by M Gunn
‘Just like you were,’ McGee remembered. ‘What’s this kid’s name, Gat?’
‘Billy Vine.’ Hammer touched the brim of his hat and stepped out of the room. As he gripped the doorknob he looked at the trail boss again. ‘He’s a bellhop in the Deluxe.’
‘I’ll find him.’
Hammer closed the door and started back to the stairs. A smile came to his face as he made his way down the bare steps.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Not one single soul within Dodge City realized that the prosperous lawyer who occupied the ground floor building on the main thoroughfare was in fact far more crooked and corrupt than any of the criminals he had defended over the years. His links with the unsavoury outlaws who roamed the vast West went back thirty years. Few men had prospered more that Mason Dwire due to his knowledge of the shady side of life. During those intervening years he had established himself as the most righteous man ever to have set foot in the fledgling settlement known as Dodge City. He had been there when the steel rail tracks from the east had joined up with those from the west. He was a pillar of respectability whose image bore no resemblance to the man himself.
Yet Dwire was a crook through and through. He was like a rotten chunk of lumber painted with a glossy surface. It fooled everyone except those who knew him.
Sat behind his mahogany desk, Dwire glanced up as he heard the outer door of his large main street office hastily opened and raised voices. The rotund Dwire sat back and rested his shoulders against the padded leather seat in anticipation of the men he had secretly sent for. His baggy eyes stared at his door and waited as the sound of jangling spurs filled the confines of his well-appointed inner sanctum.
Dwire could tell that the spurs which echoed around his second floor office were not those of just one man. They were the combined noise of striding made by at least a half dozen trail-hardened men.
His secretary vainly attempted to stop the progress of his visitors. Dwire placed a cigar between his lips and struck a match across his boot leather. As he sucked in the flame he watched the door open and six dust-caked men stride into his wood-panelled office to the dismay of his hapless secretary.
‘You can’t just barge in like this,’ the weasel-like secretary said as Bart Gibbs pushed him aside and trailed the wide-shouldered Holt into the middle of the office. ‘You have to have an appointment. Do you have an appointment?’
Slim Jones stopped and turned. His brutal stare focused on the fragile Jonas Peters as his hand rested on the grip of his holstered .45.
‘You’re plumb irritating me,’ he growled.
Dwire snapped his fingers at his secretary.
‘That’s OK, Peters,’ Dwire said from behind the cloud of cigar smoke which surrounded him. He waved his hand at the wiry man and ushered him away. ‘I’m expecting these gentlemen.’
Emmett Holt pushed the brim of his hat back until it rested on the crown of his head. He cast his deathly eyes at the small Peters and growled, ‘You heard your boss, amigo. Beat it. We got business to discuss.’
The feeble Peters grabbed the doorknob and nodded to the men gathered between himself and his employer. He backed away from the six men in dust coats and pulled the door after him.
The sound of the door closing filled the large room. The six wanted men were left standing around the desk looking down at the smiling Dwire.
Holt moved to the desk, placed a hip upon its edge and opened the silver cigar box set to the right of the ink blotter. He lifted its lid and then one of the fat Havana cigars from its gilt interior. The outlaw sniffed it before biting off its tip and spitting it at the floor.
‘Help yourself, Emmett,’ Dwire said.
‘I always do, Mason,’ Holt said dryly. ‘You know that.’
‘I surely do.’ The lawyer nodded.
‘You sent for me, Mason,’ Holt reminded the fat man before picking up a match and igniting it with his thumbnail. ‘This job better be good. I’ve come a long way and I ain’t in the mood for anything less than profitable.’
‘It’s good, Emmett.’ Dwire exhaled smoke at the brown ceiling. ‘Damn good and very profitable.’
‘How good exactly?’ Smoke drifted from around Holt’s head as he carefully puffed until satisfied the long length of tobacco was alight.
Dwire lowered the cigar from his lips and smiled at the deadly Holt perched on the edge of his desk. It was a sickly smile that had no humour in it. He sat forward on his well-padded chair and looked at the outlaw and his underlings.
‘The Cattleman Club,’ the rotund man muttered as his eyebrows rose. ‘You’ve heard of it, ain’t you?’
