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

by J. T. Edson

  “A drink’ll go down real good,” Ramsbottom admitted, feeling the strength of the grip he was given while shaking hands and knowing it was not being applied just to impress him. “And I could eat a bite, or seven, could it be arranged. I’ve been living on my own fixings for quite a spell now, which my cooking’s not what it used to be—and never was.”

  “The dining room’s closed, but the residents’ bar’s still open,” the blond giant drawled. “And I reckon the kitchen could come up with something to eat, couldn’t they, Mr. Street?”

  “Of course, Mr. Counter, sir,” the clerk confirmed, then his voice took on an apologetic timbre. “It will only be sandwiches, though.”

  “They’ll do just fine, so long’s the trail count tallies high,” Ramsbottom declared, showing he had knowledge of the terminology of the cattle business.2 ”I wasn’t expecting a full meal with all the trimmings hitting town this late.” Turning his attention to the bellhop, he went on cheerfully, “Which livery do you have your deal with, amigo?”

  “Deal?” the boy queried with what almost passed as wide-eyed innocence.

  “Uh-huh!” the newcomer grunted, throwing a quick glance at the desk clerk and directing a knowing wink at the young youngster. “I was a bellhop myself at the Longhorn Hotel down to Los Cabestrillo when I was ‘bout your age. Fact being, though I bet he don’t remember me, I toted Mr. Counter’s bags to his room for him one night.”

  “I remember being there,” Mark declared with a grin. “But I don’t reckon I’d’ve recognized you.”

  “Likely not,” Ramsbottom admitted, also smiling. He decided against collecting the weapons belonging to his would-be killers, which were fastened to the horn of the bay’s saddle, or reporting the attack to the local peace officers until he had discussed it with the blond giant. “Anyways, you’ll find two mighty leg-weary hosses outside. Take them to your livery stable and have ’em ’tended to real good; they’ve covered plenty of long, hard miles. Tell the hostler to keep my saddles and what’s on them safe until I drop by and fetch them, amigo.” Pausing while he fished a silver dollar from his trousers pocket, he went on, “And, like Mr. Counter told me back when, don’t spend it all on one woman.”

  “I don’t spend nothing on no blasted woman, Mr. Ramsbottom,” the youngster claimed, deftly catching the coin as it was flipped his way and wishing he could recollect a famous peace officer or gunfighter with that surname. “Which being, I’ll see your hosses get ‘tended real good ’n’ your gear’ll be safe no matter how long it’s there. You want me to tote your bedroll and rifle up to your room first, though?”

  “Be as well, I reckon,” the newcomer decided. After the bellhop had collected the key for the room he had been allocated and scuttled away with his property, he turned his gaze to the blond giant. “Time was I felt that way about women.”

  “Didn’t we all?” Mark answered just as cheerfully. “You’ve grown a mite since that night in Los Cabestrillo.”

  “Now me,” Ramsbottom replied, “I was just now thinking’s how you’d come down in height a mite. Anyways, I bet that boy’s going to be tolerable disappointed when he finds my hosses don’t have the MC or OD Connected brand on them.”

  “Likely,” the blond giant agreed, aware that his association with the second ranch was still well-known throughout the range country of Texas even though he had been running the first one mentioned for several years. “Shall we go into the bar and rest our feet?”

  “You won’t get no argument from me on that,” the newcomer asserted. “Only, it’s not my feet I want to rest right now.”

  Chapter Nine – Welcome Back to Texas, Waxahchie Smith

  “Been a long ride, huh?” Mark Counter said, more as a statement than a question, as he and his guest were crossing the lobby of the Cattlemen’s Hotel.

  “Long and lonesome,” confirmed the man who had introduced himself to the desk clerk as Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third. Looking around the barroom as he entered, he discovered that he and his host had it to themselves except for the bartender. It was small, well lit, and comfortably furnished, with a second door giving access to the alley at the left side of the hotel. Having studied his surroundings in a way that implied doing so was second nature to him, he continued in the same conversational tone, “How-all’s Cap’n Fog ’n’ Miz Freddie?”

