by J. T. Edson
‘No, sir,’ Waco denied. ‘Like everybody else, I was watching Ten Bears getting ready to sign when the light went out; which’s one of the things he must’ve been counting on.’
‘Then what did make you suspect him?’
‘He’d had everybody else searched afore they was let in. I’d looked ’em all over as they came by me and was willing to bet none of ’em was toting a gun of any kind, much less something the length of the Volcanic. Top of that, he’d been the only one moving around once the talking started. He’d had that fancy lamp fitted and likely knowed how to put it out by jerking on its cord. Likely he hadn’t thought of gunning the Chief down when he sent the doctor out with a patrol, but he’d seen how it could help. Those bullets he’d be using wasn’t over powerful, but they’d be more likely to kill if there wasn’t nobody here-abouts’s could dig ’em out. Top of which, he was able to bring the gun in without nobody seeing anything strange about it.’
‘But why use the Volcanic and not an ordinary revolver?’ the aide asked.
‘To make everybody think the shooting was done through the window with a Winchester, not inside using a handgun,’ Waco explained. ‘I knowed he wouldn’t show us his gun for me asking, General, but reckoned he’d have to was you to tell him. Trouble was, I hadn’t figured to him grabbing the Senator that way.’
‘You found a most effective way to counter him, though,’ Handiman praised. ‘Damn it, you almost had me believing you were a brash young hot-head trying for a grandstand play as you did him.’
‘I figured acting that way’d rile him, top of him not liking me too much already, so’s he’d try to gun me down. And I knowed Doc would back my play with that ole hawgleg he totes in his doctoring bag once I’d got the Volcanic turned away from the Senator.’
‘Why did you go to that much trouble if you were sure it wasn’t loaded?’ the aide wanted to know.
‘I wasn’t sure,’ Waco corrected. ‘Fact being, knowing one model was a ten shooter, I reckoned he’d still got two bullets left. So I had to make him turn his gun my way afore Doc cut loose, ’cause even head-hit he could ’n’ did get off a shot.’
‘You took a big chance doing it,’ Handiman declared, then realized he was once again embarrassing the youngster and sought to bring a lighter note into the conversation. ‘And I’m not sorry that you were proved correct in your theory. If you hadn’t been, we could have been dealing with an invisible man with an invisible Winchester.’
‘Yes sir,’ Waco agreed with a grin. ‘And I don’t see how you could catch a feller like that.’
Part Three – Responsibility to Kinfolks
More than one woman, including several who were married and qualified as ‘good’ by the standards of the Old West, directed a glance filled with admiration at Mark Counter as he was strolling along the main street of Trail End, Kansas in the afternoon sun. There was, in fact, considerable justification for the open or—depending upon the nature of the one concerned—overt scrutiny. It would have been an exceptional crowd in which he did not stand out prominently.
Three inches over six foot in height and in his mid-twenties, Mark presented a picture which Frederic Remington and many other an artist might have taken pleasure in committing to canvas. All in all, there was excellent cause for his once having been described as looking like a Grecian god of old who had exchanged the traditional flowing white robe and sandals of Mount Olympus for the attire of a cowhand from Texas. Beneath neatly barbered and curly golden blond hair, his tanned and clean shaven features were almost classically handsome. There was a tremendous spread to his shoulders, with the torso trimming to a slender waist and long, straight, powerful legs. Yet, despite weighing something over two hundred pounds, he gave no suggestion of being slow, clumsy, or awkward. Rather the opposite was the case. He moved with a springiness to his step which indicated his leisurely stride could easily be changed into very rapid motion if the need arose.
Few of those around the blond giant were as well dressed as he was, but his elegant attire was not a result of the usual habit of cowhands to fancy up their appearance with the extra money earned by working on a trail drive. Although employed as a member of the OD Connected ranch’s floating outfit, which brought him a slightly higher rate of pay than that of the ordinary hands, he was also sufficiently wealthy in his own right to indulge his sartorial tastes at all times. His white J.B. Stetson hat, molded in the style of Texans, had a brown leather band decorated by genuine silver conchas around its crown. Tightly rolled, the scarlet bandanna trailing long ends over his massive chest was silk. His light blue shirt and yellowish-brown Nankeen trousers, the turned back cuffs of the legs hanging outside top quality brown high heeled and sharp toed boots with elaborate stitching, were of the best materials available and clearly tailored for him. Such an excellent fit could never have come ready made from the shelves of a store.
Regardless of how the distaff portion of the onlookers might be studying Mark, one point was being observed by practically every man he passed!
The blond giant was not wearing a gunbelt!
Nor did Mark give any indication of carrying weapons elsewhere on his person!
There were some amongst the crowd who concluded the blond giant must be a wealthy young visitor from the East and had elected to copy the clothing of cowhands, but had had the good sense not to add to the provocation his attire might cause by being armed. The majority were better informed with regards to his status, although a proportion of them wondered why a man with his reputation was not ‘dressed’; as cowhands from Texas claimed to be when wearing firearms. A few of those who knew the reason wondered why a man his caliber had consented to appear in public without his usual armament.