Holt nodded his head. ‘Sure I’ve heard of it, Mason. What about it?’
‘I ain’t stealing no cows,’ Bud Collins piped up. ‘I don’t like cows. They’re dangerous.’
Every eye glanced at the outlaw in amusement.
‘I can assure you that my friend Mason wouldn’t bring me halfway across the country to become a cattle rustler, Bud,’ Holt sneered before glancing at Dwire. ‘It’s more than his life’s worth.’
Dwire rose to his feet and started to wander around the heavily armed men who had accompanied Holt into his private office. His eyes studied each and every one of them before he reached the side of Holt. Dwire paused and stared straight into the unsmiling face of the lethal outlaw.
‘I don’t need cattle rustlers. I need you and your hand-picked boys, Emmett,’ the rotund man said.
Holt sucked in smoke. ‘I’m starting to get interested, Mason. Damn interested. Keep talking.’
The well-established lawyer knew that his reputation meant nothing to any of the six men who were shedding trail dust over his stained floorboards. All they were interested in was a fat payday in recompense for the long journey to Dodge.
‘Being in a position of privilege in Dodge and a member of the Cattleman Association I happen to know a few things which most folks don’t, Emmett,’ Dwire sighed before returning the cigar to his lips briefly and filling his lungs with more smoke. ‘I know that the cattle buyers from back east have to place substantial sums of money in the club before they can do their deals with the individual trail drive bosses.’
Emmett Holt raised an eyebrow. ‘But the money has already bin paid out, ain’t it? Soon as they clinch a deal they hand over the cash.’
Dwire shook his head and proceeded to his window. He looked down at the main street for a while and then turned back to Holt.
‘Wrong,’ he corrected. ‘That’s the way it seems but that’s not the way it’s done, Emmett.’
Holt was intrigued. ‘Then how’s it done?’
Dwire returned to his chair and sat down. ‘All of the cattle buyers’ agents have to place their money in the Cattleman Club for safe keeping until the herds arrive. Then the agents head on out to the stock pens down at the railhead. They bid against one another until the trail boss agrees a price with one of them. The agent hands a chit to the trail boss and he goes to the club and gets the chit turned into cash. The agents who fail to clinch a deal still have their money with the Cattleman Club.’
The tall figure of Holt stood and started to nod. ‘I get it, Mason. The rest of the cash is still in the Cattleman Club until the next herd arrives.’
‘Now you got it.’ Dwire pointed a finger at the outlaw and chuckled. ‘There are eight buyers in Dodge City right now waiting for herds to arrive. Every one of the bastards has deposited small fortunes in the Cattleman Club to cover their bids for herds that have yet to come into Dodge. That’s an awful lot of cash, Emmett.’
Holt stared at the man before him. Dwire was one of the most respected men in the settlement but he was as crooked as any of the outlaws who rode with Holt. In all the years he had known the lawyer he had yet to hear him either lie or exaggerate when it came to hard cash.
‘That’s a fortune, Mason,’ he sneered before taking a long thoughtful pull on his cigar. As the smoke filled his lungs he began to nod knowingly. ‘We ain’t no safe cra
ckers but I got me a feeling that we won’t have to be. Am I right?’
‘Damn right,’ Dwire chuckled before pointing at the five men standing behind Holt. ‘Are these boys good?’
‘The best.’ Holt grinned.
Dwire swung his chair around and rested his elbows on the ink blotter as he tapped the ash from his cigar into the already full ashtray. ‘I know the Cattleman Club like the back of my hand. I can give you an exact route to the safe and I even have the combination.’
‘How’d you get that?’ Holt asked as he leaned across the desk and patted his cigar over the tray. ‘You didn’t steal it, did you?’
Dwire shook his head. ‘I didn’t have to, Emmett. I hold the insurance policy on the club. For a substantial fee I was given the combination to the safe when it was installed.’
‘He’s as crooked as us,’ Bud Collins quipped, pointing at Dwire.
The leader of the gang gazed in Collins’ direction. ‘Wrong, Bud. He’s far worse than we could ever hope to be. Old Mason here is a lawyer.’
