by J. T. Edson
At first anger flushed Lily’s face, then amazement and finally admiration for the flow of language took its place. Lily reckoned to be a better than fair hand at cursing herself, but admitted that she could not compete with that neatly-dressed dude gal.
‘And if you want to make anything more of it,’ Freddie finished, ‘we’ll try rolling on the floor for a time.’
Being the madam of a brothel often called for a skill in the art of fisticuffs and did not tend to make a woman meek, mild and defenseless; but Lily decided to decline taking up Freddie’s challenge. Lily reckoned that anybody who could curse with such ease must also be better than fair at handling her end in a physical brawl and, while not being scared, she decided to listen to what Miss Freddie Woods had to say.
'Go ahead,’ she told Freddie. ‘You’ve convinced me that you’re worth listening to.’
‘There’s not much to say. You want to open and run a place of business and handle a service that I and my girls are not willing to supply to our customers. That suits me fine, I know men want that service and would rather them be able to obtain it freely than have some girl who doesn’t want to get raped.’
‘You talk plain enough, girlie,’ Lily said. ‘I’ll give you that.’
‘I think it’s best,’ Freddie answered. ‘That way we both understand each other. Now you want to open a house in town. When I helped arrange the lay-out I thought somebody might and had a place that might suit you built. It lies on the opposite side of town to the church and main residential area and in a small grove of trees. I thought that might be best, not everybody agrees with my views on this matter.’
‘I’ll say they don’t,’ breathed Lily, staring in a fascinated manner at Freddie. Never had she met a woman, even a hardened madam, who treated her business in such a frank, matter-of-fact manner.
‘If you wish to buy the house, you’ll find the price reasonable. You’ll be expected to pay the same civic taxes as a comparable business in town.’
It never occurred to Lily to doubt Freddie’s words or suspect the girl of trying to either make a huge profit or hike up a plushy level of ‘taxes’ which were in reality nothing more or less than bribes.
‘I’m still with you, Miss Woods.’
‘The name’s Freddie. One thing I want you to ensure, that you run an orderly house.’
‘An orderly disorderly house,’ grinned Lily.
‘Just that,’ Freddie smiled in return. ‘And I don’t want your girls touting for trade on the streets. Apart from that, you’re free to run your business the way you wish to run it. There’ll be no contributions to charity, campaign funds or any other cause of that kind. I’ll promise you that no matter who handles the law in town.’
‘You know something,’ Lily said soberly, holding out her hand. ‘I bet you will at that.’
Freddie and Lily left the office on the best of terms and remained friends as long as they stayed in Mulrooney. The big building in the grove became known as the most orderly, well run disorderly house in the United States and there was never any unpleasantness or trouble with Lily’s girls.
‘Is everything all right, Freddie?’ Dusty asked as Lily went to collect her baggage from by the train.
‘Fine,’ Freddie replied, glancing around her and noticing a number of sullen faces peering through the windows on the train. ‘It looks as if your end went off smoothly, too.’
‘Why sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘We spread the welcome mat, just like I said we would.’
‘All set, cap’n?’ asked the conductor, strolling up.
‘Sure is, friend.’
‘I keep ’em held up long enough for you to cut the herd?’
‘Yep.’
Dusty had expected the arrival of a number of undesirables from Brownton and made arrangements with the conductor of the Eastbound to delay the passengers leaving his train, giving the Mulrooney law time to look over those who left and cull out the undesirables. The conductor had played his part admirably and a number of travelers decided not to bother leaving his train at Mulrooney after all.
Just as the train pulled out, Banker Courtland strolled up. In addition to running the bank, Courtland also operated the town’s real estate business. From the delighted beam on his face, he had good news to impart and it was to do with his secondary interest as Freddie’s party discovered.
‘Hah, Freddie!’ he boomed. ‘Your people told me I’d find you here. I’ve sold that vacant saloon along the street from your place. It’s to a saloonkeeper who was in Brownton but didn’t like the way things were going there. I hope you don’t mind me letting it go.’
