by J. T. Edson
Then Mark stood still, amazed at the scene before him. Viola staggered back a pace or two with a look of horror on her face. The woman at Calamity’s bedside straightened up with a gasp of horror, her right hand still holding Calamity’s ankle. On the bed, naked as the day she was born, lay Calamity. The big blonde woman who had come in on the stage let the girl’s bent leg fall and took a hurried pace backwards. She no longer wore the suit she travelled to town in, now she had on an old blouse and skirt, the blouse’s sleeves rolled up to show brawny arms which went well with her rather big, strong looking hands.
“Yumping yiminy!” she gasped. “What’s this?”
“You all right, Calam?” Mark asked, still holding his revolver.
His words seemed to shake them out of their trance. Viola took a step forward and the big woman’s face turned slightly red, her hand dropping to the neck of a bottle full of oily looking liquid which stood on the chair by the bed.
“I reckon so, Mark,” Calamity replied to the question, grinning and not showing the slightest embarrassment at her lack of clothing. “If Madam Bulldog can take it I reckon I can.”
“It’s all right, Mark,” Viola went on. “Let’s you and me go out into the passage and I’ll explain everything.”
For a moment Mark hesitated and Calamity grinned again.
“Go on, Mark. I’m all right and you’ll be making me blush next.”
Holstering his Colt, Mark walked from the room and Viola followed, closing the door. From behind them came the slapping sounds, gasps and squeaks which told that the woman had started to do whatever she had been doing to Calamity all over again.
“What’s this all about?” Mark asked.
“It’s all right. That’s Mrs. Cussing from Sand City. Madam sent for her to come here and rub her down. She’s a massager.”
“A what?”
“A massager. You know, one of them Swedish dames who give you a massage.”
Mark grinned. “It’s always been a man when it happened to me.”
“Yeah, well the boss has her around once a month or so, says it keeps her schoolgirl figure. Anyway after the fight Madam decided she needed a rub down and told me to send for Mrs. Cussing. Then after she was done Madam figured that Calam’d like need some help and told me to bring Mrs. Cussing down here and tend to her.”
“How do you spell Mrs. Cussings name?” asked Mark.
“K-u-s-i-n,” she replied. “Why?”
“Just a thought,” grinned Mark, cocking an ear towards the door through which Calamity’s curses and squeals still sounded. “They always allow you have to be cruel to be kind.”
He left the girl and walked to his own room. For all his grin, Mark felt relieved. Now he saw the reason for Madam Bulldog’s message and the mistake in the name. In the friendly, though arbitrary way of the old west Mrs. Kusin’s name became Cussing, pronounced that way by the people who saw it. That kusin should be Swedish for cousin amounted to nothing more sinister than coincidence, yet Mark knew how suspicion, fear panic even, might have been spawned from the telegraph message had word of it been spread around the town. He knew his first task after he collected his bedroll must be to see the worried Wells Fargo agent and relieve the man’s mind of its troubles over the message.
After satisfying the Wells Fargo agent that his trust and respect of Madam Bulldog remained unsullied, Mark went along to the jail and found his night detail of deputies present. He told them to make themselves comfortable and then made his first rounds of the night, taking Banker Hoscroft with him.
It looked more like a scene from Dodge City at the height of the trail season than the main street of a very small cowtown, to see two shotgun armed lawmen on the prowl. However the town carried on as usual, cowhands from the nearby ranches coming in and the usual assortment of drifters, visiting the Bull’s Head Saloon or doing business with such stores as stayed open to catch this transient trade. The night passed without incident and the dawn came without any sign of the Cousins bunch making their arrival.
Time hung heavily on Mark’s hands as he made his rounds and waited for the Cousins bunch to arrive. He hated this waiting and watching and wanted action, to get the business settled one way or the other so he could head back to the OD Connected and his friends. He did not let his nerves get on edge and kept a careful watch on the people around town to see that they did not either. He knew that nervous tension was what Cousins wanted and that the killer waited for a moment when the townsfolk were jumpy and scared, then he would strike. Only that looked as if it would be a long time in coming.
