by J. T. Edson
“My thanks, sir,” the Crown Prince had said instinctively while taking the envelope. Breaking the seal, he extracted and read the contents. Having done so, he passed the sheet of paper to Liebenfrau and went on, “I see that I’m to put myself in your hands, Mr. Counter.”
“We’ve been told to keep you-all alive, sir,” Mark answered, having drawn conclusions of a complimentary nature from his equally careful scrutiny of the royal visitor and hoping they would prove to be correct. “So the Governor figured letting us handle things our way would give us the best chance of doing it.”
“Us?” the Crown Prince queried, looking pointedly around the beach and at the apparently deserted woodland beyond it.
“Like I said just now, I’ve a couple of amigos on hand,” the blond giant drawled. “You’ll meet them on the Coast Road back of the trees.”
“Very well. I’m in your hands,” Rudolph said cheerfully. “And now allow me to present you to my party. This is my Personal Attendant, Colonel Liebenfrau.”
“Colonel,” Mark responded formally, studying the iron hard face and deciding that there stood a man to be reckoned with, as he and the Personal Attendant shook hands.
“My aide-de-camp, Major the Baron von Goeringwald,” Rudolph went on.
“Baron,” Mark greeted.
“Mr. Counter,” the Baron acknowledged, stiffening to a brace and clicking his heels in the Teutonic fashion without offering his hand.
“And Captain von Farlenheim,” Rudolph concluded, omitting the slender blond’s title of “First Taster” as he did not wish to waste time explaining its meaning. “Whose uncle I believe you know?”
The blond giant had acted in the accepted formal manner while responding to the first two introductions, even to the extent of employing von Goeringwald’s title, “Baron” as it took precedence over his military rank under the circumstances. However, despite his obvious knowledge of etiquette, there was a brief and yet noticeable pause before he addressed the third member of the Crown Prince’s retinue. He had already recognized a certain family resemblance when watching the barge approaching, but it was not until they were face to face that he realized how very close was the likeness to another man with the same surname he had met recently at the residence of the uncle to whom the Crown Prince had referred.
“My apologies for staring, Captain,” Mark said, after a moment. “But I couldn’t help noticing how closely you feature Alex von Farlenheim. We met at your uncle’s place in Brownsville. Are you all brothers?”
“Cousins!” the “First Taster” snapped, his normally excellent English given a harsh Germanic timbre as he made the correction, and his bearing implied that he wished he could disclaim all relationship. “Not brothers.”
“Come now, Fritz,” Rudolph put in, employing their native language. “You can’t help the facial resemblance and everybody now knows it was Alex who was responsible.”
“Whatever Your Highness says!” von Farlenheim answered, also in Bosgravnian and with no obvious sign of unbending. Reverting to English, he addressed the blond giant, “I trust my aunt and uncle were in good health when you last saw them?”
“Why sure,” Mark confirmed, having no idea of what had passed between the royal visitor and the captain. “They send their respects and hope you’ll be able to visit with them before you go back home.”
“What is your official capacity, Mr. Counter?” Liebenfrau cut in, before von Farlenheim could reply, his accent more heavily Teutonic than that of the other three. “Are you in the United States’ Army?”
“No, Colonel,” Mark answered. “I served as a lieutenant under General Bushrod Sheldon during the war, but that was in the Confederate States’ Army.”
“Are you a law enforcement officer of some kind?” Liebenfrau suggested.
“Just a cowhand,” Mark drawled, without explaining that he had worn a peace officer’s badge on occasion.
“I’m not sure that I understand,” Liebenfrau declared. “Why have you been sent to act as our escort?”
“Seems like Governor Howard figured General Hardin’s men could guard His Highness better than either the Yankee Army or peace officers,” the blond giant replied. “He asked for us, anyways. And I’ve been sent along to make a start at doing it.”
“What arrangements have been made?” the colonel barked. “What force do you have at your disposal?”
“There are three of us—” Mark began, glancing at the approaching launch.
“Only three—?” von Goeringwald snorted indignantly, bringing the Texan’s attention to him, but the words died away as Liebenfrau directed a prohibitive glance at him.
“That’ll be enough, way we’re handling it,” Mark stated.
“And what way is that?” the Personal Attendant inquired.
“There’s a wagon waiting on the Coast Road, back of the trees there, to take whatever baggage you’ve got along with you,” Mark explained, wondering what had been out of the ordinary about the second boat. He had noticed something in his interrupted glance, but could not decide what it had been. “We’ve got some clothes that are a whole heap less conspicuous than your uniforms and you-all can change into them while we’re loading up.”
“Change?” Liebenfrau repeated. “Into what?”
“Cowhand clothes something like mine,” Mark answered.
“Cowhand clothes?” von Goeringwald snapped. “Do you mean that you expect His Highness to make his first public appearance in your country wearing the dress of a commoner?”
“Well now, seeing’s we don’t have them over here, I can’t say’s I’ve ever seen a ‘commoner,’” the blond giant drawled, although he knew what the term implied. “So I wouldn’t know how one would dress. I’ve got cowhand clothes in various sizes to help get you-all into the Blaby mansion without attracting too much attention.”
