by J. T. Edson
Whirling around, the Parson saw his danger. He tried to swing the Colt towards Mark but the big Texan reacted with the speed his name might have become famous for had he not lived under the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun wizard Dusty Fog. Twice the Remington belched flame and cracked out before the Parson’s gun came full around. Mark shot in the manner of a trained lawman, shot the only way he dare under the circumstances, for an instant kill. He threw two bullets into the Parson, secure in the knowledge that the light charge and small barrels of the Double Derringer did not raise sufficient power to send the bullets clean through his man. Twice the Parson rocked as lead hit him. His gun fell from his fingers and he went down in a limp pile on the floor.
Even before the Parson made his desperate play, while the other man’s gun came clear, Stout turned and dashed down the aisle. Most of the watching crowd were still too stunned to think clearly but George Abbott sprang forward. He did not wear a gun, but leapt at Stout and was knocked aside. A moment later Stout felled the amazed butler, having heard shots and guessing his partner would not be following. He raced to the front doors, through them, turning to grab the key, saw Mark Counter coming after him and closed, then locked the doors on the outside. That would slow down the pursuit for a few moments and a buggy with a fast horse stood waiting in case a hurried departure became necessary. Without a thought for his partner, not caring whether the Parson lived or died, Stout leapt into the buggy and untangled the reins, then reached for the whip.
After shooting the Parson, Mark dropped his empty weapon and raced down the aisle in pursuit of Stout. Luckily for them none of the guests got in the way, for Mark intended to get the man. Men shouted, women screamed, Abbott cursed and tried to untangle himself but Mark ignored any of it. He saw the departure and heard the click of the lock. Mark did not even slacken his pace or break his stride. At the last moment he ducked one shoulder and hurled himself with all his strength into the stout doors, bursting them open as if they had been made of matchwood. He saw the buggy, saw Stout in it and lunged forward.
The whip in Stout’s hands lashed out at Mark, only once, for Mark reached the buggy, his hands clamped on the spokes of the wheel and with a tremendous surging heave he threw it over on to its side. Stout howled as he shot out and lit down on the ground.
He came up fast but Mark was on him before he could even think of defense or flight. In his time Stout had been in more than one rough-house brawl and thought he knew how to defend himself. He stood no chance at all against a cold, grim, angry Mark filled with a decent man’s hate of all Stout stood for. With all his anger Mark lost none of his skill and Stout suffered the more because of it. Iron hard fists, powered by giant muscles, ripped into Stout’s face and body. He felt his nose crushed and spread over his face, his level white teeth break and his body take smashing blows. Then he went down and all became black and still.
“You got a real mean streak in you, boy,” Abbott remarked, coming from the door of the house. “Happen you hadn’t stopped in ten—fifteen minutes I reckoned on stopping you. He’ll never look pretty again, that’s for sure.”
“Take him to jail, George,” Mark replied. “I’d best go inside again.”
In the big room the wedding guests stood chattering, pointing and talking. Mark entered and the talk died down, the guests waited to hear an explanation of what they had seen.
“It worked, Mr. Humboldt,” Alice said suddenly, in a loud and carrying voice even before Mark could speak. “Thanks to you we caught him.”
She had watched Humboldt ever since Eleonore revealed herself. The man’s face showed sickness and hurt as he guessed what must be happening. Alice guessed at the feelings of the pompous man who prided himself on his judgment of character, who had his friends believing in his omnipotence and found himself shown as a fool who allowed a confidence trickster to fool him. He could hardly stand the humiliation, the expectancy of jeers to come. Alice took pity on him, she thought fast, came up with a possible way out, used it and hoped Mark and Eleonore would go along with her in its use.
“My fellow operative and I,” she said, indicating Eleonore who had removed the bridal veil and was helping revive Mrs. Humboldt, “have been after the Parson and Stout for some time. We trailed them here and told Mr. Humboldt of their activities, hoping he would stop the wedding. With a courage I can only describe as magnificent, Mr. Humboldt insisted we let the marriage carry on so as to trap them both red-handed and prevent some other girl being victimized by them. We all apologize for bringing you here, but you will all understand that it was necessary and I’m sure none of you can object to helping remove a couple of dangerous and heartless men, probably saving heartache and distress to other young, innocent girls.”
Alice hit at the crowd in a manner they could not pass over. They might not like the idea of being tricked, but who would dare to say so in public when word of the reason for their being invited came out. Alice knew human nature, knew the kind of people who might object would also be the kind to see how their social standing would be enhanced by having it known that they helped trap two men who preyed on innocent girls.
Looking across the room Alice met Humboldt’s eyes and she would never forget the look of gratitude in them. At the same moment she remembered Iris still remained upstairs, bound with her own stockings and gagged.
“Who are you?” asked one of the guests.
“We operatives aren’t allowed to disclose our true identity.”
“Pinkertons!” whispered a man, reaching the conclusion Alice hoped he would.
That evening a small group gathered in Humboldt’s study. Mark, Humboldt, the two lady gamblers and Abbott sat around discussing the happenings of the day. In more ways than one Humboldt had cause to be grateful for the arrival of Poker Alice and Madam Moustache. Not the least reason was the way Alice talked with his daughter and finally persuaded Iris everything happened for the best. The girl would be sent east to forget and time would heal the ache she felt.
