make out a tall and seemingly well-built shape wearing indistinct range clothes. He could not even discover whether a weapon of any kind was being held by the dark figure, but decided to continue behaving under that assumption. Stepping forward, he unrolled the coat and dumped the grisly contents onto the table.
“Here they be,” the hired killer announced, hoping he looked and sounded much more confident than he was feeling. Deciding to make the explanation he had concocted before the point was raised, he went on, “The gloves got so much blood on ’em while I was doing it, I pulled ’em off ’n’ threw ’em away. But here’s his hands, like was asked for, and soon’s I’ve been paid, I’ll be on my way.”
Even as Daly was speaking, he was struck by a belated and very alarming realization that he could have made a terrible mistake. Until that moment, he had considered the demand for the hands to be delivered as nothing more than a bizarre whim—although he would not have put the thought in those exact words—on the part of the man who wanted the Texan killed. Suddenly, he became sickeningly aware that there might be something special about them that would serve as positive identification. In that case, whatever the indications might be, Parker was unlikely to have duplicated them. As it was being arrived at, the frightening supposition received immediate verification.
“Goddamn it!” the man at the other side of the table snarled furiously. ”These aren’t his hands!”
Even greater alarm flooded through Daly, fueled by the appreciation of the terrible error he had made in his ignorance and the venom with which he was being addressed. Giving him no time to think of what action to take, flame lanced from the darkness and the crash of a shot from a heavy-caliber revolver resounded like a cannon in the confines of the cabin. A conical bullet spiked through his throat, rupturing flesh and blood vessels alike. Spun around by the force of the impact, he crashed face first into the wall. Choking on his own blood, he tried to turn and claw free his Colt from its holster. Before he could complete either involuntary movement, a second bullet slammed into him, this one smashing his spine. His mouth working in soundless agony, he slid down, moving slowly, almost reluctantly it seemed, until sprawling spread-eagled and dying on the floor.
Cocking his weapon, the man beyond the table gave the dying hired killer only a cursory glance. Having satisfied himself that there was nothing further to be feared from that direction, he replaced his weapon in its holster. Crossing to roll up the blankets he had spread on the floor and been using as a resting place while awaiting the arrival of Parker, he left them on the table while he went outside. On his return a short while later, he was dragging the saddles, bridles, and other items removed from the two horses brought by his victim.
“This’s going to be a cheaper payoff than Parker would’ve got if he’d killed the son of a bitch like he was sent to do,” the man declared, although he was sure the words were reaching dead ears. Picking up the roll of blankets, he hurled the lamp so it shattered against the wall and the remaining kerosene was ignited on being spilled over the dry timber. Waiting until he was sure the flames were beginning to take hold and the fire he wanted to destroy the building and its contents was well under way, he left, saying, “But it’s obvious you two botched the chore and I’ll have to count on those jaspers in Hereford doing better.”
~*~
“Howdy, you-all,” greeted the man who had escaped death in the ambush on the trail. Putting his tarpaulin-wrapped bedroll on the floor and resting the Colt rifle against the well-polished reception desk with an air of relief, he went on, “I’m not an Injun, but I reckon you should have a room on reservation for me.”
“A room, sir?” asked the slim and bespectacled young clerk on duty at the Cattlemen’s Hotel in Hereford, sounding as if he considered such levity out of place on the premises. He studied the new arrival with the calculating gaze of one desirous of ensuring that only the correct kind of people received accommodation; he had been west of the Mississippi River for long enough to draw accurate conclusions from the attire and gunbelt. Nevertheless, he glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the wall, which showed the time to be a quarter to midnight, before going on. “And what name would that be, sir?”
“Ramsbottom,” the Texan supplied, glancing around the lobby as if wanting to be sure that it was deserted apart from himself and the man he was addressing.
“Ramsbottom?” the clerk could not help repeating, never having come across such a surname despite having spent all of his working life in the hotel business.
“Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third,” the Texan elaborated with great emphasis, raising his gaze to the roof as if he had grown accustomed to and tired of such a response when introducing himself. Then, glancing at the wooden plaque on the desk, he turned a scrutiny that had become sardonic to the man behind it and continued, “It likely won’t be in my name now I come to think on it, but Mark Counter will’ve made it. So do you have the reservation, Mr. Barrett Wimpole Street?”
“I’ll check, sir,” the clerk promised, looking at the register and, although somewhat surprised that the newcomer was aware of the connotation, silently cursing his parents—as he had many times in the past—for saddling him with such out-of-the-ordinary Christian names. As he knew was the case, there was no mention of a “Ramsbottom” on the page. Nevertheless, the information he found satisfied him that the visitor was fully acceptable as a resident regardless of the lateness of the hour. Banging the well-polished bell in front of him, he looked at the uniformed boy who came leisurely from the rear of the building and, restraining his annoyance over what he knew to be a deliberately dilatory response, ordered, “Go and tell Mr. Counter that his guest has arrived.”
“Sure,” the bellhop assented, turning and scuttling away with an alacrity shown only when he was sent in search of somebody he considered worthy of prompt attention.
“I don’t know whether Mr. Counter has joined Mrs. Counter in their room, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Street warned, adopting the tones he reserved for persons of importance. While he still had no idea who the newcomer might be, the instructions given by a man of such high standing in the cattle-raising industry suggested that a less cavalier treatment than had been accorded so far was advisable. “But he left word that he was to be called as soon as you arrived.”
“That’s him, Mr. Counter, sir,” a boyish voice announced from the small barroom reserved for residents at the left side of the lobby before any more could be said by either man at the desk.
“Gracias, amigo,” replied a deep baritone voice with the drawl of a well-educated Texan. “I kind of thought it might be.”
Turning, the newcomer looked at the second speaker with considerable interest.
Six feet three in height, the bareheaded man accompanying the bellhop was a magnificent physical specimen, despite having passed the first flush of youth. There was a tinge of gray to the curly golden-blond hair, but it wa
s still luxuriant. Almost classically handsome, his tanned face had a mature strength of will and intelligence to its lines. His tremendously wide shoulders had not the slightest suggestion of sagging, although his waist had thickened out somewhat since the new arrival had last seen him. Clad in the attire of a wealthy rancher, he was not wearing a jacket. Like the white silk shirt with a neat black string bow tie, the vest and trousers—the legs hanging outside tan-colored high cowhand-style boots—of what was obviously a three-piece brown suit were tailored to show off his build to its best advantage. However, the brown buscadero gunbelt, with ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers in the contoured holsters, was designed for making a very fast draw, and he looked as if he was capable of doing so should the need arise.
“Howdy, Mr. Counter,” the newcomer said, walking forward and running his right hand through the left as if seeking to straighten stiffened fingers. While doing so, he decided that the man he had come to meet did not look quite so gigantic as he had the last time their paths had crossed. xii Darting a glance over his shoulder at the clerk, he continued, “The name’s Ramsbottom, Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third.”
“Right honored to make your acquaintance, Mr. Ramsbottom,” Mark Counter asserted, showing no discernible surprise at the apparent breach of etiquette caused by the thin black leather glove not having been removed from the right hand extended his way. “Would you care to come into the bar and talk a spell, or do you want to get settled into your room first?”