  “Both were fit’s frog’s hair last time we met and’re still most like’ the same, seeing’s how I haven’t heard nothing different,” Mark answered, leading the way to the table he had occupied while awaiting the arrival of his visitor. As they sat down, he went on, “They sent their respects and apologies for not being able to come and welcome you personally. In spite of your telegraph message from Santa Fe, I wasn’t sure you’d get here today. But I didn’t feel sleepy and reckoned I’d give you until midnight before I turned in. Anyways, how about a drink?”

  “Gracias,” the newcomer assented. “Last time I said no to one was twenty-eight years back comes June the thirty-second. I’ll have me a schooner of beer.”

  “Two schooners of beer, please, Harry, then see if you can scare up some grub for Mr. Ramsbottom here,” Mark called, and while the bartender was bringing the first part of the order, he eyed his visitor with some amusement. ”Ramsbottom?”

  “I figured it’d sound more likely to be accepted by the desk clerk,” the newcomer explained with a grin. “But damned if I didn’t get looked at the same way I always do when I sprung it on him.”

  “It could be you, not your name, that makes folks act that way,” Mark pointed out after the two schooners of beer had been brought to the table.

  “Well, I’ll be switched, I never thought of it like that,” Ramsbottom confessed. Picking up his glass, still without offering to remove the black gloves, his right forefinger continued to point straight forward. Having curled it to join the other three with his left hand, he announced, “Here’s to Texas!”

  “To Texas,” the blond giant seconded, understanding the depth of genuine feeling with which the toast had been proposed. It was drunk before anything more could be said, then he went on in a tone that would not reach the bartender, who had returned to the counter. “You made good time getting here, amigo.”

  “I figured whatever it is you want me for would be worth moving fast on,” Ramsbottom claimed.

  “It will be,” Mark declared with conviction. Glancing over his shoulder and making sure the bartender had gone into the kitchen, he continued, “Welcome back to Texas, Waxa—!”

  The blond giant’s words were brought to an end by the sound of footsteps crossing the reception lobby to the accompaniment of the desk clerk’s voice.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen!” Barrett Wimpole Street was saying, his voice even more disapproving than it was when he had greeted the man whose name apparently was not Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third. “May I ask where you are going?”

  “Where the hell do you think?” a harsh voice replied, and the words were slurred as if the speaker had been drinking “not wisely, but too well.” He added, “In there!”

  “I’m afraid you can’t!” the clerk objected, his tone becoming querulous yet prohibitive. “That bar is only for residents of the hotel.”

  On arriving at the table they were using, which was situated in the center of the barroom, the way the two Texans had sat down would have struck anybody familiar with the habits of the West as being most significant. They had selected chairs so that their backs were not toward either the door through which they had come or the one giving access to the alley. It was, in fact, a precaution frequently adopted by men whose precarious way of life caused a need to avoid offering an opportunity for an enemy to come up behind them unseen. xiii Even without having knowledge of the thwarted ambush on the banks of the stream, an observer with range-wise eyes would see enough indications in the appearance of Ramsbottom to explain why he took it. Although less so in the case of the blond giant than was the case during his more active younger days, when seeing who was enteri
ng a room could also have meant the difference between remaining in good health and being shot in the back, he too had made his choice instinctively rather than through a desire to sit facing his visitor.

  Turning their gaze toward the door through which they had entered the barroom, the blond giant and his guest studied the three men who were approaching in a loose arrowhead formation. All wore the kind of clothes that cowhands, albeit from outside Texas, had decided were most suited to the specialized needs of their work. However, there were signs that warned Mark and Ramsbottom that such was not their occupation. Nor, if the way each’s right hand was going toward the butt of his low-tied revolver as they crossed the threshold, were they drunk and merely seeking to obtain further liquid refreshment in the bar reserved for residents of the Cattlemen’s Hotel. If Charles Blaze had been present, he would have identified them as the attackers who escaped after the fight behind the saloon in Austin.