‘Lawyers are the worst kind of crooks,’ Gibbs grinned.
Ignoring the complimentary insults, Dwire looked up at Holt and pointed his cigar at him.
‘Let’s get down to business, Emmett.’ Dwire opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle of amber liquor. He placed it on the desk and then pointed at a stack of glasses on a sideboard. ‘You all look like you could use some whiskey and this is twelve-year-old double malt. I have it imported for special occasions.’
The outlaws gathered seven glasses and placed them down on the blotter as Dwire broke the seal on the whiskey bottle and pulled its cork. He poured the aromatic liquor into the glasses and watched as the outlaws lifted them up one by one.
‘When do you want the job done, Mason?’ Holt asked.
Dwire sipped at the whiskey and then leaned back. His watery eyes stared at them as he returned the cigar to his lips.
‘Tonight,’ he said firmly.
Holt nodded and downed his liquor. ‘I was thinking, surely your fellow members of the club will figure that you must have something to do with the robbery, Mason. You having the combination to the safe and all. It stands to reason that they’ll know that you must have had something to do with it.’
‘They do not know of my purchasing the combination to their safe, Emmett,’ Dwire informed him. ‘That was a private piece of business between myself and the gentleman who installed the safe.’
‘Damn, you are slick.’ Holt grinned.
Dwire smiled. ‘There’s a train leaving Dodge at exactly midnight and I intend being on that train. I’ve already purchased the ticket. By the time the club figures out that they’ve been robbed I’ll be hundreds of miles away.’
‘How much do you figure your share should be, Mason?’ Holt filled their glasses again.
‘Fifty per cent,’ the fat man replied.
‘Half?’ Slim Jones queried. ‘That’s a hell of a lot, ain’t it?’
‘It sure is,’ Dwire agreed. ‘But without my knowledge you boys would not be able to get close enough to that safe and its contents. Besides, after this job we can all retire for good. You have no idea how much is in the club safe right now.’
‘How much is there in the safe, Mason?’ Holt growled as he downed the fiery liquor and stared down at the unnervingly calm lawyer. ‘It better be a lot if you’re figuring on taking half.’
Unabashed, Dwire sat forward and pulled a pencil from his vest pocket. He scribbled on a notebook, tore the sheet of paper free and then turned it around so that they all could see the huge sum he had just written down.
‘Is this a large enough figure, Emmett?’ he asked.
A mutual gasp went around the desk as Holt showed his five hirelings what the lawyer had scribbled.
‘I never figured that there was that much money in the whole country,’ Dante sighed.
A wide smile encompassed the face of Mason Dwire as he drew smoke into his lungs and then lowered the glowing cigar back to the ashtray.
‘There’s more,’ he chuckled with amusement. ‘The entire contents of the bank is also being stored in the Cattleman safe at the moment.’
Holt looked down upon the crooked lawyer. ‘How come?’
‘The bank was originally constructed out of wood like most of the other places in Dodge,’ Dwire informed his eager audience. ‘That was fine when the bank was put up but not anymore. The stock holders decided at a meeting a couple of weeks back that it was far safer to put the bank’s cash in the brick and stone Cattleman Club until they can have the bank strengthened.’
‘How’d you know this, Mason?’ Gibbs asked.
‘I happen to be a major stock holder at the bank.’ Dwire smiled. ‘I was the one who started to get troubled by the bank’s meagre defences against being robbed. Like I told them, anyone with a crowbar could bust into the bank. It was far safer in the Cattleman Club safe.’
Holt laughed out loud. ‘You sure are a tricky varmint, Mason. Tricky and slick.’
‘So you will not only have all the cattle agents’ loot to steal but the bank’s as well.’ The rotund man sat back in his padded chair and sucked hard on his cigar.
Collins rubbed his unshaven jaw. ‘That’s a lot of money, boys. How the hell are we gonna get all that cash out of Dodge without being caught?’
‘It can’t be done,’ Harper frowned.
Gibbs grabbed Holt’s arm. ‘The boys are right, Emmett. That’s more cash than we could ever carry out of town. We’ll need a wagon and that’s a darn slow way of making a getaway. We’ll get slaughtered before we get to the range.’
