by J. T. Edson
‘You for sure rode him, ma’am,’ Hendricks praised with almost juvenile enthusiasm, disappointed the jacket was concealing what he had been looking at, despite appreciating the reason for this being done. ‘How’s about you coming and riding the rough string at the B Bar D?’
‘Why I’m honored to be asked,’ Freddie replied. Then she continued without thinking, ‘But the OD Connected has first refusal on my services.’
‘OD Connected,’ Thornton said, sounding puzzled. ‘That’s Cap’n Dusty Fog’s outfit, isn’t it, ma’am?’
‘It is,’ Freddie confirmed.
‘We hear tell’s how him ’n’ the rest of Ole Devil’s floating outfit’re running the law here, ma’am,’ Hendricks asserted. ‘And doing a real fine job of it.’
‘He is,’ Freddie admitted. ‘And they are.’
‘You’d likely know Cap’n Dusty then, ma’am?’ Morris asked, sounding as if he considered the acquaintanceship was unavoidable; albeit in the nicest possible way.
‘I most certainly do,’ Freddie agreed. Then realizing what she had said to provoke the questions and the way in which she had answered the last one, she started blushing. To hide her confusion, she continued hurriedly, ‘I’d better put on my skirt and hat. I must look a mess.’
Despite wanting to make the most of the opportunity which he had been granted by attention having been diverted from him to get away from his tormentors, Ushermale had only withdrawn from the immediate vicinity of the livery stable. Still being convinced he should remember the beautiful young Englishwoman from somewhere, even if it was only as a face seen in a picture which for some reason stuck in the memory, he had watched the struggle with Blotchy from an alley a short distance away. Two men wearing the attire of town dwellers had arrived just as the struggle was ending and halted by his side. Ignoring them, he turned to continue his interrupted departure before his presence was discovered and the abuses by the three ‘Yankees’ were resumed.
‘Damn the luck, Tom!’ the taller of the pair growled, his accent that of a New Englander. ‘We’ve missed something’s I bet’d be worth seeing!’
‘Sure, Bill,’ agreed the second, whose origins were similar, also looking disappointed. Then he swung his gaze to Ushermale and asked, ‘Hey, mister, no offence’s meant for sounding nosy; but, by the way you’re dressed, I’d reckon you’re English?’
‘I am,’ the young man admitted warily, wondering if he was to be inflicted by further abuse and preparing to take flight as fast as his legs would carry him if it happened.
‘Maybe you know Miss Freddie then?’ Bill suggested.
‘No,’ Ushermale denied. ‘Why do you think I should?’
‘Word has it she’s a duchess, or some such, from over in England,’ Bill explained. ‘So, you being from over there and it being such a little place, I thought’s how your trails might have crossed.’
‘Well they haven’t,’ the Englishman affirmed shortly. ‘And, if you’ll excuse me, I have to be going.’
‘Mighty snooty son-of-a-bitch, wasn’t he?’ Tom commented, as Ushermale turned and hurried away.
‘They do reckon some Englishers are,’ Bill replied. ‘It’s only natural they can’t all be real nice and friendly folks like Miss Freddie is. Come on, let’s go on over and tell her’s she done real good.’
‘Freddie Woods!’ Ushermale muttered to himself as he walked away, remembering the full name of the beautiful Englishwoman which he had heard mentioned by one of the ‘Yankees’ when she had put in her appearance. Taken with the reference to her being a ‘duchess, or some such,’ it sparked off a remembrance and suggested why she had struck him as being familiar. ‘Freddie Woods my arse. It is her. She’s Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrove-Woodstole as sure as I’m born. Dingers will be so pleased when I tell him. What’s more, with the associates he—we have made, we’ll have no difficulty in arranging for her to be arrested and held until we can have her extradited to stand trial for murder!’
Chapter Three – It’s A Bomb!
‘Well, Babsy,’ Freddie Woods said, making a graceful pirouette like a mannequin displaying her wares. ‘How do I look?’