  Lacking the information, but acting upon what he had seen and deduced while the trio were still approaching across the lobby, Ramsbottom had swiveled himself around so he was facing them and the legs of his chair were clear of the table. However, before Mark could take a similar precautionary measure, there was a distraction that caused him to direct his attention elsewhere. Somebody in the alley was trying the handle of the side door, and on finding it locked, let out an explosive profanity. Then there was a crash as the glass pane in it, the bottom half painted white and the top bearing the words “CATTLEMEN’S HOTEL, Residents Only” to further restrict vision beyond, was burst asunder by the butt of the sawed-off shotgun held by the taller of two men outside. Even if his weapon had not served as sufficient indication, the Colt being wielded by his companion removed any slight chance that they were merely residents acting in anger on finding they could not gain admittance by conventional means.

  Instead of looking around, Ramsbottom kept his attention on the trio at the connecting door, leaving the blond giant to cope with whatever might be happening in the direction of the commotion. Making the most of an advantage offered by the rig he was wearing, he had no need to leave his seat before he started to arm himself in the fashion required by the way he carried his Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker. Turning his right elbow outward and almost to shoulder level, thankful that the chair did not have armrests to impede him, he rotated his hand swiftly so that it closed upon the inner side of the staghorn grip. Not unexpectedly, as they had been carried out to convert it into what was known as a “slip gun,” xiv the modifications that had helped bring about the downfall of Monte Parker failed to cause him similar problems. His forefinger passed through the empty trigger guard, but did not alter its curvature to press against the back when inside. Clamping his second and third fingers firmly on the butt, he hooked the fourth under the base to grant an increased support. While this was taking place, his thumb was coiling over the shortened, lowered, and smoothed spur of the hammer. Then, by snapping his elbow inward, he not only twisted the revolver from the form-fitting Missouri Skin-Tite holster but cocked the single action without needing further effort from the thumb.

  Although he had led a much less eventful life recently, Mark proved he had lost little of the speed that frequently served to keep him alive in similarly dangerous situations while he was riding with Dusty Fog as a member of the OD Connected ranch’s floating outfit. xv However, carrying his Colt Cavalry Model Peacemakers in the more conventional fashion, he realized he could not draw them as effectively as his companion was doing while sitting down. Nor did he attempt to do so. Instead, sending his chair skidding away with a thrust from his thighs, he grasped the edge of the table in both hands as he came erect like a startled cock pheasant leaving cover. Showing he still possessed much of the strength for which he had been famous in his younger days, he swung the table upward. It passed over Ramsbottom’s head without impeding the smooth flow of the special “slip gun” draw.

  Three-quarters of a second from the first movement, having pointed the Colt at waist level instinctively while the table was going over him, Ramsbottom relaxed the grip his thumb was applying. Freed from restraint, the hammer snapped forward to plunge its striker into the priming cap of the cartridge in the cylinder’s uppermost chamber. The crash of exploding black powder sounded and, indicative of the skill with which the weapon was being handled, the leader of the trio was struck in the chest. There had been only one shot, but three holes appeared in his shirt. However, although the apertures were smaller than would have been the case if a single .45-caliber bullet had arrived, he was slammed backward before he could fire a shot.

  As soon as the table was sent on its way, Mark’s hands lashed downward to enfold the ivory grips of his revolvers. Their seven-and-a-half-inch barrels were swept from the carefully designed holsters with only slightly less rapidity than he could produce in his hectic youth. However, they did not speak straightaway. While the impromptu missile prevented the taller man from being able to bring the sawed-off shotgun into alignment, or the other from using the revolver, it also shielded them from the blond giant’s view. Nevertheless, when it crashed into the door and fell to the floor, he was ready. The Colts thundered almost in unison and sent their bullets with an equal accuracy. Selected as posing the greater possible threat, the man with the shotgun was taken in the chest by both pieces of lead and hurled backward across the alley.

