The Fortune Hunters

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Right back, keep moving out!’ Dusty ordered, moving forward.

  Before his advance the toughs fell back, across the corridor until they hit the other wall.

  ‘You’ll not get out of here alive, cowboy!’ yelled a man from the safety of the crowd’s rear.

  ‘Then six of you’ll go with me,’ Dusty answered calmly. ‘Who’s first taker, gents?’

  Watching Dusty, Ballinger could not help but admire his quiet courage and dynamic personality. All too well the big detective knew he would have to cow and drive back that hard-case bunch with a gun in his hand. Yet Dusty did it.

  ‘Who’s up there?’ roared a robust Irish voice. ‘ ‘Tis the law asking.’

  ‘You boys had best head for the hills,’ Dusty said, gesturing with his gun. ‘There’s no way you can stop us now.’

  ‘He’s right!’ a man yelled. ‘It’s every man for himself!’

  Dropping his club, the man turned and dashed along the corridor towards the end window. Panic was always infectious. Clubs and knives rained down as the other men scattered in their mad haste to escape before the law fell on them.

  Heavy feet thumped on the stairs and a quartet of brawny policemen reached the third floor with their clubs in their hands. They came cautiously, for four would not be a large number to take on the gang Cohen kept around to protect his interests.

  ‘What the devil?’ asked the leading man, staring to where a couple of crooks struggled to crawl from the corridor window.

  ‘Let ‘em go, Reagan,’ Ballinger said, stepping from Cohen’s room. ‘We’ll gather them in later. Come in here, I’ve a present for you.’

  ‘Holy mother of God!’ the policeman gasped as he entered Cohen’s room. ‘Did yez do that to him, Lootenant?’

  ‘No, Cap’n Fog did. Let’s get help here. We’ve got Mr. Cohen where we want him and we’re going to take this joint apart. There’ll be a lot of folks buying trunks before we’ve done today.’

  The burly policeman stood and stared at Ballinger. Clearly he did not understand the old western term Ballinger used. Out west when a new and efficient lawman came to a town, a number of undesirable people who had been residents for some time could be seen buying trunks ready to pack their belongings and leave. So the term came to be used when undesirables had to leave town in a hurry, whether they bought trunks to do so or not.

  Apart from not understanding the term, the policeman eyed Dusty with frank disbelief. It did not seem likely such a small man could have felled Cohen single-handed.

  Dusty did not bother to try to convince the policeman, having enough on his hands explaining to a very frightened Francine that her troubles were over and, after he had her cleaned up and fed, he would take her to Texas far beyond the reach of Cohen and his kind.

  ‘Come on, honey,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you out of here.’

  ‘But what about Cohen’s men?’ she gasped. ‘They might be waiting on the street.’

  ‘Likely they’ll let us by.’

  Although Dusty spoke in a quiet, gentle tone, there was nothing gentle in his eyes. Remembering how Cohen’s men, who she thought to be so tough and brutal, had backed away before the small Texan’s menace, Frankie knew he spoke the truth.

  Four more policemen arrived and Ballinger told off two of them to go with Dusty to Henderson’s place.

  ‘There’s a hack stood outside. Go with Cap’n Fog in it. He’ll drop you off at your station house. Let him go on to the Stockman’s Hotel, and you tell your captain to load every paddy-wagon with every man he can spare and send them down here as quick as they can.’

  The two policemen thought they were being sent to guard the small cowhand and the girl, keep them safe through the danger area. It would have surprised them to know Ballinger was sending them along with Dusty so that he could protect them.

  On leaving the building, the two policemen exchanged glances as they saw the sullen-faced crowd across the street. Taking a firmer grip on their night-sticks, they started forward.

  ‘Keep close to us, mister,’ the bigger policeman said.

  Neither attached any significance to the way Dusty changed the scared girl from his left to his right arm, holding her arm firmly yet gently; nor in the way Dusty opened the front of his coat. All the policemen knew was that the crowd had not made a single move to stop them.

  ‘That’s him!’ a man, who had climbed down a drainpipe and crossed from Cohen’s told the people around him. ‘He may look small, but he’s got two sawed-off shotguns under his coat and he can get them out quicker than you can blink an eye. And don’t laugh. Bully Claggert’s headed for the railroad depot he’s so scared.’

  ‘Keep clear of them while they’ve got that cowboy with them!’ another man told those closest to him, having made good his escape from Cohen’s. ‘That’s Wild Bill Hickok, the famous western killer. He’s got two revolvers under his coat and the way he looked when he pulled them on us, he was just hoping for a chance to throw lead.’

  Dusty would not have been pleased to know who the man claimed him to be.

  ‘They’ve got Cohen,’ yet a third deserter from the house across the street informed his cronies. ‘I’m pulling out while I can.’

