by J. T. Edson
While making the assertion, after letting fall her umbrella, the woman reached up to slip free the black veil and removed it along with the black hat. Doing so brought into view neatly coiffured black hair just grizzled with a hint of gray, a head that seemed too trim for her bulky-looking frame, and a face that had a mature beauty in addition to showing strength of will and intelligence beyond average in its lines. Tossing the headdress onto the writing table by the door, she unbuttoned the front of her outer attire, taking no notice of the tall and craggily good-looking police officer’s presence. However, its removal provided yet another surprise. What came into view was a willowy, yet far from flat-chested, body clad in a masculine black shirt, with matching skintight riding breeches ending in Wellington leg boots also suited for equestrian wear.
“By the Lord, Belle,” Ballinger said as the padded outer garment that had supplied the suggestion of bulk was taken off by its wearer to be placed on the bed. “Seeing you in one of your disguises takes me back a spell.” xxv
“Longer than either of us wants to consider, I’ll wager,” Belle Boyd replied with a wry smile; her voice was still that of a Southron, albeit less strident and younger-sounding than previously. xxvi She flexed her arms and twisted her torso for a moment, then continued, “I tell you, Frank, I’d just about forgotten how much fun and satisfaction playing a game like I just did could be since the boss told me I deserved to be assigned to training at headquarters. We both knew he meant he thought I was getting too old to play the Rebel Spy anymore.”
“If you’re too old, I’d hate to have come up against you when you was young and limber,” the chief asserted.
“Flatterer!” Belle drawled. “But don’t stop doing it, please. By the way, can you give a special word of thanks to that patrolman? He showed up just as you promised he would and helped me quite a bit.”
“I’ll tell him, seeing as how it’s a fair time since he got into the blue and walked a beat,” Ballinger promised. “He’s one of my sharpest detective sergeants. Anyways, how do you reckon everything went?”
“Like was needed,” Belle assessed. “Galloway and Malan took the bait like a hungry bigmouth bass rising for a bullfrog, although neither of them is as good-looking or useful most times. They’ve lost Wax and Teddy and will waste some more time and money if they act upon what Sam Wallace told their man about our boys heading for South Dakota. Yes, taking all I’ve been told by Wax and seen since he got here, I’d say everything is going just the way it was planned.”
~*~
“We didn’t see them anywhere when we finally got to the railroad depot,” George Galloway said petulantly, his dyspeptic face working with anger. “The westbound had left and nobody we asked could remember whether they’d gone with it or not.”
“Sylvester said that he was told they were going to South Dakota,” Hugo Malan put in sullenly, realizing that the other was trying to lay all the blame upon him for the debacle that afternoon. He was a painter who rarely if ever found anybody willing to purchase even one of his works, not a driver, so he resented the implication that his lack of skill along that line had delayed the arrival at the depot, even though it was true. “So they’d have to take the westbound.”
A less than amicable discussion was taking place in the dining room of the mansion owned by Malcolm Penny in the wealthiest district of Chicago. The oldest and richest of the group, he believed the amount of his own and other of his dupes’ money he had already expended upon the business under debate gave him the right to serve as its spokesman.
For all his affluence, motivated as were most of his kind, by a desire to retain his wealth if they should ever gain enough power to take over the country and implement their policies, Penny was a longtime supporter of the most radical elements in the Republican Party, and the men who had gathered shared his political outlook. It was they, along with others of their kind in Texas and Washington, D.C., who were behind the attempts to prevent a solution from being found for the problems caused by the mysterious disease afflicting the cattle and threatening the economy of the Lone Star State. What amounted to a council of war was taking place, but as yet nothing had been said that suggested a way out of the dilemma.
However, the repeated failures to take effective measures against the man credited with being able to produce a cure for the Texas fever and possessing the knowledge to bring this about were getting ever more annoying. Not the least cause of animosity was the amount of money that had been expended upon the ventures toward that end that failed to produce any required result. Being mean in financial matters as well as in spirit, all of them bitterly resented the loss of so much money without anything to show for it.
“Why the hell would they go to South Dakota when Smith had been sent for to find a cure for the Texas fever?” Penny demanded, but he did not wait for an answer since there was something to be raised he considered more important. “Anyway, they’ve gone, and what was tried here was no more successful than in Texas.”
“It didn’t run to as much money,” pointed out Paul Magee, a lawyer who—like most of the others—relied upon money from his middle class-middle management family to cover an invariably inept performance of his duties. Being the one responsible for the abortive attempt to kill Waxahachie Smith at the stockyards, he sought to change the subject. “That damned Welshman in Texas keeps writing to ask for the twenty-five hundred dollars Steffen made him hand over for expenses.”
“Steffen’s been the biggest expense—and failure—of all,” Penny growled.
“I can’t see why we didn’t use somebody of our own instead of taking on a hired killer,” Magee went on, hoping nobody remembered that it was at his suggestion the choice was made.
“Because none of you, or anybody else, would do it,” Penny reminded.
“I was told that he and the feller who’s hard of hearing he works with are the best at it,” Magee stated sulkily, his tenuous connections with the criminal elements of the city having produced the information.
