by J. T. Edson
‘Do you mean to tell me that you’d desert a member of your own family at such a time?’ Jessica demanded. ‘I expected better of you, Mark Counter!’
‘It’ll be all your own doing if we go,’ the blond giant pointed out, showing no contrition. ‘Family responsibility or not, there’s something going on you don’t want us to know about. For one thing, Quincy didn’t think you’re just rich folks. What he said, he knew you bend the law a mite on occasion—p!’
‘Really, nephew—!’ Jessica yelped. ‘How dare you say such a thing in front of—!’
‘So I don’t aim to have Red and me sitting in on something that could wind up with us having to lock horns with the law,’ Mark continued, as if the interruption had not taken place. ‘Which being, either you tell us what it’s really about, or we’re lighting a shuck for Mulrooney this afternoon!’
Despite having decided that her nephew had every intention of carrying out the ultimatum, Jessica Front de Boeuf did not speak for almost thirty seconds!
Hoping to elicit support from the other occupant of the room, who she believed might prove susceptible to the kind of manipulation at which she was most adept, the beautiful woman turned a look of well simulated pleading in his direction which she had found worked on other occasions.
Studying Red Blaze with the calculation of one who had derived much of her far from frugal livelihood from exploiting masculine weaknesses, Jessica was disappointed by what she read in the freckled and pugnaciously good looking features. There was no suggestion of her having aroused the sympathy she required. In fact, the way she was having her gaze returned warned her that she must revise the impression she had had of him so far.
At first sight, the woman had dismissed the fiery haired cowhand as merely having been brought to Trail End by her nephew to provide companionship. Her revised judgment warned he was much more than that. Reckless and impetuous as he might prove in some circumstances, she felt sure he would also become competent and capable enough when the need arose. Therefore, if she could win him over, he would be as useful an ally as the blond giant; albeit one more pliable to her will. She also concluded that, no matter what she might have been able to accomplish had they been alone, he would follow the lead of her nephew in the prevailing conditions.
‘Very well!’ Jessica yielded sullenly, accepting she would have to show a certain amount of frankness if she wanted to obtain the assistance which she knew she would require if her theory on the kidnapping was correct. ‘I can’t bring anybody called “Quincy” to mind. What does he look like?’
‘Does he come to mind now?’ Mark asked, after describing the man who had posed as a United States’ deputy marshal.
‘No, I can’t say he does,’ the woman admitted, having thought for a few seconds. ‘At least, as far as I know, he isn’t one of Kent Bruce’s regular men.’
‘And who-all’s this “Kent Bruce” hombre?’ the blond giant asked.
‘A business associate,’ the woman supplied, placing great emphasis upon the second word. ‘We’re engaged in some most private and very confidential negotiations which I’m not at liberty to discuss further, even with your nephew. All I can say is, I have something he wants and is willing to pay a high price to get.’
‘Would this price run’s high as eight thousand dollars, ma’am?’ Red suggested, before his amigo could continue the questioning.
‘Slightly higher,’ Jessica understated, the deal calling for a payment of ten thousand dollars, deciding the comment indicated the fiery haired cowhand was thinking along similar lines to her own and was proving her summation with regards to his intelligence.
‘I won’t ask what this Kent Bruce hombre wants from you and don’t want telling,’ Mark stated firmly, wanting one matter settled before they went any further in the discussion. Having no doubt the ‘private and very confidential negotiations’ were illegal, he was still striving to keep the balance between his conscience and responsibility to kinfolks. ‘But will whatever it is happen here in Trail End?’
‘It won’t,’ the woman assured and, watching her carefully, the blond giant decided she was speaking the truth.
‘Just so it isn’t,’ Mark drawled, but his aunt read a note of warning in his voice. ‘Now I get the notion that you’re like Red and me. You reckon this Bruce hombre’s behind Cousin Tru being grabbed off by Quincy.’
‘I may be doing him an injustice,’ Jessica declared. ‘But it is a possibility.’
‘Then how come Cousin Tru was here alone?’ the blond giant wanted to know. ‘I’d’ve thought that, with something like whatever it is you’re got going, you’d’ve stuck together.’