‘Like you always look,’ replied the young woman to whom the question was directed. Her voice was indicative of one who, by tradition, had been born within hearing distance of the ‘Bow bells’ in London. However, although she was employed as the beautiful young Englishwoman’s maid, her tone was sincere and not sycophantic. ‘Ever so good.’
‘I wouldn’t say always,’ Freddie corrected with a smile. ‘I seem to recollect that when Buffalo Kate and I were—er, discussing, shall we call it—our slight contretemps, we both finished up somewhat disheveled to say the least.’
‘I wouldn’t know nothing about that,’ Barbara “Babsy” Smith asserted, also grinning as she thought of the hectic fist and hair pulling fight between the entire female staffs of the Fair Lady and Buffalo Saloons which brought to an end the feud between them and, strange as it might have struck some people, created a friendly atmosphere in its wake. 14 ‘“Ginge” and me was pretty busy ourselves and we ended up more than just a bit disheveled. In fact, when we woke up, we was both in the bleeding nuddy.’
‘I hope this business with the British Railroad Commission works out well,’ Freddie remarked, putting aside her thoughts of how the battle had ended and turning to the subject which had caused her to select the clothes she was now wearing.
‘How can it miss?’ Babsy stated rather than asked. ‘With you behind it, ma’am.’
‘Really, Babsy!’ Freddie replied, without much hope of the protest registering. ‘You give me credit for far too much. It wasn’t me who thought up the idea of running a spur-line from Mulrooney to Canada.’
‘Perhaps not, ma’am,’ the maid replied, but without giving the words any noticeable conviction. ‘But it was you who put it into the heads of them’s did.’
Having replaced the garments removed before dealing with the ill-favored paint horse, although she would not have admitted it aloud, the victor of the struggle had decided she had no desire for further riding that day. Telling the three cowhands to call in at the Fair Lady Saloon and have one of her ‘barmaids’—as she called the women who served behind the counter—to set them up a couple of drinks on her after they had attended to Blotchy’s needs, she had walked away acknowledging the praise from the spectators.
Returning to the spacious and luxurious living accommodation she maintained for herself on what she insisted upon referring to as the ‘first’ floor of the saloon, 15 Freddie had had a hot bath prepared. Revived somewhat, although her rump still gave protests against the treatment to which it had been subjected, she had rested until the time came for her to make ready to attend an important function in her capacity as mayor of Mulrooney.
Although completely indifferent over whether she conveyed the ‘right’ impression or not, but knowing it would be expected of her and by the young woman to whom she was talking more than anybody else, Freddie had selected a stylish dove-gray ‘walking out’ dress. Its bodice was cut close to and enhanced the lines of her torso, while the straight sleeves were opened from under the elbow to the wrist and revealed the puffed ‘lawn sleeves’ of a matching silk chemisette. Funnel shaped, with little fullness at her curvaceous hips, the skirt had a very wide base and concealed the dainty high heeled bootees which had replaced her riding footwear. Both it and the sleeves were decorated with ribbon bands. The ensemble was completed by a light blue ‘Stuart cap’ which was headdress and cape in one.
In her own way, Babsy presented just as attractive a feminine figure as her employer. Barely over five feet in height, roughly the same age as Freddie, she had tightly curled blonde hair taken in a pile on top of her head. Her face was pretty, with an expression indicative of a vivacious nature and a love of life. Although she put on different and much more revealing clothes for when working downstairs in the barroom, being an accomplished and well liked entertainer in her own right, she had on the frilly
white lace rosette-like headdress, tight sleeved black dress and white apron which was the traditional costume for a maid. The attire fitted so snugly, it did nothing to hide the rich curves of her firmly fleshed close to buxom figure.
Possessing a most spirited nature, the little blonde had insisted upon accompanying Freddie into what amounted to an indefinite banishment from England!
Babsy was absolutely loyal to the black haired beauty and knew more about her past life than did anybody else in the United States, including Shaun Ushermale and the man to whom he had referred, but who had not yet arrived in Mulrooney. What was more, she carried the devotion to an extent which no ‘liberal’ of a later generation would have accepted was possible for a ‘downtrodden and abused wage-slave for the aristocracy’ to feel towards a ‘bullying and snob-conscious upper class’ employer.