Certainly the man who rode from Tennyson shortly before noon thought the coming had been delayed long enough. So he took his horse and headed out to try and speed matters up. Although he wore a town suit he had never worked in a store or any other kind of business premises, other than a saloon or a gambling house. He came to Tennyson with Wardle and Schanz in the hope of finding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, or at least a town full of folk ready willing and delighted to be bilked at games of chance in which no chance was allowed on his side. The promised land did not materialize, for Tennyson had taken wise precautions against him and his kind. He stayed on even though the proposed saloon did not arrive. There were pickings for the vultures, happen a man knew how go about it and avoided coming into conflict with the law. The pickings were not great and on the day Tune Counter took lead this man had been thinking of seeking pastures new. Then he, along with Wardle and Schanz saw a chance of getting rid of Tune Counter and the strong hand which controlled the town, as well as moving Madam Bulldog from their path. By methods known to such as them, they got in touch with Cousins, notifying him of the death of his son and offering their help. In return they received word that Cousins aimed to come and take revenge and told where to look for him on his arrival. The man rode towards that place now.
For three miles he rode across country making for a large bosque well known for its qualities as a hide-out amongst men of Cousins’ kind. Nor did the man from Tennyson ride blindly along. He kept a sharp watch on his back trail, making sure no one followed him. He knew Cousins to be a most untrusting soul who would not regard the sign of approaching men with equanimity. Cousins’ tricky mind might lead him to believe the leading rider had sold him out to his enemies and his answer to such an action would be effective, if crude.
At last the man, who went by the unimaginative name of Smith, halted his horse thirty yards from the edge of the woods. He scanned them for some sign of life and saw none. Being a town dweller who spent but little of his time in travelling and that time being spent in a stage coach if possible, the man called Smith thought nothing of the silence of the woods, or the lack of bird sounds.
He took out a gaudy handkerchief and mopped his face with it. Then, just as he was about to turn his horse, a thought struck him. He looked towards the silent woods and called:
“It’s all right. I came alone.”
Silence again, not a sound in the woods. The man licked his lips, some instinct warning him that cold eyes watched his every move. He debated to himself on the possibility of Cousins not being at the bosque yet and started to turn his horse to make for town.
“You’d’ve been dead five minutes back if you hadn’t been alone.”
The words came so unexpectedly that Smith almost jumped from his horse. He stared towards the bosque and the tall, gaunt young man in cowhand clothes who stepped from behind a tree, cradling a Winchester rifle across his arm.
“I’m a friend of Charlie Wardle,” Smith said hurriedly, smiling what he hoped was a warm and winning smile. “You with Hank Cousins?”
“You might say that.”
“Charlie told me where to come,” Smith explained.
A cold, wolf-savage smile split the young man’s face and he gestured with his rifle. “Come and come easy. I’d as soon shoot you as not.”
With that friendly advice given the young man turned on his heel and walked away into the trees. Smith swu
ng down from his horse and led it as he followed the lead of his guide.
After winding through the trees of the bosque for a time they came at last to where, in a hollow on the banks of a stream, a small, rough camp had been made. Five men were by the small campfire and they came to their feet, hands reaching to their guns as they looked with suspicious gaze at Smith. Three of the men showed a strong family likeness, the burly man with steel rimmed spectacles being Hank Cousins. Next to him stood the oldest son, Burt, a mean looking unshaven man. Ted and Joe, the look-out, were twins and neither would have won any prize for having a kind or gentle facial aspect. The remaining two men had all the marks of hard-case outlaws, men who would follow any leader as long as he paid well and would stay loyal to him until it came to a time when loyalty no longer paid them.
“What’re you wanting?” Hank Cousins asked, coldly surveying Smith through the plain glass of his spectacles.
“I was in with Wardle and Schanz,” replied Smith.
“Why didn’t they come themselves?” growled Cousins, then looked at Joe and didn’t wait for Smith’s reply. “Was he followed?”
