by J. T. Edson
‘Who’d that be, ma’am?’
‘Joe Brambile.’
‘Bueno!’ Doc enthused. ‘I haven’t run across good ole Joe in a coon’s age.’
‘Maybe he’ll’ve run across Hayden Lindrick, amigo.’ Rusty suggested and all the levity had left him.
‘He’d have got word to me if he had,’ the taller cowhand stated, losing the cheerful timbre from his voice.
‘I’ve never heard of Den Lindrick since—’ Madam began, being aware of what had caused the change in the attitude of the two young men. Letting the words trail off, she decided against saying she found it hard to believe the person they were discussing had committed the heinous crime for which Doc was clearly still hoping to take revenge. Instead, she went on, ‘Anyways, the grub’s ready and waiting. If you boys aren’t starving, we’ll start into it as soon as I’ve been to look for butterflies in the bushes.’
Strolling into the woodland, although feeling certain neither of the cowhands was the kind to follow and watch her, the blonde went a short distance before locating what she considered to be a suitable spot for her needs. Removing her jacket, she peeled off the shoulder holster and hung it over the branch of a flowering dogwood bush, where it would be within easy reaching distance, before unfastening the waist band of her skirt. Again, the precaution was not taken against the possibility of finding herself spied upon by one or both Texans. She was aware that rattlesnakes, among other dangerous creatures, frequented such terrain and wanted to be able to protect herself while in the vulnerable position created by her present needs.
While squatting behind the bushes, answering the call of nature, Madam heard horses. However, the sound caused her no concern. She estimated they were coming along the trail she had used. There were many innocuous reasons for riders to be in the vicinity, such as cowhands returning belatedly to their ranch after having spent Saturday night celebrating in Tennyson, so she did not bother to hurry. After she had adjusted her nether garments, judging that the newcomers would soon be in sight of where the wagon was stationed, she replaced her shoulder holster and, donning her jacket, made her way back to the wagon.
Standing by the fire with cups of coffee in their hands, Doc Leroy and Rusty Willis were waiting for the blonde to return before commencing their meal. They too had had their attention attracted by the sound of hooves. Being in a better position, they were soon able to see the five men who were coming at a leisurely pace along the trail from Tennyson. Studying the middle sized and overweight professional gambler in the lead, they turned their gaze next to the lanky, poorly dressed town dweller by his side. Neither struck them as the kind to be accompanied by the other three riders. Unless their range-wise eyes were at fault, they figured the trio to be small town hard- cases of the sort willing to do anything for money except sweat-raising work or taking chances. However, knowing their own competence at matters pistolero and being unacquainted with recent events in the town from which the quintet had come, neither cowhand saw any reason to be worried by the new arrivals.
‘Hello the fire!’ the gambler called, bringing his companions to a halt, as was required by range country etiquette, although they were traversing a public trail. ‘Do you have any coffee and chow to spare?’
‘We’re long on coffee,’ replied the small, cheerful, but no longer young man who acted as cook and general handyman for Madam Bulldog. ‘But, seeing’s we wasn’t expecting company, we won’t have enough food for you.’
‘Coffee’ll do us fine,’ Matthew McDonald declared, swinging from his saddle. ‘Come on, boys. Let’s have ourselves a cup afore we ride on.’
Having made good their escape from the Hide and Horn Saloon after the failure of their first attempt to cheat the new owner, the gambler and Samuel Shardlow had taken refuge in the room the latter rented at a cheap hotel. They had expected to be sought, either by the marshal or by members of the blonde’s staff, but neither eventuality had happened. Nevertheless, knowing they could not count upon any of Joshua Gilmore’s crowd for support, they had concluded a change of scenery was advisable.