Holt stared with cold eyes at his seated paymaster. ‘My boys are right, Mason. How the hell are we meant to get that much cash away from this town without being caught?’
‘I’ve already thought about that, Emmett,’ the lawyer retorted through cigar smoke. ‘I figured that three coffins ought to be just the right size to hold most of the money. You leave the small bills and coinage where it is and only take the larger denomination bills.’
Holt leaned closer to the legal eagle.
‘Where the hell are we gonna get hold of three coffins, Mason?’ he asked.
‘I’ve already purchased three coffins,’ Dwire said. ‘Three metal coffins arrived last week from Chicago. They’re still boxed and stacked in my warehouse. I also have a small wagon for transportation.’
‘Warehouse?’ Holt repeated. ‘Since when have you had a warehouse, Mason?’
‘Since a vacant building came on to the market,’ Dwire answered drily as he lifted his glass and drank its fiery contents. ‘The structure is directly behind the Cattleman Club.’
‘That’s handy,’ Dante sighed.
‘You must be one hell of a lawyer,’ Gibbs grinned. ‘You think of everything in advance.’
Holt straightened up to his full imposing height. ‘He is one hell of a lawyer, boys. Old Mason thinks a hundred yards ahead of everyone else. Always has.’
‘Once you have filled the coffins and bolted them down you will take them to the railhead and have them placed in the guard’s van. I will accompany the coffins in a private car I have arranged to be added to the cattle cars. The railroad will escort our precious cargo and you can then ride out of Dodge free and clear,’ Dwire informed his six listeners.
Emmett Holt stared at his refilled glass of whiskey and considered the job they were about to undertake. Everything seemed to have been planned to perfection by the fat lawyer who wallowed in his own devious brilliance. Everything apart from one small detail. One which Emmett Holt would keep close to his chest until the time was right to present it to the smug, overweight lawyer.
‘Fifty per cent of that sum is agreeable, Mason,’ he drawled and pointed at the notepad. ‘Now start drawing us a plan of the Cattleman Club and the combination to its safe. We don’t want to make no mistakes.’
‘How many folks do you reckon we’ll have to kill?’ Gibbs asked as he swallowed the contents of his tumbler.
‘For that amount of money I’d kill every damn critter in Dodge City, Bart,’ Holt snarled as he watched the lawyer sketching out a floorplan of the club.
Dwire looked up from the notebook he was working on.
‘With any luck you’ll not have to kill anyone, boys,’ he said. ‘In fact, it would be better if you didn’t. By the time they realize that there’s been a robbery, we’ll all be gone.’
Holt rested his hip back on the edge of the desk. He stared at the amber liquid in his glass and ventured, ‘How much time have we got?’
‘The train will leave Dodge just before midnight,’ Dwire said knowingly. ‘More than enough time for you to load the coffins and be long gone, Emmett.’
‘Keep scribbling, Mason,’ he said before glancing over his shoulder at the office door. He thought about the weedy man in the outer office and then returned his attention to the lawyer as he drew on the large pad.
‘Where are we gonna meet up to split the loot?’ Gibbs wondered as he watched the lawyer carefully drawing.
Holt leaned over Dwire’s shoulder.
‘Bart’s got a point, Mason,’ he whispered. ‘Where are we gonna meet up to divide the loot?’
Dwire paused. ‘I’ll tell you that after you deliver the three coffins to the train down at the stockyard.’
Holt rubbed the nape of his neck. He knew that his original idea of killing both Dwire and the mild-mannered secretary would have to wait a while.
‘Hell, you’re even smarter that I figured, Mason,’ he sighed.
Dwire glanced at Holt knowingly. ‘Damn right I am.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
A large white-faced clock chimed yet few of the sweating men who toiled beneath the relentless sun heard any of the nine bells which rang out from its weathered carcass. The stock pens were being readied for the next arrival of prime Texan steers, which were due within the next few days. Half of the herd which Tom McGee had expertly delivered to the famed Dodge City yards were still awaiting transportation by the next train to wind its way into the heart of the railhead.