On being appointed town marshal, Stanley Woodrow Markham had elected to follow the training he had acquired as a deputy for a peace officer who had attained considerable fame and acclaim during 1870.
While serving as town marshal of Abilene when it was at the peak of its boom as the terminus of the Chisholm Trail, reversing the trend amongst other Kansas’ peace officers, Thomas James ‘Tom’ Smith had performed his duties without going around armed to the teeth. Instead, he had put his faith in impartiality, fair dealing, courage and skill as a fist fighter. Aided by a general reluctance to draw a gun upon an unarmed man, a point of view considerably influenced by the knowledge that to kill in such circumstances was likely to result in being hanged for murder, these qualities had earned him the respect of the local community and visitors alike. xi
Remembering the success achieved by Smith, Markham had agreed to take office with the proviso that the mayor and council ratified a civic ordinance which would ban the wearing of firearms within the city limits. Asking if he considered adopting such a ruling was wise, or even possible to enforce, he had claimed there were two reasons in particular why it would work. Firstly, Tom Smith’s period in office at Abilene was remembered favorably in comparison with his predecessors and successor, and with the general run of peace officers for the Kansas’ railroad towns. Secondly, since having been cleaned up by members of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit at the request of Governor Mansfield, xii Trail End had retained the good name it had acquired as being an honest and fairly run community.
After some discussion, it had been decided to try what was to become known as the ‘no guns around town’ ordinance for a trial period of a month. Therefore, posters had been printed and placed in prominent positions in and around the town giving warning of the changed conditions. They announced that, on arrival, every visitor was required to hand over his weapons for safe-keeping to the marshal, his deputies, the desk clerk of the hotel, owner of the rooming-house, or—if only passing through without taking accommodation—the bartender of the first saloon entered, to be collected on departure. It was also stated that the same rules applied to the citizens.
Having been informed by Markham—who was hired at his instigation—of what was intended, Governor Mansfield had seen it as offering an
opportunity to change the impression created in the East that the towns of his State were so wild and dangerous only the use of armed peace officers could maintain some semblance of law and order. Equally cognizant of the difficulties which would confront the new marshal whilst enforcing an ordinance likely to prove unpopular, he had seen a way to help the situation.
Arranging to meet Dusty Fog, who was newly arrived in Mulrooney with a trail herd from the OD Connected, the Governor had explained the position. Always willing to help a friend of his uncle and knowing Ole Devil Hardin would expect him to do so, the small Texan had given his approval. Although he could not be personally spared to put into effect the scheme he had in mind, he had declared Mark would be the ideal substitute. Hearing what was proposed and eager to avoid various social functions which he would be expected to attend by virtue of being related to Ole Devil and Dusty, another member of the floating outfit had offered to accompany the blond giant and this was accepted.
Although less sanguine in the case of Charles Henry ‘Red’ Blaze, who had a not entirely undeserved reputation for being quick tempered and impetuous, the wisdom of Mark having been selected was apparent to Mansfield. No other member of the floating outfit, their respective individual qualifications notwithstanding, possessed his sheer physical presence. He had a well merited fame for being a top hand in all aspects of working cattle, whether on the open range or the trail. In addition, stories of his prodigious feats of strength and skill at bare-handed fighting were common knowledge throughout the West. Therefore, how he reacted to the ‘no guns in Trail End’ ordinance would be noted by every other Texan. Nor, while they would probably be less impressed by his activities in the ranching business, would his behavior pass unnoticed by visitors who were employed in other occupations.
Traveling from Mulrooney by train, with their horses in a box car, Mark and Red had found their arrival was expected. A considerable crowd had gathered to find out what the response would be when Markham requested the blond giant to surrender his brown buscadero gunbelt with the brace of ivory handled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemakers in its fast draw holsters. That he had shown no hesitation before doing so, also handing over his Winchester Model of 1873 rifle from its saddle boot, had become a major talking point round Trail End. From what he and his companion had overheard, the general consensus of opinion considered his willing acquiescence indicated a belief and trust in the new marshal. However, having taken into account his Herculean build and mindful of the many stories told about him, those who might otherwise have accused him of having been too frightened of Markham to refuse, had also concluded it would prove unwise and probably painful in the extreme to make the suggestion to his face.
In addition to having been told to let it be seen they were content to go along with the ‘no guns in Trail End’ edict, Mark and Red were instructed to remain until sure the message was firmly implanted. To help achieve this, it had become the practice of the blond giant to stroll through the streets at least twice a day and allow his continued unarmed condition to be observed. He had also sought to persuade each newly arrived trail crew that they had nothing to fear from obeying the civic ordinance. Such was his standing amongst his fellow Texans that, as Governor Mansfield had hoped would prove the case, there had been neither active opposition nor unpleasantness from any of them when called upon to give up their firearms while within the city limits.
Six days had elapsed since the two members of the floating outfit reached Trail End. Satisfied they had done all that was required of them, Mark was taking what he had decided would be his final afternoon perambulation. As they would be leaving in the morning, it was his intention to invite a few friends from the period when he had served as a deputy town marshal to have dinner with him and Red that evening. One of the invited guests had purchased the Educated Thirst Saloon after the not undeserved death of the previous, far from honest, owner. As he had known the impact would be greater, he had taken his strolls alone and his companion had arranged to meet him there.