“Didn’t you ever meet either of them face-to-face?” Malan challenged.
“I met Steffen,” Denzil Kline claimed in the high-pitched voice that, along with his somewhat effeminate bearing, had caused him to be close to a failure in his career in the theater.
“What does he look like?” Magee asked, having heard that the man in question tried to avoid making personal contact.
“Tall, thickset, with longish black hair,” the inept actor replied. “His face was pallid and he had a very large bulbous nose and big walrus mustache. I didn’t see his eyes because he was wearing dark-lens glasses.”
“A man looking like that would stand out in any crowd,” Magee opined, unaware that Dusty Fog might have found the description of interest. “Provided that’s what he really looks like. I’ve heard they call him Walt the Actor because he was one and is real good at disguising himself.”
“You said something about him working with a man who’s hard of hearing,” Galloway put in, more from a desire to keep the conversation away from the abortive part he and Malan had played in the events of that afternoon. “Why would he do that?”
“To pick up information,” the less-than-successful lawyer explained. “The feller can lip-read and learn things from a distance that it would be impossible to overhear.”
At that moment, Penny’s butler entered carrying a buff-colored envelope on a silver tray. After the man had withdrawn, the rest of the group watched in silence as their host removed a similarly colored sheet of paper from the envelope and studied what was printed on it.
“This is from Steffen, in the usual code,” Penny announced. “What it comes down to is that he claims he’s discovered where Smith will be working in Texas—!”
“That’s good!” Malan enthused.
“Wait until I’ve finished, damn you!” Penny snarled. “He says he wants five thousand dollars sent to him before he’ll do anything about it—and from what Paul’s told me about him, unless he gets it, he’ll te
ll all he knows to those damned Texans who’re behind having Smith go there.”
Unbeknownst to the group of conspirators, everything they were saying was being eavesdropped upon.
Wearing the appropriate attire and with sufficient changes by a skill at disguise that had served her well all through her career, Belle Boyd had acquired the post as housemaid for Penny on first receiving a hint of what was in the wind. Having reported for her duties after helping deal with Galloway and Malan, she was now using her old trick of listening through the wall of the room next to where the meeting was taking place. She considered what she had heard to be worth the risks she was taking to listen.
Chapter Sixteen – I Might’ve Known It’d Be Him
“Well, I’ll be switched,” Waxahachie Smith said in a voice that came close to rapture as he gazed at the small ranch house he and his two companions were approaching. “The ole place looks as good as it always did, but I’m damned if I can remember those grassy mounds scattered around it.”
“They do say the moles in Texas grow to the same prodigious dimensions as everything else,” Frank Smith remarked with a smile provoked by the show of feelings from the generally unemotional rusty-haired man with whom he was coming toward their destination. “And, if that is the cause, I want to shoot some of them for my trophy room.”
“Just one of ’em’d make a dandy coat once its hide was skinned out ’n’ dressed,” Samuel Wallace declared from where he was driving a small wagon, once more dressed in his cowhand’s clothes. “Only, I’d bet that
same one’d be plumb hell on wheels to stop should he set it in mind to charge.”
Given the interference and confusion that had been produced by the efforts of Belle Boyd, although they and Wallace had followed the same route taken on the outward journey by Wax, the trip from Chicago had passed without any further attempts being made by the men who were trying to prevent a cure for the Texas fever. Even before the trio reached Arkansas, the Negro had traveled among his own kind. Before leaving Chicago, he had stated that his presence would be more credible if he did so. What was more, he could have a better opportunity of gathering information while with members of his own race. While he learned nothing of importance, he conceded later, there had been a personal benefit from his decision. On several occasions, he had been invited to be taught how to shoot dice, and being something of an expert at this activity, had picked up a reasonable amount of money.
The only incident of note along the way had occurred shortly after the trio had arrived at Little Rock. Primed by hard liquor, a loafer in a bar they visited had been sufficiently misled by the appearance presented by Teddy as to call him “Four-Eyes” and demand that he buy drinks for the house. Removing and handing his spectacles to Wax, the seemingly harmless intended victim proved to be just as competent at handling his fists and employing roughhouse brawling tactics as he had already been when handling his firearms on the range belonging to the Chicago Police Department.
As there was no railroad going in the required direction after Little Rock, Wax and Teddy had continued their journey on horseback, the latter proving himself equally adept at riding. Still in his pose as assistant to “Doctor Smith,” Wallace drove the wagon that had been waiting for them and carried their personal belongings as well as equipment intended for the forthcoming work.
They crossed the Red River a few miles south of Texarkana, avoiding the town as being the most likely choice for anybody who might be on the lookout for the return of his party should—as was likely to have happened—the pretense of going from Chicago to South Dakota have been discovered to be false by their enemies, which they all conceded was likely to have happened. Wax had been hard put to conceal the pleasure he was feeling at having finally arrived back in Texas after the enforced absence caused by the legal complications that had arisen after the way he exacted a well-deserved revenge upon the Fuentes brothers. Both his companions had guessed at the depth of his feelings and were amused by observing how he tried to prevent them from showing.