‘It’s your business,’ Freddie replied. ‘As long as the new owner is willing to accept our rules, I won’t object.’
‘She seemed satisfied.’
‘She?’ Freddie asked. ‘Who bought the saloon?’
‘Buffalo Kate Gilgore,’ replied the banker. ‘She’ll be moving down in a couple of days.’
The name meant nothing to Freddie—yet.
Chapter Eight
Waco’s Education
‘Gent to see you, Dusty,’ Waco said, entering the marshal’s office.
The train had departed, taking with it as ripe a collection of tinhorn gamblers, gold-brick salesmen and assorted petty criminals as might be found anywhere other than in a State or Territorial prison, and Dusty was seated in his private office at the jail.
Rising, Dusty strolled out into the main office and nodded a welcome to Frank Derringer. Going to the main office’s desk, Dusty opened its drawer and took out a deputy’s badge, dropping it on the desk top before the gambler. ‘Pin her on, Frank,’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘The boy’s name’s Waco, none of the rest of us ’cept you are called Frank.’
‘I’m no lawman, Dusty. My religion is devout coward.’
‘I reckon you’ll do for what I want,’ Dusty replied, knowing the gambler to have sand to burn when the chips went down. ‘Anyway, happen there comes danger you can always hide behind Big Sarah. That’s what I do.’
‘And me,’ Waco grinned. ‘But don’t worry, there’s room for us all, ’cepting Mark’s head behind the—Eeeyow!’
The latter came as Mark and Big Sarah descended on Waco. One moved in at either side of the youngster without his realizing how close they were to him. Although neither of them spoke, each reached out and took a firm hold of the youngster’s ears and led him, yelping his apologies, through the door and into a cell.
‘He looks more natural in there,’ Big Sarah remarked, locking the door.
‘Sure does,’ Mark agreed.
‘All right, all right,’ Waco yelled. ‘I apologize. There’s even room for Mark’s head behind you.’
‘That lets you out with me, boy, but not with Sarah,’ Mark grinned.
‘I’d best let him out, or I’ll have Babsy jumping me,’ Sarah went on.
While his deputies let off some of their high spirits, Dusty went on talking with Derringer. Dusty outlined his plan to check on all the games in town and his need for a man with knowledge of a fair number of the tricks crooked gamblers used to rook their victims. While Derringer was a completely honest gambler, he needed to know the crooked tricks to protect his interests. That Dusty would have need of such specialized knowledge was apparent to the small Texan from the start and he had been on the lookout for a straight gambler to take on as deputy. Of all the honest gamblers he knew, Dusty was most pleased to see Frank Derringer and hoped the man would agree to help out.
‘I hoped to get a job dealing for some house in town,’ Derringer remarked.
‘You can do that too. All I want to do is have you around when there’s a check made on the various games.’
‘Danged if I don’t give it a whirl,’ grinned Derringer. ‘Slap on the badge and swear me in.’
By the time Dusty had sworn in his new deputy, Sarah, Mark and Waco were finished in the cells and returned to the front office. Sarah remarked that she had to go back to t
he Fair Lady and Mark stated that as he was still all weak and feeble from his wound he aimed to catch some sleep before coming on to help with the evening rounds.
‘You’re off watch tonight, boy,’ Dusty said as Sarah, Mark and the Kid left the office.
‘Why sure,’ agreed the youngster cautiously.
‘Seeing Babsy?’
‘Yep. Miss Freddie gave her the night off and we aim to take us a buggy ride after we’ve had supper at the hotel.’
The friendship between Waco and the volatile little Babsy had been a source of some unexpressed amusement amongst the youngster’s amigos. It was an innocent enough affair which ebbed and flowed depending on how the mood took either Babsy or Waco at the moment. However this would be the first opportunity the two had had of getting together in an evening, for each other night Waco found himself on watch as Dusty’s deputy and Babsy had her work at the Fair Lady to keep her occupied. For all that, when Waco visited the Fair Lady he usually wound up sitting with Babsy and the other girls appeared to respect her prior claim for none of them ever tried to cut in on the handsome young deputy.