‘Normally we would have, particularly with Edward being laid up by a bullet wound,’ Jessica admitted, referring to a man who traveled with her and did her bidding. ‘In fact, the arrangement was for us to get together with Mr. Bruce here yesterday. Then something came up which detained me in Dodge City, so I sent Trudeau to meet and tell him I would follow with the—to conclude our negotiations—today.’
‘Who-all picked Trail End for the meeting, ma’am?’ Red put in.
‘Mr. Bruce,’ the woman replied.
‘Then this can’t be his home range?’ Red asked, although the words were more in the style of a statement.
‘He doesn’t even live near here,’ Jessica confirmed. ‘Why?’
‘I didn’t reckon you’d be willing to dicker with him on his own stomping grounds,’ the red head replied. ‘And those three jaspers who wide-looped your boy couldn’t’ve been local-grown, else the deputy they whomped’d’ve recognized them before there’d be chance to do it.’
‘So?’ the woman prompted, the summation being much like her own.
‘So’d they have to have some local help,’ Red elaborated. ‘Somebody who knows the range hereabouts and could pick a place where they could hide up with your boy until you pay the ransom.’
‘That’s true,’ Jessica confirmed.
‘Would this Bruce hombre know anybody to do it?’ Red inquired.
‘He’s sure to have a contact locally, he does in most places,’ the woman replied. ‘But I’ve no idea who it might be.’
‘That’s a pity, ma’am,’ the red head claimed. ‘If you had, it could either’ve helped us figure out where-at they’re hiding out with your boy. Or we could’ve maybe grabbed the jasper and made him tell us.’
‘But we don’t know!’ Jessica pointed out, forcing herself to restrain the impatience of her imperious nature.
‘No, ma’am, we don’t,’ Red conceded, looking from the blond giant to the wardrobe in which they had placed Trudeau Front de Boeuf’s belongings on collection from the other hotel. ‘And, happen we’re lucky, Bruce doesn’t know yet whether they’ve got your boy or not.’
‘I don’t follow you!’ the women stated, finding it more difficult to control her irascibility.
‘Well now, ma’am,’ the red head replied. ‘Happen Bruce doesn’t know if they’ve got Tru yet, he’s likely going to want to know the why-not of it should he be taken with the notion that they haven’t got him.’
‘Howdy, there, Mr. Bruce,’ Michael Murdock greeted in his whining Mid-West accent. His tall and raw boned figure and cheap attire suggesting he was a not over affluent farmer. Although he owned a small place some five miles west of Trail End, he did little work on it and did not rely upon its produce for his livelihood. His manner was deferential as he looked at the shorter of the two passengers he had come to meet from the east-bound train. ‘Quincy and his boys’ve grabbed off that big feller like you told ’em to—!’
‘If they said I knew anything about it, they’re liars!’ interrupted the man to whom the words were addressed. ‘And don’t you forget it!’
Of medium height, plump to the point of obesity, Kent Bruce wore clothing of the latest Eastern style which were expensive and in excellent taste. His features seemed bland and generally gave the impression of amiability, only rarely offering even a hint of his true, compl
etely unscrupulous nature. Those who knew him well were aware that, beyond the apparent mild joviality was a core of ruthless and cold bloodedly efficient evil.
Being pernicious at heart, Bruce had been disinclined to meet the high price demanded by Jessica Front de Boeuf for certain vital information regarding a very large shipment of gold which she had acquired on his behalf. However, knowing she could easily dispose of it elsewhere and would not hesitate to do so regardless of having been commissioned by him to procure it, he had concocted a scheme intended to reclaim the majority of the money. Having arranged to meet her on what amounted to neutral ground, he had been too wise to use any of the men who could be connected with him. Approached with the plan, Quincy had insisted upon being paid a deposit and having the rest of the balance on Bruce’s arrival at Trail End. As the bogus United States’ deputy marshal had not been shown the ransom note left for the woman by Murdock and was unaware that he would be receiving five thousand dollars less than demanded, the stipulation had been accepted. Nevertheless, Bruce had no intention of admitting his complicity to one he regarded as an underling.