Remembering that the woman responsible for their downfall was expecting a wagon loaded with unspecified property to come from Fort Worth, the pair had seen a chance of taking a profitable revenge. Selecting the three hard-cases to assist them, they had contrived to discover when the shipment was expected to reach Tennyson and had set out to intercept it. On hearing from the man they had sent ahead as scout that there were two cowhands with the couple bringing the wagon, there had been some argument over what to do. Pointing out that neither the man and woman or the cowhands had any reason to expect trouble, particularly when so close to their destination, McDonald had proposed a scheme which met with the approval of the others. Satisfied that the odds were still in their favor, particularly as the gambler’s scheme should provide them with the vital element of surprise, they had ridden on as a single group and were about to put their plan into effect.
On the surface, the plan proposed by McDonald was excellent!
However, unbeknown to any of the quintet, there were two doubtful factors which had not been anticipated!
In the first place, not liking the look of the hard-cases in particular, the cowhands were far more alert than they appeared on the surface!
Secondly and of far greater importance, the gambler had not realized there was somebody in the vicinity who knew him and would be even more doubtful of his motives!
‘McDonald!’
Hearing his name called and seeing who was coming through the trees, the gambler did not wait to find out what was intended. Giving a yell of, ‘Get the bastards!’ he grabbed for the revolver tucked into the silk sash about his midsection. With their nerves already on edge, the situation having developed a more dangerous trend than was envisaged when it was planned, the rest of the newcomers duplicated his action and began to reach for their weapons.
Starting to draw her Webley with all the speed she could muster, Madam Bulldog discovered, from the corner of her eye, that, the two young Texans were responding in a satisfactory manner!
Allowing the cup to fall from his grasp, Doc Leroy was the fastest of everybody involved. Even before it landed at his feet, his seemingly boneless right hand was making a white flash of movement. So swiftly did the Colt leave the specially designed holster that, as his fingers and thumb enfolded the ivory handle in their grasp, it seemed that his hand and the gun met in mid-air. Although the revolver spoke at waist level, the .44 caliber soft lead ball took McDonald in the center of the chest before his own weapon had cleared his sash.
The blonde was second into action, beating Rusty by a smaller margin than if she too had elected to employ instinctive alignment. Having a greater distance between herself and the newcomers, she took the fractionally longer time to adopt a double handed and eye level posture. Firing twice, the second bullet took Shardlow in the head. Coming an instant later, the first lead discharged by the shorter cowhand proved that the Dance was still a useful weapon in competent hands by tumbling the fastest moving of the hard- cases with a wound in the thigh. Not, unfortunately, before he was able to shoot and, missing his target, which was Doc, he hit the elderly cook in the right side of the chest.
Despite having started their draws, neither of the surviving men brought them to completion. Instead, they turned with flight in mind. Their movements were giving an added stimulus to rapidity. The horses which had been left ground hitched by dangling reins, as was customary in range country, were showing alarm at the disturbance. Although normally they would have stood still, they were beginning to turn away from the commotion with the intention of bolting. Dashing up, each of the remaining hard-cases contrived to catch hold of reins and a saddlehorn. They made flying mounts which produced the desired effect. Once afork their captured mounts, expecting to be fired at and perhaps hit, they gave all their attention to putting as much distance between themselves and their intended victims as quickly as possible.
‘Seems like you knew
the gambling m—’ Doc began, looking from the victims of the fight to Madam Bulldog.
‘Oh my God!’ the maid screamed, bringing the words to a halt. ‘Vic’s hit!’
‘God damn it!’ the blonde ejaculated, hurrying towards the fire as she returned the Webley to its holster. Looking for a moment at the wound, she heard footsteps approaching and swung her head around to see who was coming, saying, ‘This looks bad!’
‘It doesn’t just look bad, ma’am,’ corrected the pallid faced Texan, gazing down. ‘It is bad. Real bad!’
‘Will either you or Rusty saddle up and head for Tennyson to fetch Doctor Connel?’ Madam requested.
‘There’s no time for that,’ Doc stated. ‘Open up my bed roll and get my bag out pronto, Rusty!’
‘Yo!’ assented the shorter cowhand and hurried towards the saddles.
‘Of course!’ the blonde gasped, remembering something which she had forgotten in her concern for the welfare of the injured man at her feet. ‘Just how much is there to all those tales going around about you doctoring folks?’