‘Dangerous things, buggy rides,’ Dusty stated. ‘How’d you like to come along with Derry and me to check over the games at the Fair Lady and Dongelon’s Wooden Spoon?’
Interest showed on Waco’s face. ‘Gee, I’d like that swell. I don’t have to meet Babsy until seven so there’s time.’
One thing Dusty had learned early about Waco was that the youngster possessed an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Much of the young Texan’s earlier truculence stemmed from his lack of opportunity to learn things. Clay Allison’s crew might be tough, efficient, handy with their guns, but they had little to teach Waco. Since throwing his lot in with the O.D. Connected, Waco had always been asking questions and found his new friends willing to take time out to answer, or give practical demonstrations of things which interested him; and his chip-on-the-shoulder attitude fell away as he learned.
Dusty, Waco and Derringer left the office and strolled along the sidewalk in the direction of Dongelon’s saloon. While none of them expected to find anything wrong with the games, Derringer figured he could point out a few things of interest and show the others a few pointers in the difference between straight and crooked gambling equipment Across the street the Kid came from Birnbaum’s store accompanied by the storekeeper. The problem of Birnbaum’s firearms training had been simplified by the discovery that not only was his wife a real good cook, but that he possessed a pretty daughter. Once that fact had been established competition to act as instructor became keen between Mark and the Kid.
A trio of men rode along the street, passing Dusty’s party and swinging their mounts to halt before the Wooden Spoon’s hitching rail. They were unshaven, wore cowhand clothes, looked like a bunch of hands fresh off a trail drive and each wore a low hanging gun. Leaving their horses with the reins tossed, but not tied, over the hitching rail, the three men stepped towards the sidewalk ready to enter the saloon.
After giving the men a quick glance, Waco studied their horses. The center animal moved restlessly and as it did Waco saw that its off hind shoe had come loose. He decided to warn the horse’s rider, allowing the man a chance to have the shoe replaced firmly or the horse re-shod.
‘Hey, mister!’ he called, stepping from the sidewalk alongside Dusty and Derringer. ‘Hold it a min—’
Turning, the three newcomers looked in Waco’s direction, saw the trio of law badges approaching and grabbed at their guns.
‘Look out, boy!’ Dusty yelled, shooting out his right hand to thrust Waco to one side and sending his left flicking across his body to the off-side Colt.
Two things saved Waco’s life that day: Dusty’s knowledge of the basic rule of a lawman; and the small Texan’s ambidextrous wizardry with his guns.
The center man was very fast. Flame ripped from the barrel of his gun and the bullet missed the staggering Waco by a mere couple of inches. Before the man could fire again or correct his aim, Dusty threw a bullet into him and Dusty shot to kill. There was no other way. The man had shown himself to be better than fair with a Colt and that he had right good reason to fear the approach of lawmen; it paid off only in tombstones to take fool chances with such a man.
Although the center man was good, the other two were not better than average and they were completely outclassed even by Derringer. Steel rasped on leather as guns came out. Even though off balance, Waco beat Derringer and the other two to shoot. His bullet caught the man at the left in the shoulder and spun him around—but the man still held his gun.
Then Waco learned his second lesson in a few seconds. Dusty threw a shot into the wounded man, spinning him around again. Cocking the seven-and-a-half inch barreled Army Colt on its recoil, Dusty prepared to shoot again unless the man released his weapon. The impact of Dusty’s shot threw the man backwards and his gun clattered to the ground.
Derringer’s right hand fanned down and brought out his Colt an instant after Waco fired. Having time to spare—even though it only amounted to a split second—Derringer sent his bullet into the last of the trio’s shoulder and the man staggered back, his heels struck the edge of the sidewalk then he sat down, allowing his gun to fall back from a limp and useless hand.