“Stout talked plenty, when he come around,” Abbott remarked. “Seem like him and the Parson run this game five times already. Always use the same address in Hartford, there’s a feller at it answers the letters for them, when the father wrote to check on Stout. The Parson slipped something in Pooley’s coffee last night, nothing serious, just enough to keep him off his feet until after the ceremony.”
“But why did they do that?” Humboldt asked.
“Look at it this way. Your gal gets married by a real preacher, that’s legal and only a divorce in the courts can bust it. Which attracts attention to what’s happened, might bring the law in. So they figure that after Stout dumps the gal they let her father know the wedding was a fake. So he now has an unmarried daughter and most likely’ll let it go rather than admit that he’s been made a fool of. In time, when it’s all blown over, or maybe because he’s moved to another place where he’s not known, he can get the gal married again and not risk divorce, or bigamy. It’s happened each time they played it.”
“Who killed Ginger Lil?” Eleonore asked.
“Stout lays it on the Parson and I believe him,” Abbott replied. “She’d traced the Parson here and wanted half of the take. Stout reckons the Parson got him to one side last night and told him that he’d closed Lil’s mouth for good.”
Soon after the meeting broke up, with Humboldt showering his thanks on all concerned for their help. In a few weeks’ time he would most likely have forgotten that they helped and be sure that his own astute nature brought about the successful conclusion of the affair.
Mark walked with Alice and Eleonore in the garden shortly after dark. He slipped an arm around each girl’s waist and they stood by the gate looking towards the lights of the town.
“You did the right thing, Alice,” he said. “Telling the story the way you did, clearing Humboldt.” • “They could call you ‘Lady’ Alice all the time,” Eleonore agreed. “I am proud to know you, Alice.”
“And I’m proud to know you, Eleonore,
” Alice smiled. “But don’t you ever try to take my table from me again.”
“Your table!” Eleonore squealed. “Why you—”
Holding them apart Mark laughed, then they laughed. He leaned forward and brought their heads together, whispering something in their ears. Two startled faces looked at him.
“Both of us?” Alice gasped.
“What a man!” sighed Eleonore.
All in all Mark was not sorry to ride back towards the OD Connected at dawn. He left Alice and Eleonore preparing to travel from Holbrock and hoped he might run across one or both again in the future. Right now he was headed home and did not care—it sure took it out of a man to tell his life story to two gals, especially two gals like Poker Alice and Madam Moustache, in one night.
About the Author
J.T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson’s works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized “West That Never Was”, at a pace that rarely slackens.
THE FLOATING OUTFIT 19: THE WILDCATS
By J. T. Edson
First published by Brown Watson in 1965
Copyright © 1965, 2018 by J. T. Edson
First Smashwords Edition: January 2018
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
If you enjoyed the westerns of J. T. EDSON, you may also enjoy the westerns of
BEN BRIDGES and MIKE STOTTER:
BEN BRIDGES:
APACHERIA SERIES:
Apacheria
Lockwood’s Law
ASH COLTER SERIES:
Gunsmoke Legend
Ride the High Lines
Storm in the Saddle
COMPANY C SERIES:
Hit ’em Hard!
To the Death!
HELLER SERIES
Heller
Heller in the Rockies
JIM ALLISON SERIES:
Rattler Creek
Blood Canyon
Thunder Gorge
JUDGE AND DURY SERIES:
Hang ‘em All
Riding for Justice
Law of the Gun
Trial by Fire
Barbed Wire Noose
Judgment Day
MOVIE TIE-INS:
Day of the Gun
Bill Tilghman and the Outlaws
O’BRIEN SERIES:
The Silver Trail
Hard as Nails
Mexico Breakout
Hangman’s Noose
The Deadly Dollars
Squaw Man
North of the Border
Shoot to Kill
Hell for Leather
Marked for Death
Gunsmoke is Gray
Cold Steel
Mean as Hell
Draw Down the Lightning
Flame and Thunder
THREE GUNS WEST (Writing with Steve Hayes):
Three Rode Together
Three Ride Again
Hang Shadow Horse!
WESTERN LEGENDS (Writing with Steve Hayes):
The Oklahombres
The Plainsman
THE WILDE BOYS SERIES:
The Wilde Boys
Wilde Fire
Wilde’s Law
Aces Wilde
STAND-ALONE WESTERNS:
Ride for the Rio!
Back With a Vengeance
Blaze of Glory
Tanner’s Guns
Coffin Creek
The Spurlock Gun
All Guns Blazing
Cannon for Hire
Montana Gunsmoke
Starpacker
Cougar Valley
SHORT STORIES:
Five Shots Left
MIKE STOTTER
McKINNEY WESTERNS:
McKinney’s Revenge
McKinney’s Law
BRANDON AND SLATE SERIES:
Tombstone Showdown
Tucson Justice
STAND ALONE WESTERNS:
Death in the Canyon
SHORT STORIES:
Six Trails West
The Floating Outfit Series by J. T. Edson
The Ysabel Kid
.44 Caliber Man
A Horse Called Mogollon
Goodnight’s Dream
From Hide and Horn
Set Texas Back on Her Feet
The Hide and Tallow Men
The Hooded Riders
Quiet Town
Trail Boss
Wagons to Backsight
Troubled Range
Sidewinder
Rangeland Hercules
McGraw’s Inheritance
The Half-Breed
White Indians
Texas Kidnappers
The Wildcats
... And more to come every month!
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