Approaching his destination, turning over in his mind some of the events which had taken place whilst the floating outfit had risked life and limb to clean up the town—it having become notorious amongst trail crews from Texas due to the unscrupulous activities of various citizens and public officials—the blond giant was jolted from his reverie by the sounds of an altercation inside.
It was fortunate for Mark Counter that he was so large and powerful!
There was a yell of mingled surprise and anger from beyond the blond giant’s range of vision. Then, hurtling headlong through the bat wing doors, came a big man dressed after the fashion frequently adopted by celebrating railroad constructions workers. A smaller and lighter person could hardly have avoided being knocked from the sidewalk by the impending collision, but Mark had the size and heft to prevent such a fate befalling him. Thrusting his hands forward, he halted and pushed aside the approaching gandy dancer with no more discernible difficulty than if he had been removing a toddling infant from his path. Having done so, judging from the commotion that a fight was taking place, he strode into the barroom of the Educated Thirst Saloon to find out whether he would need to help Erasmus O’Hagen’s employees to bring it to an end.
With one exception, the sight which met the gaze of the blond giant was pretty much as he had expected!
Whatever the cause might have been, the fighting had already spread like ripples from a stone tossed into a pond as the various occupants of the bar-room had become involved. Apart from the saloon’s masculine workers, who were trying to break up the brawl, the men present were mainly cowhands and gandy dancers. However, a sprinkling of other Western occupations were represented, all of whom had started to take sides either with the ranching or railroad factions or against one another.
That Mark should see the other member of the floating outfit was actively engaged did not come as any surprise!
Tall, well made, in his mid-twenties, Red Blaze had pugnaciously good looking features and hair of such a fiery hue it explained how he had acquired his sobriquet. He dressed like the competent cowhand he could claim to be. However, such was his impetuous nature, he could always be counted upon to become a participant should there be fighting in his vicinity. Fortunately, he was a skilled performer in a roughhouse brawl such as was taking place.
Having taken one swift glance around, satisfied his companion needed no immediate help, the blond giant turned his full attention to the exception!
Almost equaling Mark in height and about the same age, albeit somewhat more bulky in build as he did not trim down nearly so well at the waist, the attire of the man in question suggested he too was a cowhand from Texas. However, to eyes which knew the West, there were indications that such might not necessarily be the case. The loss of his hat had brought into view soft brown hair grown longer than was considered acceptable by members of that fraternity. Furthermore, even as the blond giant was looking in that direction, a clutching hand wrenched off what was obviously a false beard. Doing so exposed a handsome face which, in spite of the prevailing conditions, bore an expression seemingly petulant rather than angry. Instead of having acquired the tan which normally resulted from working for long hours exposed to the elements, its skin texture was pallid. Furthermore, although there did not appear to be any reason for him to have donned such a thing, he had a black eye-patch fastened around his head and it was now pushed up on to his brow.
Regardless of having features suggestive of a gentle, perhaps even pampered upbringing, the subject of Mark’s attentions was proving himself a very competent barehanded fighter. Assailed from all sides by the gandy dancers, resembling—if such a thing was possible—a mild featured Texas flat-headed grizzly bear surrounded by a pack of big game hounds, he was using his big fists and feet with speed and to good effect. Nevertheless, unless he was to receive assistance, it seemed almost certain that he must eventually be worn down and defeated by sheer weight of numbers.
‘Cave adsum, Cousin Mark!’
the burly young man bellowed, on catching sight of the blond giant entering the bar-room. His voice was that of a well educated Southron as, without pausing in his extremely capable defense, he continued just as loudly, ‘How about coming to lend a deserving kinsman a hand?’
Having recognized his Cousin Trudeau even before hearing the motto of the Front de Boeuf family, ‘Cave adsum’, xiii Mark wished their relationship had not been announced so publicly. Knowing the speaker, who was considered by practically all their relatives as being the ‘black sheep of the family’, the blond giant suspected that the gandy dancers might have been given adequate cause for their hostile behavior. His suppositions on that score were strengthened rather than diminished by having noticed the cowhand style clothing—their wearer having a disinclination to indulge in honest toil of any kind—and other suggestions that a disguise had been adopted. Nevertheless, like many Southrons in general and Texans in particular, he had been raised with a strong sense of responsibility to kinfolks. Therefore, snatching off his hat and sending it spinning through the air to fall behind the counter where he hoped it would be safe from damage, he was already advancing to render the requested aid.
On hearing what was shouted by Trudeau Front de Boeuf, three of the gandy dancers swung away from him and charged to intercept the blond giant. Being newly arrived from the East and having reached Trail End a short while before coming into the Educated Thirst Saloon, they did not realize against whom they would be in contention. Lacking this information and drawing an erroneous conclusion from his dandified appearance, they dismissed him as being nothing more dangerous than a dude who must be in cahoots with the man responsible for their animosity. On the other hand, taking into account his massive size, they also decided it might prove advisable to make a concerted attack rather than rushing at him individually.