by J. T. Edson
“Gracias, friend,” Smith said to his first rescuer, returning the Colt to its carrying position beneath his jacket. “You got here just in time.”
“I’m right pleased I was able to, boss,” the Negro replied, and glanced along the passageway to the pen from which the bull had been released. “Blast it, though, they managed to light a shuck when what was doing, ’stead of coming to land a hand with their critter.”
“I’d say you know a whole heap more than we want to talk about here,” the rusty-haired Texan asserted, and turned his attention to the white cowhands and Easterners before any reply could be made. ”Gracias to you gents for helping out.”
“’Tis all part of the railroad’s service,” the biggest of the Easterners replied in an Irish brogue. “And now we’d best be getting back to unloading the darlin’ little beasts afore the boss comes wanting to know why we’re slacking ’stead of doing the work we’re always getting told we’re so well paid to do.”
“I surely like a man who’s loyal to his boss,” Smith said with a grin when he was left with only the cowhands, none of whom appeared to share the sentiments regarding a resumption of work expressed by the Irishman. “Which, seeing’s I reckon whoever owns that fool critter wouldn’t’ve taken kind to having him killed out here, ’stead of all right ’n’ proper in a slaughterhouse, I’m more’n obliged to you-all for cutting in so pronto and saving me from needing to do it.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Smith,” claimed the tallest and oldest of the group, who had done the roping. His voice had the drawl of a Texan despite his Northern style of clothing, and it had the timbre of one long used to giving and having his orders accepted. “Except it wasn’t going to any slaughterhouse, what the feller’s bought it from us this morning said. They allowed they needed a mean ole mossy-horn bull for a Bill-Show they was figuring on running and concluded he’d be just what they wanted. Paid more than he’d’ve fetched on the hoof, so we got him penned on his lonesome for them to move when they was ready. Such’s been done afore, so I didn’t see nothing wrong with saying ‘Why, sure, take him ’n’ welcome.’”
“That being why they wanted him,” Smith drawled sardonically, “they for sure didn’t work overhard at keeping him safe penned. Fact being, was I asked, I’d say they turned him loose on purpose and made certain sure he’d be more’n just riled when he came out of the pen.”
“Looked just a smidgen that ways to me,” the self-appointed spokesman for the group of cowhands admitted. “Which being, I was wanting to ask those jaspers what the hell game they thought they were playing, but I saw Sam here’d likely need a mite of help, so we sort of drifted along to give it. Trouble being, when we were through, they’d lit out.” Turning, he gazed in the direction taken by the trio in question and addressed his next words to the other cowhands. “Any of you boys know them?”
“They sure wasn’t no kin of mine!” declared the Negro and, chuckling over his response, the rest of the cowhands denied all knowledge of the trio.
“We could sort of drift around and see could we cut their trail,” the shortest and oldest of the group suggested in what appeared to be a hopeful fashion.
“And do it in all the bars you come across?” the tallest cowhand stated rather than merely guessed, his lazy drawl just as apparently exuding gratitude for the suggestion. “I reckon not, thank you ‘most to death for offering. Go back to what you was doing and earn some of that money you’re getting so well paid to do.”
“Well,” Smith said after all the cowhands except the Negro had left him with their spokesman. “Let’s make us some habla now, shall we?”
“Lord, it’s bueno to hear some good ole-fashioned Mex’ talked, ain’t it, Sam?” the remaining white cowhand declared, and received a nod of confirmation from the Negro. “Anyways, this here’s Sam Wallace and I’m Tobe McKinley. Which, the formalities now having been done right ’n’ proper, we’ll take you to somebody’s we conclude you’ll be right pleased to meet.”
Satisfied that he had met the person he was instructed to contact, the rusty-haired Texan accompanied the cowhands to an office used by railroad officials or others with business to carry out in the stockyards. Entering, he found himself confronted by a man considerably younger than he had expected. About an inch shorter than Smith and sturdily built, he was wearing good-quality range clothing originating from the same area as that worn by the cowhands. Despite having on spectacles and sporting a short, neatly trimmed reddish mustache that, taken with a mouthful of big teeth, tended to give his face a somewhat owlish look, he carried himself with easy assurance.
“Mr. Smith, meet Mr. Smith,” McKinley introduced.
“By Godfrey, it’s bully to make your acquaintance at last, Wax,” the man to whom the rusty-haired Texan was being presented declared in a somewhat high-pitched and piping voice that failed to remove any trace of his masculinity. “I trust you’ll forgive the lack of formality and will call me Teddy.”
Chapter Fifteen – That’s My Cab
“Well, we’re all ready to leave for Texas, or rather South Dakota if Samuel had been believed,” remarked the man Waxahachie Smith had traveled so far and at considerable risk to meet. “I don’t suppose those hombres who’ve been causing you so much trouble have lost the trail, do you?”
“I wouldn’t want to have my life hang on it happening,” the rusty-haired Texan replied, noticing that his companion seemed to show no anxiety over the possibility of forthcoming danger. “Unless I’m mistaken, the way the letter I got telling me where to meet you had been opened like it was never sealed or the envelope had been switched, that shifty-eyed jasper on the reception desk’s been passing word about my doings ever since I hit town.”