‘I won’t forget it, boss!’ Murdock promised. ‘Only they said’s how you’d have the rest of their money for ’em ’n’ I was to fetch it along so’s they can get going.’
‘What’s their rush?’ Bruce demanded.
‘They said’s how they wanted to make sure of having a good head start afore his momma pays to get him turned loose,’ the go-between replied.
‘Or maybe them—and you—figure the boss for a sucker?’
Hearing the comment, made in a harsh voice which was Northern in origin, Murdock swung a worried gaze at the speaker. Close to six foot in height, middle-aged, lean, with leathery and heavily mustached features, his attire was that of the Montana range country. The gunbelt he had on carried two Colt Civilian Model Peacemakers in its fast draw holsters and, to Western eyes, he was likely to prove competent in their use. Knowing this to be a fact where David Yorath was concerned, the go-between felt decidedly uneasy.
‘How do you mean, Dave?’ Bruce demanded.
‘Look across there!’ Yorath requested, gesturing across the street with the pigskin valise belonging to his employer which he was carrying as well as his own carpetbag.
Bruce and Murdock followed his gesture and reacted in a way which was different and yet in some ways similar!
The former let out a hiss of angry surprise and the latter gasped in amazement as they saw two figures looking their way from just inside the mouth of an alley further along and at the other side of the street. Apparently wanting to be detected and approached, the beautiful black haired woman and her massive, also well dressed, companion withdrew quickly behind the nearer building.
‘What’s the game, damn you?’ Bruce challenged, when the couple did not appear again, swinging a face which was no longer either bland or amiable to glare at the lanky man. ‘That was Jessica Coeur de Lion and her son across there.’
‘That wasn’t what Quincy called him, boss!’ Murdock croaked, being more alarmed by the change which had come over the master criminal than from noticing Yorath was putting down the bags to leave both hands free. ‘But we’ve got him out at my place!’
‘How can you have him out at your place?’ the hard case demanded, mocking the way in which the go-between had made the statement. ‘Or, if you have, who in hell was that over in the alley with her?’
‘I—I dunno,’ Murdock admitted worriedly, then had an inspiration. ‘Maybe it’s just some young feller she’s got to keep herself all bedded down and happy?’
‘And maybe the moon’s made of green cheese!’ Bruce snorted. ‘While I’ll not deny dear Jessica’s more than a mite hot-assed, there aren’t all that many young men around with the size and heft of her son.’
‘So what’s the god-damned game, plow-pusher?’ Yorath supplemented.
‘I—I tell you they fetched the feller they reckoned was the one the boss wan—they’d been told to get out to my place,’ Murdock insisted. ‘Unless—!’
‘Unless what?’ Bruce wanted to know.
‘Unless they got the wrong feller,’ the go-between offered. ‘Come to think of it, even though his face was too pale for working out of doors and his hands real soft ’n’ white, he was wearing cowhand duds.’ Noticing a man coming towards them, he went on, ‘Watch out, boss. It’s the new town clown!’
‘Howdy, gents,’ Stan Markham greeted, strolling up. However, his gaze was directed at the hard-case alone as he continued, ‘I reckon you saw the signs on the walls of the depot?’
‘Signs?’ Yorath repeated, despite knowing what was implied by the question. ‘What signs would they be?’
‘The big ones with bright red ink, saying the wearing of guns within the city limits is banned by civic ordinance,’ the marshal explained, with what appeared to be mild politeness. ‘Which being, I’ll take your gunbelt now and you can pick it up from the jailhouse just before you leave town.’
‘Like he—!’ the hard-case began truculently, having noticed the peace officer was not wearing arms in view.
‘Do as the marshal asks, Mr. Yorath!’ Bruce commanded, knowing his bodyguard had a quick temper and, particularly in the prevailing conditions, wanting to avoid trouble. ‘The law is the law and it behooves us, as honest citizens, to uphold it.’
‘Whatever you say, boss!’ the hard-case assented sullenly.
‘Thanks, mister!’ Markham said, accepting the belt and weapons offered to him with more than a suggestion of reluctance. ‘Enjoy your stay in Trail End, gents, but keep in mind the ordinance means no guns of any kind, whether worn openly or concealed, can be toted around town.’