On entering Texas, the route chosen by Wax kept the trio clear of the one by which he had traveled on his journey to Chicago. Because the wagon was carrying enough supplies for them to have no need to go in search of a meal or other provisions, they had kept clear of towns and even other human habitations as far as was possible. The way they were now dressed had not been such as to attract attention to them on the few occasions when they had had chance and unavoidable contact with other human beings. Although the attire worn by two of them was that of a cowhand from a northern cattle-raising state, there was nothing else to make them sufficiently conspicuous to invite curiosity.
With the restrictions posed by the journey until reaching the Red River at an end, Frank Smith now wore his gunbelt and Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker, and his Winchester Model of 1876 Centennial rifle was in the boot of the double-girthed Texas saddle that Wax had procured for his use along with a couple of excellent horses. With regard to the saddle, on several occasions he had stated in typical range-country fashion that he hoped none of his friends from back home would ever hear he had used it instead of his vastly superior Meanea Cheyenne roll rig. Despite his looks and flamboyant way of speaking, he had proved to be a good cook and the possessor of other accomplishments indicative of a very good knowledge of living under the conditions they now faced.
As a precaution, the trio had gone into the seat of Titus County, thus breaking the habit of avoiding other human beings. While at Mount Pleasant, Wax had visited the sheriff to present the “proof that he was “Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third.” The documentary “evidence” had been accepted without question by the peace officer, but he had commented that there was no need for further concern on the matter of possible mistaken identity, because the state attorney general had recently sent notification to all law-enforcement agencies that the warrant for Waxahachie Smith was being held in temporary abeyance pending an inquiry into whether the reason for its issue could be classed as having passed the statute of limitations. He also claimed that certain very prominent citizens whose wishes were likely to be respected and acted upon—particularly those residing in Rio Hondo County—had passed the word that anybody trying to arrest Wax regardless of the information would answer to them for doing so.
In spite of the reduced need to exercise extra vigilance on account of the warrant having been temporarily lifted, the trio did not allow themselves to become complacent and unwary. Nevertheless, although Teddy and Wallace had claimed to having felt they were being kept under observation since leaving Mount Pleasant, none of them had been able to detect any sign of the watcher. Certainly, if there was somebody dogging their trail for some reason, nothing happened to make them assume that this was for some hostile purpose. What
was more, when they were about a day’s journey from their destination of the rusty-haired Texan’s ranch in Ellis County—his sobriquet had arisen from his frequent references to having been born at its seat, Waxahachie—they had decided the undetected scrutiny was no longer taking place.
Watching the woman and four men who came from the ranch house, Wax felt some qualms. However, they were not caused by wondering if the woman and men might be in the pay of his enemies. Despite the long period he had been away—he realized the red blue coonhound that had given notice of the approach of his party must be a descendant of the one so highly prized by everybody at the place prior to his departure—he recognized all of them. Helped by their sons, Cy Junior and Waldo, Martha and Cyrus Lombard had kept the spread going in his absence. Furthermore, going by what he had seen while crossing the range he owned, they had done so in an exemplary fashion. Because of that, he wondered how they might be reacting to his return and being at liberty to take up permanent residence on the property which they had every right to regard as their home.
All of Wax’s qualms vanished when he saw the warm and friendly manner being displayed by all of the family as he brought his horses to a halt in front of them. Showing a not
unexpected tact, Teddy and Wallace had halted a short distance away and were watching what was happening with a well-concealed interest. As the rusty-haired Texan swung from his saddle, the Lombards moved forward, exuding a welcome that he found most comforting.
“It’s good to see you home at last, Waldo,” greeted Martha, as plump and pleasantly homely as Wax remembered her from the old days, as she advanced with arms outstretched to embrace him.
“It sure is,” confirmed Cyrus, who looked the typical old Texas cowhand he had always been, offering a work-hardened hand to be shaken.
“You won’t get no argument from us’n’s on that,” Cy Junior asserted with an equal warmth, and his younger brother—whose appearances still gave Wax the impression of being their father at different stages of his youth—proffered a similar sentiment. “We can sure use somebody around to help with the chores.”
Before any more could be said, Martha insisted that Wax and his companions go into the house to rest up and take some decent food after their long journey. Nor, except for permitting the necessary introductions to be performed, would she allow any conversation until she had carried out her desire to see the trio fed in the fashion for which Wax retained fond memories.
“Reckon they’s still after you, boy?” Cyrus inquired after the rusty-haired Texan had told what had happened since his return in response to the summons received from Dusty Fog.
“I wouldn’t want to count on ’em quitting just ’cause we throwed ’em off our trail some in Chicago,” Wax warned, then turned his gaze to the elderly woman. “Which being, Martha, it might be as well for you to go spend a few days with your kinfolks in town.”
“The Comanches couldn’t make me do that,” the woman answered in a spirited fashion that drew grins from all her audience, even the one who had made the suggestion. “Which being, this place’s even better fixed now than it was when those red varmints were on the rampage.”