“It isn’t right, or fitting, that His Highness should enter the first town he visits in the United States in such a manner!” von Goeringwald protested. “He must make his entrance with all the ceremony befitting one of his rank.”
“Even if doing so could set him up to be killed?” Mark challenged.
“There is no danger of that,” the Baron declared, slapping his gauntlet-encased hand against the revolver which he carried on the right side of his weapon belt. “We of His Highness’s entourage can protect him, even if you are unable to do so.”
“Against a man with a rifle that can kill at close to a mile and who can shoot well enough to do it?” Mark said dryly, not bothering to comment upon the unsuitability of the Bosgravnians’ high riding holsters—each with its flap secured by a metal pin attached to the body of the rig—if a rapid extraction of the revolvers should become necessary. “Because there’s a hombre in Corpus Christie who has one, is good enough and has been paid to kill His Highness.”
“You know he’s there?” growled Liebenfrau, silencing the aide-de-camp with a glare. “Then why hasn’t something been done to apprehend him?”
“All we know for sure is that he’s around and that he’s been hired to do the killing,” Mark replied, in a more polite tone than he had employed when speaking to the Baron. “We don’t know exactly where he is, but that’s being worked on. Which’s why we’re playing things this way.”4
“Then, for all you know, he may not be in the town,” Liebenfrau pointed out. “He could even have followed you here.”
“He didn’t, we made sure of that,” Mark declared with complete confidence. “Only the Governor and us boys from the OD Connected know what’s doing. He’ll be hid away somewhere in town, waiting to cut loose when His Highness comes off the boat.”
“Then why do we have to change clothing?” von Goeringwald demanded.
“We won’t make it to Corpus Christie before he finds put he’s been tricked,” Mark explained, his voice hardening. “Which, unless he’s been found and hawg-tied first, means he’ll come looking for you-all, Your Highness. Not one of you’ll pass, even at a distance, as bei
ng from Texas in those uniforms.”
“We’re in your hands, Mr. Counter,” Rudolph put in firmly and a smile flickered on his handsome face. “So we will do as you wish. In fact, I for one will be most interested to see how Colonel Liebenfrau will look dressed as a—cowhand—wasn’t it you said?”
“That’s what folks down here in Texas mostly call us, unless it’s something worse,” Mark replied, appreciating how the Crown Prince’s words had made his task easier. “Which it most time is and’s usually deserv—”
“I hope that the lady’s presence won’t make too much difference to your arrangements,” Rudolph said, noticing that the blond giant was looking at the launch and guessing why he had stopped speaking. “She and her maid are accompanying us.”
“Not too much,” Mark admitted, realizing that he had caught a glimpse of the two women during his earlier interrupted glance at the boat, “They’ll have to ride in a chuck wagon, not a coach.”
“That won’t worry Freddie,” the Crown Prince declared.
“Freddie?” Mark repeated.
“Lady Winifred Besgrove-Woodstole,” Rudolph elaborated and noticed the blond giant stiffen momentarily. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Mark answered. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting a lady to be with you.”
While that was true, it had not caused the Texan’s reaction. He was wondering what Dusty Fog would make of the latest development.
Even as the thought was entering Mark’s head, his ranch’s segundo and good friend was for the second time in less than an hour facing a situation fraught with peril.
Chapter 3
I THOUGHT HE MEANT TO KILL YOU
HAVING DELIVERED THE PUSH THAT WAS PUTTING Dusty Fog’s life in jeopardy, Benjamin Digbry demonstrated one of the reasons why he had been appointed town marshal of Corpus Christie. For all his lack of more desirable qualities, he was a reasonably competent gun handler. Flashing swiftly across, his right hand disappeared briefly beneath the left flap of his jacket and emerged holding the Colt Model of 1871 House Pistol. Its three inches-long barrel and the four-shot cylinder in the form of a cloverleaf made it a compact and easily concealed weapon, factors which had done much to enhance his local reputation as being very fast on the draw.
Closing his right thumb and forefinger around the Remington Double Derringer’s “bird-head” butt, the man who was currently calling himself “George Luncher” began to pluck the twin superposed barrels from the U-shaped grip of the spring-operated wrist holster’s carrying rod. While doing so, he was relieved to notice that the peace officer was also drawing a weapon. He was aware of the limitations as well as the advantages of the way in which he was armed. Less than five inches in overall length and flat, the Double Derringer was an even better concealment device than the Colt House Pistol. However, the qualities which created this also gave it a very limited potential for accuracy at any but the shortest range.
Considering that he was beyond the distance at which the Remington was effective, “Luncher” felt that Digbry’s help was most desirable. The small Texan might not be the hired killer “Rapido Clint,” but that did nothing to render him harmless. From previous visits and during his present sojourn in the Lone Star State, “Luncher” had heard too much about the capabilities of Captain Dusty Fog—and his antagonist could be none other—to underestimate the extent of his peril. Before he could be sure of making a hit, he would need to move closer. Such a respite might give the other sufficient time to recover from the marshal’s push and defend himself.