“Oh well, those little things are sent to try even the best of us,” Frank Smith said philosophically, still without showing any evidence of concern.
In the three days of their acquaintance, Wax had grown to like and respect the man who was helping him achieve his ambition to be able to return to and live in Texas without needing to fear arrest. xxiv
Regardless of his physical appearance and flamboyant manner of speaking, Frank Smith struck the rusty-haired Texan as being very much a man, and one who could be counted upon in any emergency. What was more, despite being less than distinguished in appearance, he possessed a charisma that had gained the admiration of the cowhands who had helped save Wax from the bull in the stockyards and proved to have the same effect on several other equally tough and competent men with whom he came into contact. Even if Wax had not heard the subject mentioned by Tobias McKinley in Frank’s temporary absence to answer the “call of nature,” that he was unlikely to prove a liability and in need of protection should gunplay occur before their association ended was proved to the Texan’s satisfaction.
Taking advantage of an offer to do so given by Chief of Detectives Frank Ballinger, the two Smiths had gone to the shooting range belonging to the Chicago Police Department. While there, Teddy—as he insisted upon being called—had proved an excellent shot with the Winchester Model of 1876 rifle he brought with his baggage. He also demonstrated skill at drawing and throwing lead accurately with the ivory-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker he carried in a high-riding cross-draw holster on the broad waist belt that he had also proved to have with his belongings. It was also apparent from various remarks he made that he was fully conversant with the cattle business and not just as it applied to the work he was chosen to carry out.
With one exception, nothing else of note had occurred during the remainder of the brief stay in Chicago. Having changed his cowhand clothing for Eastern attire, including a pair of Hersome gaiter boots to which he took grave exception and swore hurt in the way his regular high-heeled and sharp-toed footwear never did, Samuel Wallace had accompanied the two Smiths in the guise of general assistant to “Massa Teddy.” He had reported after breakfast that morning that he had been approached by another Negro the previous evening and, after having supplied a couple of dr
inks, was asked whether he was going to be around for a big dice game to take place later in the week. Saying that he was disappointed at not being able to attend, on being prompted, he had said he was accompanying his boss on a special and secret mission to the South Dakotas before the appointed day. Asked when the departure would take place, he had said he did not know for sure but felt it would be fairly soon.
With all the arrangements made for traveling, including having some large wooden boxes labeled SURGICAL INSTRUMENTS, HANDLE WITH CARE in large red letters, but bearing no identifying name, dispatched by Wells Fargo to a ranch in South Dakota, the trio were gathered at the hotel ready to leave. As was to be expected in that day and age, Wallace was placed in charge of their baggage. In spite of the reason for Teddy going to Texas, this was nowhere near as bulky and impressive-looking as the items sent off as a decoy.
Going to the lobby to check out, the two Smiths fended off a request for a forwarding address—”in case any mail arrives after you are gone”—from the shifty-eyed desk clerk suspected by Wax of having opened the letter telling of the rendezvous with his namesake. Ignoring a suggestion that it was the policy o’ the establishment to acquire the required information, they had paid their respective bills. Then, acting as if they were confident that they had thrown any pursuers off their
trail, they passed through the open double front door to where Wallace was waiting for them with a cabriolet of a size suitable for carrying the three of them and their baggage. It had been hired specially and not selected from the rank of smaller vehicles that plied for hire a short distance from the hotel’s main entrance.
Giving the appearance of waiting for somebody while sitting in the lobby, a man dressed in garments suitable for the luxurious premises—albeit showing little sign of having received attention to keep them tidy—rose after the two Smiths walked by. He was about five feet nine in height, with a weedy build, less-than-tidy mousy longish brown hair, and pale dyspeptic features. Tossing aside the newspaper he had held, more as if wishing to keep his features concealed than to read its information, he rose and started to go after them. Before he had taken more than four steps, somebody collided with considerable violence against him. Not only did the unexpected impact cause him to stagger, but something thin and unyielding passed between his legs and tripped him so that he went sprawling to the floor.
“You clumsy, inconsiderate man. Why don’t you look where you’re going!”
Screeched in a somewhat tinny and definitely irate voice with a Southern accent and a suggestion of fairly advanced years, the words that followed the collision were uttered by a woman. She was about five feet seven in height, and the all-black clothing she had on conveyed the impression that she was somewhat dumpy in build. Because of the black veil suspended from below an otherwise undecorated hat of the same somber hue, nothing could be seen of her face. What was more, not only were the gloves she wore in keeping with the rest of her attire’s resemblance to “widow’s weeds,” they prevented any indication of her marital status from being detected.
Like her victim, she had been making for the front door after having sat reading—with muttered expressions of disgust at some of the contents—a magazine devoted to the activities of the more lighthearted members of Chicago’s society. She, too, had discarded it and moved forward with surprising speed for one of her apparently no longer young age. What was more, because she gave the impression of trying to turn aside at the last minute, her right shoulder had rammed into his left arm with some force. The effect of the collision was compounded when the tightly furled black umbrella she carried passed between his legs, causing him to trip up.