“Naw.”
“I made sure of that,” Smith stated. “Wardle and Schanz got themselves run out of town and I thought I’d come along to let you know how things stand.”
“Did you?” asked Cousins with a chilling lack of interest.
“Sure. The folks there are standing fast, all of them are solid behind the marshal.”
“The marshal’s hurt bad,” said Cousins, “or so we was told.”
“His nephew come in and took over. A big hombre toting a brace of white handled guns that he’s real fast with. He beat Al Cordby to the shot in a fair fight, which same Cordby was drawing first when he got it.”
A low rumble of talk came from the men and a quick exchange of glances which told Smith he had interested the others. They all knew Cordby’s reputation and were wondering who this fast-drawing nephew of Tune Counter’s might be. Then one of the two non-Cousinses recollected something.
“Counter,” said the man, Potts by name, “he wouldn’t be a real big, handsome blond haired feller, would he?”
“That’s him,” agreed Smith.
“And that’s Mark Counter,” Potts went on, then as if he thought more explanations might be needed. “Dusty Fog’s amigo.”
Now all the others were interested. Dusty Fog’s name stood high amongst the real fast men in Texas. Cousins and his bunch all knew the close ties of friendship and loyalty between Dusty Fog and the other members of the OD Connected crew, and Mark Counter belonged to that crew; more he belonged to the elite of the crew, the floating outfit, and his name had often been linked with Dusty Fog.
“Is either Dusty Fog or the Ysabel Kid with him?” asked the second man, Jacobs by name.
Not being a Cousins he did not have any particular stake in this game, he had no kin to avenge and came along merely in case there should be a chance to loot some place in town. He most certainly had not come along to tie into fuss with Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid.
“There’s only Mark Counter in Tennyson right now,” Smith answered, then an inspiration struck him. “He sent for the others, they’re due here tomorrow.”
Cousins scowled at the others. He would have preferred to handle the matter of avenging his son with just his kin, but felt the need for a couple of extra guns to back him. He had planned to stay on out here for another couple of days to really give the folks time to stew on his threats. He had used the same system before when meaning to hit a town. The telegraph messages stirred things up, his blood-thirsty reputation did the rest. A couple more days of anxiety would see folks in Tennyson debating the futility of resistance, even with a good man to back them. Yet if Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid should arrive they would effectively stiffen the town in such a manner that no amount of threatening telegraph messages would worry them.
“We go in tonight,” he said, reaching the decision Smith hoped to get. “Show me the layout of the town.”
Reaching into his pocket Smith produced a copy of the Tennyson Herald and passed it to Cousins. He stood watching the killer read the town council’s orders to the population. At last Cousins crumpled the paper in his hands, then tossed it to the ground.
“Smart!” he snarled. “Too damned smart for a bunch of hick yokels. This’s Mark Counter’s doing.”
“He had the town council in to see him yesterday,” Smith answered. “They’ve appointed four special deputies who’re on watch all the time day and night at the jail house. There’s one thing though. The jail’s only got one way out, straight on to the main street.”
The significance of the words did not escape Cousins. He scuffed his boot toe over the soil at his feet, making a clear level area to which he pointed.
“Show me how the town lays,” he ordered.
Taking a stick Smith squatted on his heels and started to make as good a map as he could manage under the conditions. He tried to show the full layout of the town, pointing out the salient points, such as the jail, the saloon and Doc Connel’s house. Despite his lack of experience as a map-maker Smith gave Cousins a very clear idea of what he would run into when he reached Tennyson.
“How bad is Tune Counter hurt?” he asked.
“Pretty bad, by all accounts. And from what I heard Madam Bulldog tangled with Calamity Jane yesterday. They’re both still in bed.”
“You mean they had a tooth ’n’ claw brawl?” asked Tad Cousins.
“So the word has it. Only the saloon gals know for sure what happened. I was in there last night and the gals all talked about the fight, it was a real humdinger from what they say and I can well believe it.”