‘I’ve not qualified as a M.D., if that’s what you mean, although I hope to one day,’ [29] Doc replied, holstering his Colt and removing the black Texas style Stetson hat from where it was dangling by its barbiquejo on his back. ‘And I used something a touch more medical than Silent Churchman’s bowie knife, and a hit over the head with an empty whiskey bottle, when I had to take out Peaceful Gunn’s appendix in the Indian Nations. But I keep in touch with what’s doing in the doctoring world and one thing I’ve had plenty of chance to work on is bullet wounds.’
‘It’s not that I—!’ Madam began.
‘I know, ma’am,’ the slender Texan drawled. ‘And count on me to do the best I can for this gent. Greta can help me and, while we’re ’tending to Vic, maybe you and Rusty’d best see to those three yahoos we downed. Way he’s taking on over there, at least one of them’s still alive and hurting.’
‘Leave him to us!’ the blonde confirmed grimly, wanting to interrogate any survivors and discover whether Wanda Higgins was behind the attempted robbery. ‘I want some questions answered and, if it’s the only way I can get them, I’ll tell him you’ll leave him to bleed to death unless he talks.’
‘You do that, ma’am,’ Doc agreed, taking off his jacket and looking to where his amigo was already removing the black medical bag which was always the uppermost item in his war bag. ‘God damn it, though, this always happens!’
‘What?’ Madam inquired.
‘Every time I get into a shooting scrape away from a town,’ the pallid faced Texan replied. ‘I wind up having to patch up at least one of the sons-of-bitches who were trying to gun me down!’
Fifteen – Find Out Who’s the Better Woman
Dancing as if in a pagan ritual, while throwing hooks, jabs and cross hits against the specially designed, straw filled punching bag, Wanda Higgins was somewhat more adequately dressed than on the last occasion in Tennyson when she had used it for training and to relieve her angry feelings. However, due to the strenuous exercises she had already been engaged in, the thin white cotton, sleeveless man’s undershirt, the black tights and white pumps, were so saturated, the effect was as though she was bare to the waist. She was completely oblivious of this. Nor, despite being subjected to a lascivious scrutiny by two men, would she have felt perturbed, or embarrassed, if she had realized they were staring at her. Instead, she continued to assail the bag, as it moved under the impulsion of her gloved fists, with a savage vigor neither had seen her come close to exhibiting during her previous training sessions.
In the light of recent events, the red head considered she now had an even more vitally important reason to improve her ability in such an unfeminine activity!
Having left the house at Tennyson in the fashion she had selected, Wanda and her half-brother had hoped their absence would only need to be of sufficient length to supply them with an alibi. Taking up what they had expected to be only a temporary residence in Garnett, they had set about making arrangements for their return and reclaim of the Hide and Horn Saloon. On being consulted, Counselor Otis J. Grimsdyke had claimed this might be possible if the present owner had not made a will and died intestate. Following the plan they had thought up, Leo Wallace had ‘refused’ to give pay to Barry Norman and Herbert Lang when ‘confronted’ by them in the County Seat Saloon. ‘Reprisals’ against him were ‘prevented’ by the presence of County Sheriff Lloyd Bowman and they had left claiming in loud voices that they intended to collect the money owed them from the woman they blamed for having been fired from the saloon.
Even before hearing that the proposed killing of Madam Bulldog had failed, the red head had continued her rigorous exercise and training program. In anticipation of regaining control of the business lost by her husband, she wanted to be ready to take the revenge she was planning against Viola Grant. Learning that the buxom blonde for whom she had developed an even greater hatred than was directed against the saloon girl had survived the murder attempt, she had found a new purpose to drive her into extra effort so as to acquire added fitness and skill.
Watching the voluptuous red head working out on Wednesday morning, displaying an interest which went beyond merely wishing to form an estimation of her ability, were Wallace and the trainer supplied by the sheriff.