  Swiftly though Ramsbottom had dealt with the first of the trio, his instincts as an exceptionally competent gunfighter warned that he and his host were still in considerable danger. The other two from the lobby were unharmed and showed no signs of being put off by the original stages of what had the makings of a well-conceived plan going badly wrong. While he believed he would be able to take care of one, the distance they were apart removed any possibility of being able to turn and use the slip gun quickly enough to prevent the other from firing at him. What was more, he could expect no assistance from the blond giant, who was fully occupied with what Ramsbottom realized must be more attackers at the other side of the room.

  Having taken care of the man with the shotgun, Mark gave his attention immediately to the second would-be assailant. He was granted the vitally necessary pause because this one’s view was partially blocked until the window was broken, and because the other’s body was an obstruction before it was thrown backward under the impact of the two .45-caliber bullets. Brief though the respite was, it proved sufficient for the man who in his heyday was reputed to be second only to the legendary Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog, in the speed and accuracy with which he could use a brace of Colts. xvi On this occasion, instead of firing simultaneously with both guns, he started to thumb back each hammer in turn. Then, squeezing the appropriate trigger and riding the not-inconsiderable recoils with the aid of long training and his exceptional strength, he discharged shot after shot in a continuous drum roll of explosions.

  Electing to take the man on the right side, having deduced he was the more capable of the pair, Ramsbottom responded with the same devastating speed that had characterized his handling of the modified Colt Nevertheless, even as the triple ball load was being dispatched and found its marks as effectively as had its predecessor, he knew he would be too late to save himself from the other. Already the revolver held by the surviving member of the trio was being pointed at him, and he felt sure its user possessed the ability to ensure it made a hit.

  Gushing from the twin muzzles in turn, the white smoke from the detonated powder in eight cartridge cases swirled thickly before the blond giant. However, this proved to be a mixed blessing. While it served to make him a more obscure target, the same applied to the man at whom he was firing. Nevertheless, continuing to send the bullets in the general direction of the shattered pane in the door, he achieved his purpose.

  Reaching the window, the second attacker found himself in the middle of a veritable hail of flying lead. None of it touched him, but one bullet tore the hat from his head and he felt the wind, or heard the eerie splat! sound as others went by v
ery close. He failed in his attempt to count how many times the long-barreled Colts had spoken, the speed of the discharges having rendered this impossible. On the other hand, he could see enough to realize that the rest of his companions were not meeting with success against the second Texan. Deciding that the ambush had failed, he turned to race along the alley without offering to try to retrieve his headgear, and the pattering of his departing footsteps quickly faded away.

  Despite having removed the peril from that side, Mark could not have turned and used the single remaining bullet in either Colt quickly enough to offer assistance to his guest.

  Salvation came from another and most unexpected source.

  For all his pompous and prissy manner when on duty, Barrett Wimpole Street was neither a fool nor lacking in courage. What was more, he possessed a strong sense of loyalty to his employers and was all too aware of the responsibilities that went with his positions of desk clerk and night manager. Annoyed by the way his warning about the status of the residents’ barroom was ignored by the newcomers, who he had assumed were nothing more than drunken cowhands, hearing the shooting gave notice of his error in judgment. While he was startled by the unexpected turn of events, such a thing never having happened at the Cattlemen’s Hotel—or anywhere else he had served in a similar capacity—he was not frozen into frightened immobility.

  On the shelf under the desk, kept loaded and available for use in such an emergency, was a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber double-action revolver. Unlikely as such a thing might have struck most people who came into contact with him during working hours, Street had acquired enough competence in its use to expect that it would allow him to protect the clientele of the hotel. Despite having heard of Mark Counter’s ability as a gunfighter and seeing the first man shot by Ramsbottom reeling backward through the door, he snatched up the weapon with his right hand and, raising it to shoulder height as he was taught, adopted the stance he had found gave the best results when firing at a target.