“You don’t know for sure about it then?” Hank Cousins put in.
“Nope,” Smith replied. “Calamity came in with Mark Counter and tied in with Madam Bulldog, got out-cussed, lost near on all she stood up in at poker, then got herself drunk under the table a couple of nights back. We all expected her to be back r’aring to go last night, but she never showed, so I reckon it’s true what the gals said about being a fight.”
Cousins’ usual scowl deepened as he looked Smith up and down. He did not know the man and wondered just what Smith expected to gain out of helping him. How far he could trust Smith, or even if he could trust Smith at all, Cousins did not know. He looked the man over with cold eyes and asked:
“Just what do you reckon to gain out of all this?”
“A saloon and good pickings. With Madam Bulldog and Tune Counter gone I’ll get them both, provided your boys don’t bust up the saloon too much. Which same’s why I come out here, to see if you thought my help’d be worth not busting up the place.”
“You want us to kill Tune Counter and Madam Bulldog for you?” sneered Burt Cousins.
“You’re going to kill him, and Madam Bulldog anyhow,” Smith replied. “I reckoned that if I did you a favor you’d do me one in return.”
None of the men spoke for a long moment. Hank Cousins for one felt better about Smith now the matter had been put into terms he could understand. Smith stood to make money out of the deaths of two people and Cousins could see why the man would offer his help. He made his decision and prepared to tell the others his plan. He had one thing to attend to before he made any plans.
Looking at Smith, he pointed to the trees. “Get going!” he said.
“What—!” yelped the startled man.
Coming forward fast Joe Cousins thrust the barrel of his rifle hard into the middle of Smith’s back.
“You heard pappy?” he asked. “Walk—or stay put permanent.”
“Don’t gun him unless you have to!” Cousins barked, being under no delusions about Joe’s regard for human life.
Not until Smith, protesting his friendship, departed, did Hank Cousins offer to tell his men his ideas for taking the town of Tennyson. He did not doubt that Smith had his interests at heart, especially as Smith stood to gain by those same interests. Howev
er, the less Smith knew the less he could tell should he be caught out and questioned. Smith did not strike Hank Cousins as being the most staunch of men and would crack under forceful treatment, so the less he knew about Cousins’s plans the better the outlaw liked it.
“It could be a trap,” Potts said quietly.
“Reckon it is, Hank?” asked Jacobs.
“Nope, Smith wants that saloon bad and we’re going to hand it to him. We’re headed in tonight.”
“How? “asked Burt.
“Quiet and easy. I’ll tend to Tune Counter myself. Joe and Tad take the saloon and hand Madam Bulldog her needings. Should be easy enough with her off her feet. Even if she’s back on them likely she’ll be too stiff ’n’ sore to make any fast moves.”
All the others exchanged glances, for they’d heard what the wounded man who escaped the hold-up had to say on the subject of Madam Bulldog’s way with a gun. Burt looked at his father.
“How about me, paw?”
“You, Potts and Jacob’s be hid out opposite the jail, with your rifles. I’m counting on you to hold Mark Counter and the deputies inside if there’s only the one door. To save us starting ahead of each other, Tad, don’t you start shooting until nine o’clock, that’s the time we’ll be in town. By ten past nine we’ll be riding out and both Tune Counter ’n’ Madam Bulldog’ll be dead.”
Calamity Jane stood in her hotel room and lifted her arms over her head, standing so she could see herself in the mirror. Her body still looked mottled by the various bruises and abrasions but she flexed her arms and had no stiffness in them. It said much for Mrs. Kusin’s skill as a masseuse that Calamity could move with such ease after the fight she had fought with Madam Bulldog. Three times Mrs. Kusin had come to Calamity’s room and worked on her, probing, rubbing, slapping until the girl felt like she had been through the fight all over again. Now it was all over, the stiffness and aches no longer bothered Calamity and she felt the time had arrived when she must take up the cudgel and try conclusions with Madam Bulldog once more.