Short, thin, rat-faced, badly shaven and balding, Stephen Good was an even less imposing figure than the gambler. He was wearing a flat cap so grimy as to render its original color indistinguishable, a grubby white woolen turtleneck sweater, Levi pants which had to have seen better days, and filthy Pawnee moccasins. Despite his undoubted skill as a trainer, he did not live up to his name. He had, in fact, ‘gone to Texas’ as a result of a scandal involving thrown fights and the use of illicit methods he had taught to the boxers in his charge. Having no desire to be arrested and returned to the East, where several less than scrupulous followers of the fistic sport were eager to lay hands upon him, he had been more than willing to accept the task of training the red head, when it was offered by the sheriff, than might otherwise have proved the case. Agreeable as he had considered the prospect of being able to watch the scantily dressed and voluptuous woman, even to handle her body as part of his duties, he had been less enamored of the realization that he would be staying in one spot for a longer period than he cared for. A combination of the threat of extradition and a promise of protection had brought him to an amenable frame of mind. Although the matter was never raised, he had found the task enjoyable and, as yet, had had no cause to regret having been compelled to take it on.
‘Well,’ the gambler asked, forcing himself to think of something other than what was running through his mind as he feasted his eyes upon the well-defined curves of his half-sister’s body. ‘What do you reckon to her, Stevie?’
‘She’s good,’ replied the trainer, his voice that of a New Yorker from one of the less salubrious districts, also turning his thoughts from the kind of bed-mate the red head might make. ‘In fact, I reckon we could make a helluva lot of money taking her on a tour of saloons and theatres and such.’
‘How’d she be in a real fight, though?’ Wallace inquired, knowing Wanda would be unlikely to even consider such a proposal while there was still a chance of once more taking possession of the Hide and Horn Saloon.
‘She’d have a better than fair chance of winning,’ Good estimated. Thinking of the occasions he had sparred with the red head, he went on, ‘She hits hard and has a mean streak which’ll stop her worrying over how bad she’ll be hurting whoever she’s punching. With what I’ve taught her, she shouldn’t have no trouble at all in beating the shit out of a saloon gal who don’t know nothing ’cept hair yanking.’
‘How’d she be against this Madam Bulldog’s slickered Maxie out of the Hide?’ the gambler wanted to know. ‘What I’ve heard, she’s real handy with her dukes.’
‘Is, huh?’
‘She put Moe Stern down so hard he thought she’d gutted him.’
‘That don’t mean she’s good,’ the trainer sniffed. ‘One hard ‘n’ in that lard and liquor filled gut and he’d go down like he was boned.
‘She took out Vi Grant and two more of the gals,’ Wallace stated. ‘And, from what I’ve heard, put down Matt McDonald. Which sounds to me like she’s good with her dukes. So how will Wan’ stack up against her?’
‘I couldn’t say, not having seen her using her dukes,’ Good claimed, keeping his attention on the red head. ‘But Wanda’s as good as any lister I’ve handled. Is she aiming to take on this Madam Bulldog instead of the saloon gal?’
‘I don’t know what she’s aiming to do,’ the gambler admitted, showing just a trace of the annoyance he felt over the way in which his half-sister kept him in ignorance of her intentions. ‘All I know is, she’s going at this training harder than she used to before she met Madam Bulldog in Lawyer Scrope’s office.’
Before any more could be said, the door of the room to which the simply equipped gymnasium had been transferred was opened. Neither Wallace nor Good showed any surprise on seeing Sheriff Bowman come in. As owner of the building, although he lived in a suite at the best hotel Garnett could offer, he had the right of access at all times.
‘Wanda!’ the peace officer boomed, closing the door and walking forward without so much as a nod to acknowledge the presence of the other two men who were also present. ‘Hey, Wanda. Stop for a moment, will you?’
‘Well?’ the red head asked, after having delivered two rapid jabs to the facial area, followed by a punch to the side of the bag’s ‘head’ which would have felled any human being receiving it. Moving away, her bosom rising and falling as she sucked in deep breaths to replenish her lungs, she went on, ‘What is it?’
‘I’ve just come from the stage depot,’ Bowman announced, keeping his eyes on the sight presented by the still heavily breathing woman. ‘You’ll never guess who got dropped off by the coach at Tennyson.’