For instance, ever since commencing their—what had amounted to—flight from England, Freddie had tried to persuade Babsy to address her in a less formal fashion than was expected by others if not herself. Although the little blonde had refrained from saying, ‘Your Ladyship,’ except on rare occasions of great stress, she absolutely refused to employ the more democratic, ‘Freddie’ without adding the polite prefix, ‘Miss.’
‘You was, “me lady”, or “ma’am” back in Blighty,’ Babsy had declared more than once when reproved for such an insistence upon formality. ‘And I don’t see how it’s no different now we’re living among a lot of bleeding foreigners!’
However, there were times—such as at that moment—when Freddie considered her companion-cum-servant had far too much faith in her ability!
‘It’s a scheme which could prove beneficial for Mulrooney, the United States and Canada, regardless of who might have thought it up,’ the black haired beauty stated. ‘But not everybody might consider it that way.’
‘Who wouldn’t, Miss Freddie?’ the little blonde queried, sounding aghast that anybody would disagree with the point of view of her employer.
‘There are those who don’t want any closer links between the British Empire and the United States. Which is how they’ll see the spur-line.’
‘They must be bleeding barmy!’
‘Their kind are, in more ways than one. The trouble is, they have enough money to hire things done which they couldn’t have the ability or courage to do themselves.’
‘I wish Cap’n Dusty hadn’t had to go to Hays City with Frank Derringer,’ Babsy said. ‘Couldn’t the marshal there have just put that bleeder on a train and sent him here without them having to go and say it was him’s killed that poor blonde at Mrs. Gouch’s and how we want him back to have him hung for it?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Freddie replied. ‘Anyway, don’t you think the rest of the marshal’s office are capable of looking after things?’
‘They’re all right, ma’am, considering they’re not English,’ the blonde admitted, without hesitation and giving what for her was unstinted praise. A suggestion of something more than just ordinary pleasure came to her ever expressive features as she continued, ‘Especially Waco.’
‘Is that because he’s got more hairs on his chest than you have?’ Freddie queried with a smile.
‘Cor!’ Babsy ejaculated, aware of what was meant by the question and showing no signs of being abashed. ‘Things don’t half get around here. You can’t hardly sneeze without everybody knows. Anyway, ma’am, good as Waco, Mark and the Kid are, I still wish Cap’n Dusty was back.’
‘So do I,’ Freddie admitted, but did not continue by saying that her reasons were not entirely due to concern over the current situation in the town. ‘Unfortunately, he isn’t; so we’ll just have to muddle along without him. And, from the look of the time, I’d better go and start muddling.’
‘Can I come too, please, ma’am?’ Babsy requested.
‘Of course you can,’ Freddie assented. ‘I’m sure the Commission would be delighted to meet you.’
‘Not bleeding likely!’ the little blonde declared. ‘I know my place and it’s not hob-nobbing with quality like there’ll be coming off that train.’
‘How do you like it, Miss Freddie?’ inquired the town dweller called “Bill” who had inadvertently given Shaun Ushermale the clue required to solve the mystery of the beautiful young Englishwoman’s true identity. Like her, he was dressed more formally than while at the corral outside the Winstanley Livery Stable. Waving a hand towards where a ten piece brass band in the obviously well prepared uniform of the Mulrooney Fire Department were finishing the tune they had been playing as the west-bound train pulled into the railroad depot, he continued in a voice clearly hoping for an answer in the affirmative, ‘Did they get it right?’
‘They certainly did,’ Freddie Woods declared. ‘I’ve never heard “Rule Britannia” played better. And I’m sure the British Railroad Commission will think the same.’ Completing the comment, the beautiful young Englishwoman turned her gaze to the well dressed and prosperous looking men who were disembarking from a private car coupled to the rear of the train. Ten in number, they were a mixture of sizes, builds and ages. She knew four to be American. The largest and bulkiest, still hard fleshed despite leading a far more sedentary life than when he had been making himself a millionaire several times over by constructing railroads and other engineering projects, was Harland Todhunter. It was he who led the others to where Freddie was approaching followed by Bill and several more prominent citizens of Mulrooney.