‘We’ll keep it in mind, marshal,’ Bruce promised, although the words had been intended for his bodyguard as they all knew. ‘But what if my colleague needs to go out of town on business?’
‘He can come by the office and pick up his guns when he’s ready to leave,’ Markham replied. ‘But I’ll want them handed in again as soon as he gets back.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ Bruce claimed, seemingly filled with bonhomie and good will. ‘And a most sensible ruling, if I may say so.’
‘We like it,’ the marshal declared, dangling the gunbelt over his broad left shoulder. ‘Enjoy your stay.’
‘God damned, small town tin-star son-of-a-bitch!’ Yorath snarled, glowering after the departing peace officer.
‘I suppose he might be,’ Bruce replied dryly. ‘But you getting into trouble with him won’t serve my purpose. So, as long as you’re being well paid by me, I’ll thank you to keep that in mind.’
‘Sure, boss,’ the hard-case assented, being too wise to cross his employer. ‘Why’d you ask about me leaving town?’
‘Because that’s what you’re going to do,’ Bruce explained.
‘But you said you wanted me with you while you was dickering with her,’ Yorath objected, knowing his employer had arranged to have him present.
‘I do, so I’ll make sure I keep out of her way until you’re back,’ Bruce answered. ‘Get a horse for Mr. Yorath, Murdock. Then take him out to your place so he can find out what’s going on.’
Sharing a two-bedroom suite with his employer at the second best hotel in Trail End, knowing ‘Jessica Coeur de Lion’ would be at the superior establishment, David Yorath was on his way downstairs to carry out his orders.
Like any man who earned a living as a hired gun fighter, the hard-case was never at ease when having to appear in public without his weapon belt and revolvers strapped on. Therefore, despite intending to go straight to the jailhouse and retrieve them, he could not resist the temptation to arm himself while waiting for Michael Murdock to arrive with the horses. Removing the short barreled Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker carried in his carpetbag for such contingencies, he tucked it into the waistband of his trousers behind his back so it was concealed beneath his calfskin vest. With this done, he had kept watch from the window until seeing the go-between was appro
aching on a horse and leading another clearly rented from a not too expensive livery stable.
Realizing he was faced with a fairly long ride upon such a poor mount, Yorath was in a far from amiable mood as he descended from his room on the second floor. Apart from instinctively noticing they were all obeying the civic ordinance banning the wearing of firearms, he paid no attention to a group of Texans standing engaged in cheerful conversation in the center of the reception lobby. However, as he was passing, one of them turned and, by accident it seemed, not only bumped into him but stepped heavily upon his right toes. Intended as an aid to digging into the ground for added security when roping on foot, the high heel of the boot inflicted pain which did nothing to improve the hard-case’s already far from good temper.
‘Hey, I’m sorry, mis—!’ the cowhand began.
‘God damn you for a clumsy beef-hand son-of-a-bitch!’ Yorath spat out, glaring into an apologetic freckled, good looking face between fiery red hair and a tightly rolled silk bandanna which was a riot of violently contrasting colors. xvii
‘I said I was sorry, mister!’ Red Blaze pointed out, with a mildness which might have surprised anybody who knew him. ‘There’s no call for you to go mean-mouthing me that way!’
‘I’ll do more than just mean-mouth you if you don’t get the hell away from me!’ Yorath threatened, starting to walk onwards.
‘Aw come on now, mister,’ Red said, adopting a placatory tone and catching the hard-case by the left bicep. ‘Let me buy you a drink to make up f—!’
‘Get away from me!’ Yorath commanded furiously, snatching free his arm and spinning on his heel to launch a punch with it.
Alert for such a possibility, although it was not entirely the response he was hoping to produce, the red haired Texan ducked beneath the blow. Coming up after having avoided it, he retaliated with a backhand slap from his right knuckles. Caught on the cheek as painfully as his toes had suffered, the hard-case was driven back a step. Then, despite having tried to use his fist, he elected to return to the means he usually adopted when his temper was aroused. Spluttering a profanity, he sent his right hand behind his back to close around the butt of the concealed revolver.