Instead of waiting to find out whether her victim was hurt by the fall to the floor, having made her protest at the top of a still-powerful set of lungs, she resumed her intended departure at its earlier speed. On emerging from the hotel, if she was going anywhere except a short distance, it seemed she was in luck.
Having ignored requests for service by two potential passengers, although unoccupied and there having been no signal requesting such an action from the doorman dressed somewhat unconvincingly—as his ruddy features were much more Irish in lines than Gallic—after the fashion of a French Zouave soldier who regularly performed such a function for guests, the driver of a vehicle designed along the lines of a British dog cart and drawn by a good-looking horse had moved forward from the foremost position on the rank and was coming to a halt outside the building.
Tall, bulky in a flabby way rather than suggestive of firm flesh beneath cheap clothing little different from that worn by others in his line of work, the driver looked to be in his mid-twenties. There was a pasty pallor about his heavily jowled porcine face that seemed strange for one whose occupation ought to have exposed it to tanning by the elements. Not only had he displayed a surprising lack of interest in earning money by picking up passengers, but his handling of the horse was much less competent than might have been expected from one who plied for hire in an affluent part of the city.
“Take me to the—!” the elderly-looking woman began, waving her umbrella to emphasize the words.
“I’m already tak—!” the driver commenced, his voice lacking any suggestion of the masculine roughness so often characteristic of his kind, but he, too, was not permitted to complete his statement.
“Of course you aren’t!” the woman asserted. “You’ve nobody in the back.”
“That’s my cab!” yelped the man who had suffered the collision in the lobby, having regained his feet and hurried on to the sidewalk.
“Nonsense!” the cause of the mishap veritably snorted in what appeared to be righteous indignation. “I was here first, not you!”
“But I’d order—!” the man began, his voice even more squeaky than it previously sounded.
“How could you when I was out here first?” the woman demanded. Then, glancing away, she gave a grunt redolent of satisfaction at something she had seen and raised her voice in a stridently commanding yell of “Officer!”
“Yes, ma’am?” asked the patrolman of the Chicago Police Department who had been farther along the street but came striding forward in answer to the summons. His accent was Irish, as would have been the case with the majority of officers in his organization. “Was there something up?”
“There was and still is,” the woman confirmed. “This person is trying to make out he has the right to take the cabriolet I need to use.”
“But I ordered it—!” the man said in what sounded like a gobble.
“Don’t talk rubbish!” the woman interrupted. “You’ve never come outside for at least half an hour, as I know well. And you didn’t send to ask the doorman to do it for you.”
“Is that the rights of it, sir?” the patrolman asked after a glance toward the doorkeeper, who—having no desire to be caught in the middle of an argument between two people who had emerged from the hotel— turned away and appeared to be concentrating on what was happening in the opposite direction.
“Of course it is!” the woman insisted before the man could speak. “And I expect you to do something to see I get my rightly dues, Officer. The chief of police is a personal friend of mine.”
“Well now, sir,” the patrolman said, directing a look that was redolent of an unexpressed There’s nothing else I can do, seeing’s who she is toward the pallid-faced victim of the collision. “Don’t you reckon’s how it’d be the gentlemanly thing to do to be letting the lady have this cab? I can right easy get you another from the rank down there.”
“I—I—!” the young man started. Having stared for a moment along the street in the opposite direction to that indicated by the officer, as the driver of the cabriolet was doing with an equal intensity, he let out a hiss of annoyance. Then he gave a shrug and went on in a bitter tone, “Oh well, she may as well have it.”
“I don’t want it now,” the woman declared with a toss of her head and another wave of her umbrella, which this time suggested derision. “Taking it wou
ld be like I was beholden to him, and that I wouldn’t want to be!”
“Wha—?” croaked the man, but stopped as if words had failed him.
Paying no attention to any of the other principal participants in the scene she had provoked, the woman stalked back into the hotel without deigning to say another word. Although her victim and the driver seemed close to apoplexy, the patrolman gave a shrug as if he had expected nothing else from her. Then, also without speaking, he resumed his beat in a manner suggesting that he thought he had done all he could under the circumstances.
“Where are they?” the pallid-faced man demanded angrily after the officer had passed beyond hearing distance.
“How would I know?” the driver snarled, his tone taking on the timbre of one better educated than might be expected for somebody in such a line of work. “They turned off the street while I was talking to that old bitch.”
“Going the way they set off, they must be headed for the railroad depot,” the man asserted with the air of one drawing an indisputable conclusion. “Let’s get there. If that nigger of yours got the right of it and they’re heading for South Dakota, they’ll have to take a westbound train. So we’ll be able to make sure they’re aboard and, and when we’re sure, we can leave it to somebody else to see what can be done about it.”
“How’d everything go?” Chief of Detectives Frank Ballinger asked as the woman wearing widow’s weeds entered a luxurious suite of rooms on the second floor of the hotel.
“Couldn’t have gone smoother” was the reply, but the voice had a tone that was very different from the one it had had while the woman was downstairs and outside the building.