Aware that some of the Commission had been sent from England to represent the British Government and to decide whether to give financial support for the spur-line already being built northwards from the town, the black haired beauty searched for any who might have known her prior to her enforced departure. Although she failed to recognize any, three in particular caught her eye. It was to them that Todhunter introduced her first. However, the presentations were clearly made in what he considered as order of merit rather than by social precedence.
‘Miss Woods, allow me to present Sir John Uglow Ramage.’
‘My pleasure, ma’am. Pray pardon my rig, but I didn’t expect to meet so beautiful a lady.’
‘Why thank you, Sir John. I’m delighted to meet you.’
Carrying the fawn colored Homburg hat he had removed, Ramage was tallest of the three and looked to be in his late thirties at least. Having adopted sensible attire for travelling, he had on a matching yoked shooting jacket and breeches, dark gray knitted stockings and sturdy untanned ankle boots. He was tanned, clean shaven, with black hair, handsome aquiline features, a good build and a carriage indicative of excellent physical health. Everything about him hinted he was a man capable of getting things done and yet he also exuded a suggestion of possessing a lively sense of humor.
‘Lord James Roxton!’ Todhunter continued.
‘Delighted, my lord.’
‘Honored, ma’am and, as Sir John said, please pardon my informal attire.’
Lacking perhaps an inch of Ramage’s height and some ten years younger, with a clipped mode of speech, Roxton was lean in a wiry fashion. He had taken off a gray Homburg even more rakish looking than that of the other aristocrat to show rusty-red hair and was dressed in much the same way. Flower-pot red from much exposure to sun and wind, rather than having taken a tan, his face was good looking with a crisp moustache and small—somehow aggressive seeming—sharp pointed tuft of whiskers on his projecting chin to emphasize its hawk-like lines. His poise and demeanor was that of one who enjoyed an active existence and had lived hard in his time.
‘Sir Michael Dinglepied.’
‘Sir Michael,’ Freddie assented, having detected a less cordial note in Todhunter’s New England voice.
Compared with his predecessors, the second baronet was far from being a particularly distinguished or impressive figure. About five foot seven in height, in his mid-fifties, he was so thin his somber black three-piece suit and grubby white shirt hung limply about his frame and, while it was more formal than the attire of the other two,
it appeared slovenly by choice rather than as a result of being worn on a long journey. Although surmounted by a veritable mane of grubby grayish-white hair, his face had little more flesh on it than a skull and bore an expression of what he believed was supercilious superiority, but left the impression that he was continually smelling something bad. All in all, he presented an appearance ideally suited to being used in the caricatures which frequently featured on the pages of those British newspapers opposed to his politic ideals.
‘Madam,’ Dinglepied said shortly, removing his black Derby hat with obvious reluctance and hesitating before holding out his bony right hand.
‘Miss,’ Freddie corrected, having waited until the baronet made the first gesture. She restrained her impulse to go on, ‘I’m not a madam, I’m one of the girls.’ As she released the clammy and weak grip so different from the virile grasp given by its two predecessors, she noticed that she was being subjected to a searching scrutiny. However, she was not allowed time to give any consideration to this. Instead, the presentation was carried out for the other members of the Commission—all of whom were Canadians, she was informed—and the two American businessmen she had not met previously. Then she continued, ‘Shall we go to the Railroad House Hotel, where accommodation has been arranged for you?’
‘That’ll be satisfactory,’ Todhunter confirmed, after having glanced at Ramage for concurrence. ‘And I trust you’ll entertain us at your place later this evening.’
‘I was hoping you would ask,’ Freddie smiled. ‘In fact, I would have been most put out if you hadn't.’
Even while speaking, being satisfied that the Canadians could not know anything about her past, the beautiful Englishwoman was thinking of the three men from Great Britain to whom she had been introduced!
Freddie was aware that the first of them was the only member of the Ramage family in living memory to have selected the diplomatic service instead of taking a commission in the Royal Navy; due to his suffering from such chronic seasickness he had accepted it would prevent him performing his duties as a naval officer satisfactorily. 16