Drawing back the Remington’s hammer to fully cocked, “Luncher” began to advance. He was so confident of having Digbry’s support that the full implications of what he was seeing did not strike him at first. Being aware of just how much authority his organization wielded in and around New York, he could not believe that a man he regarded as a dull witted country yokel would dare to double cross him. So it was with a sense of disbelief that he became aware of something alarming.
The peace officer’s weapon was not being turned in the direction of the small Texan.
Ever an opportunist, Digbry offset a lack of intelligence with an abundance of low cunning. He had appreciated the ramifications of the situation as soon as he had seen how “Luncher” reacted to finding him with Dusty Fog. When he was asked for details regarding “Rapido Clint’s” past activities and reputation, he had been informed of the Easterner’s desire to obtain the “hired killer’s” service. Rather than admit to a complete lack of prior knowledge, he had made up enough “facts” to convince “Luncher” not only that “Clint” would be worth hiring but that they were old acquaintances. So he had anticipated that his own dishonest activities might be exposed to the man he now knew was Dusty Fog.
With that factor foremost in his thoughts, the marshal had reached a hurried decision upon what type of action was in his best interests. Knowing the kind of people who were the small Texan’s kinsmen and friends precluded any thought of loyalty to “Luncher.” The last thing he wanted was for one member of the OD Connected’s floating outfit in particular investigating an incident in which Dusty Fog had been killed or even injured.
There was only one other alternative!
Shock twisted at the Easterner’s face as he watched Digbry’s Colt swinging into alignment on him. Flame and white smoke from the ignited black powder gushed awesomely from the muzzle. Reeling back a couple of steps as the .41 caliber bullet struck him in the left shoulder, he neither fell nor dropped his own weapon. Even as he was about to do the latter, hoping that the possibility of his surrender would make Digbry turn on the small Texan, he was too late to save his life.
Acting as any trained gun-fighter would under the circumstances, the marshal cocked the Colt and took a more careful aim. Turning loose another bullet, he sent it into “Luncher’s” head. Watching the Double Derringer flying from a lifeless hand as its owner pitched over backward, he knew that his secret was safe.
“Are you all right, Cap’n Fog?” Digbry asked, trying to sound solicitous, as he turned and went to where the small Texan was sprawling on the ground.
“What the hell happened?” Dusty demanded, rolling into a sitting position and looking from “Luncher’s” body to the approaching peace officer.
“I recognized him from what one of my informers told me,” Digbry answered, deciding there was more recrimination than gratitude in the small Texan’s tone. He had already thought up what he considered to be an acceptable excuse for his actions. “He’s a hired killer from New York. Here, let me help you up. I’m right sorry I had to push you so hard, but I knew you weren’t likely to know who and what he was. I got told he’d been brought in after somebody and thought it might be you.”
“Looks like you-all’ve saved my life in that case,” Dusty drawled, coming to his feet without offering to accept the assistance of the marshal’s outstretched hand. “I’ll not forget this. Gracias.”
There was a self-satisfied smirk on Digbry’s face as he returned the Colt to its holster and watched the man he had “saved” walking toward the body of his victim. He was delighted by the way in which the situation had turned out. Not only had he averted any betrayal by the Easterner of their illicit connections, the manner in which this was accomplished appeared to have earned him Dusty Fog’s approbation.
The marshal would not have felt so smug if he had realized that the small Texan was far from being fooled and anything except grateful. Having guessed at the motive behind the killing, Dusty also doubted whether he would be able to prove it had been a deliberate and premeditated murder. For all that, he was determined to find some way in which he could at least cause his “rescuer” to be removed from public office.
Turning aside his thoughts of dealing with the corrupt peace officer until a more opportune moment, Dusty knelt by “Luncher’s” body. He wanted to try and verify his supposition with regards to what had brought the Easterner to the vicinity of the Edgehurst Warehouse. Before leaving the Portsi
de Hotel in response to the message which he had suspected was leading him into Beguinage’s trap, he had taken the precaution of informing the desk-clerk of his destination.1 Although he had primarily meant for the information to be available in case any of Governor Howard’s staff came looking for him, it had been given to “Luncher.”
Which raised an interesting point!
Why had the go-between for the criminal organization and one faction of the Crown Prince’s enemies visited the hotel?
Having considered the point and reached a conclusion, Dusty started to search the body. His examination produced no clue as to the identity of “Luncher’s” employers, nor where he was staying in Corpus Christie, but it confirmed the small Texan’s theory of his reason for coming to the warehouse.
“Whooee, Cap’n Fog!” Digbry ejaculated, staring avariciously at the contents of the wallet taken by the small Texan from the inside pocket of the corpse’s jacket. “He’s toting a fair sized wad of money.”
“There’s four hundred dollars here, marshal,” Dusty answered, having counted and replaced the bills he had extracted. “It’s the rest of the advance payment I asked for as ‘Rapido Clint.’”
“Looks like he was going to—” the peace officer began, stopping as he realized that the comment he was in the process of making would expose too much of his association with “Luncher.” “How’d you reckon he got hold of it, Cap’n?”