‘Don’t shoot!’ the man yelled, raising his left hand shoulder high. ‘Don’t shoot, I’m done!’
‘Move in on them and watch them!’ Dusty ordered and as they walked forward went on. ‘Boy, never as long as you’re wearing a lawman’s badge call out to a man, or go towards him after you’ve stopped him, without being ready to draw your guns.’
‘I only—’
‘I know what you aimed to do and don’t blame you for doing it. But innocent as Lon looks, or guilty-looking as hell, don’t make the mistake of not being ready to draw. And if you have to draw on a man, keep shooting as long as he holds his gun no matter whether he’s standing or lying.’
Cold-blooded it might seem, but in later years Waco remembered Dusty’s warning and advice and it saved his life on at least one occasion. The youngster had killed four men before that day, each one in a fair fight, but this was the first time he had been in a shooting scrape on the side of the law.
A crowd gathered, people coming from the Wooden Spoon and running along the street. Ignoring them, Dusty told his deputies to gather up the trio’s guns. Then he looked down at the three men. The one he shot first was dead; Waco and Dusty’s man had wounds and both looked serious; Derringer had been able to merely disarm the third man who looked like it would be some time before he used a gun with his right hand.
‘How’d you know?’ groaned the third man, holding his shoulder. ‘Stayley there,’ he indicated the man Dusty killed, ‘reckoned word couldn’t’ve got here.’
‘It arrived,’ Dusty replied.
‘Th—the money’s in Stayley’s saddle pouches. All of it just like when we took it out of the Wells Fargo box.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Six miles south of Newt—’ the man began, then stopped as he realized how much he had given away.
‘A Wells Fargo stage, huh?’ Dusty asked.
‘I got nothing to say,’ the man answered.
The Ysabel Kid had arrived on the run, although he found his presence unnecessary. However, Dusty did not let the Kid make a wasted trip for he left the Indian-dark young man to see the removal of the body and arrange for the wounded to be attended by the local doctor then lodged in the cells. Dusty knew he would get nothing more out of the third man, at least not until later, so he let the matter drop. A telegraph message to Newton’s Wells Fargo office would give Dusty all the information he needed and the man dropping the name ‘Stayley’ handed Dusty a lead to one of the trio’s identity.
What happened was clear enough. The three men held up a Wells Fargo stagecoach out of Newton and came to Mulrooney, possibly by a roundabout route and in a manner which would make tracking them all but impossible. If they had kept their heads when Waco called,
they might have got clear through the town of Mulrooney for no word of the holdup had arrived.
Seeing Dongelon among the people who gathered, Dusty went to him and said, ‘We’re just coming in to make a check on the games, Don.’
‘Feel free anytime,’ the saloonkeeper replied, leading the way into the Wooden Spoon. ‘Can I offer you a drink before you start?’
‘Not while we’re on watch,’ Dusty answered and turned to Derringer. ‘Where do you want to start, Frank?’
‘How about the roulette table?’
‘You’re bossing the drive.’
Watched by an interested Waco, Derringer examined the table thoroughly. Although he knew nothing would be wrong, Derringer removed the table’s wheel and examined the spindle on which it turned. While making his check, Derringer explained to Waco how unscrupulous operators rigged their wheels by means of hidden springs and wires which worked on a push of a concealed button so as to ensure that the number most favorable to the house came up a winner.
‘How’d the house make sure the wheel pays off then, I mean a straight wheel like this one?’ Waco asked. ‘I don’t reckon they can.’
‘They don’t have to even with a straight wheel, b—Waco.’
‘How’s that?’
‘See that sign on the table, house limit twenty-five cents to twenty-five dollars only. That’s how they make their profit. This’s a honest wheel but it gives the house an edge of five and five-nineteenths per cent. That means that for every dollar bet, the house collects five and five-nineteenths cents. Clear?’
‘Clear as the Missouri in high-flood.’