  Like flames leaping across dried grass, the words passed among the crowd. Fear of the consequences of Cohen’s arrest filled everybody with anything dishonest on their consciences—almost every member of the crowd in fact—and sent them scurrying to their homes to gather portable belongings and make hurried departures for other hide-outs.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m free and won’t never have to go back there again,’ Francine breathed as she sat in the coach with Dusty.

  They had dropped the policemen off and were now on their way to the Stockman’s Hotel.

  ‘How’d he get hold of you in the first place?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Pappy owed him some money. So he said I should get work to help pay it off. Cohen sent me out as a flower girl. It wasn’t until Pappy died last month that Cohen started to tell me to steal. He taught me to pick pockets and said I had to bring home something each day if I wanted to eat.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Y—yes— When I was hungry. I might have tried to run away, but one of the other girls tried. They caught her, some of Cohen’s men, and brought her back. Cohen made the rest of us watch what happened to her. I wake up at nights screaming when I dream about what they did to her. And I didn’t dare escape.’

  ‘It’s over now,’ Dusty told her quietly. ‘Cohen’s going to jail, and if I know the sort of folks he works with, they’ll tell the police everything when they get caught. Yourtroubles are over, Francine. Or will be when I get you to Texas.’

  oooOooo

  1. Told in Quiet Town by J. T. Edson.

  2. Told in The Peacemakers by J. T. Edson.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MISS SHANDLEY MEETS TWO TEXAS GENTLEMEN

  ‘WHERE at’d a feller find Joan Shandley, friend?’ the Ysabel Kid asked.

  Looking towards the speaker, the bartender of the Buffalo Hide Saloon made a mistake. Before coming to Newton the bartender had worked in a Dodge City saloon much patronised by the Earp brothers. Except when absent on business trips—the trips always coinciding with the arrival of some Texas trail crew headed by a man noted for his speed and skill with his guns—the Earps kept cowhands firmly in their place and the bartender tended to look down on them. He expected cowhands to speak deferentially to him.

  ‘Over there, playing poker,’ he grunted and started to turn away.

  ‘Which one’d she be?’ Waco inquired.

  Swinging, the bartender looked the two cowhands over, seeing two young men who, at first glance, seemed to be no different from a hundred or more who visited Newton every trail season.

  ‘Why?’ he growled.

  ‘She’s my mother,’ Waco answered.

  ‘Yeah,’ drawled the kid, ‘and I’m related to him on my father’s side.’

  Something in each young man�
�s appearance and attitude warned the bartender not to push things too far. Under the bar lay a twin barrelled ten gauge, its barrels cut short to spread the shot better when fired. Glancing at the two tall young Texans, the bartender decided they would be ten gauge meat—happen a man had the guts to reach down and lift it. Only the man had best be able to lift the shotgun in less than a second, or he would likely die trying.

  There was another point to remember. This was Newton, not Dodge City and he did not have the Earps to back him—always assuming the Earps would chance tangling with those two Texas boys.

  ‘No offence, gents,’ he said. ‘Only Joan don’t—’

  ‘Who said we wanted to?’ growled the Kid. ‘You likely wouldn’t believe us, but we done come to tell her she’s inherited a fortune.’

  The bartender felt undecided. Maybe that black-dressed heller with the Comanche-mean face had made a joke and expected laughter to applaud it. Or again perhaps he did not want a laugh. Either way, the wrong response could be equally fatal.

  ‘That’s her, the brown haired little gal in the blue dress, just dealing,’ the bartender said in a more civil voice. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘Two schooners of beer,’ Waco drawled. ‘And take something for yourself.’

  Deciding the two Texans were maybe nicer gents than he first imagined, the bartender collected the drinks. Then he leaned an elbow on the polished bar top and jerked a thumb in the direction of the table across the room where a poker game attracted a lot of interest and attention.

  The poker game attracted attention for two reasons: first, the players were saloongirls; second, they were not playing for money.

  Nobody could ever say Homer Trent failed to provide his customers with entertainment. He had needed an attraction to counter the crowd-drawing show at a rival establishment and, as the new town marshal of Newton allowed a certain freedom to such places which crossed his palm with silver, organised a poker game between five of his most willing and attractive girls.

  While the idea proved to be a success and pulled a good crowd into the Buffalo Hide. Trent could not honestly claim to have been the first to use it. He had heard of the owner of another saloon using the same method to counter the drawing power of a rival’s show.

  Anticipation ran through the crowd as the small, pretty, brown haired woman in the blue dress dealt the cards. Most of the jewellery had been bet and this deal ought to prove interesting.

  ‘I’ll open,’ Beegee Benson said, taking off her wide-brimmed, flower decorated hat.

  Joan Shandley and Beegee Benson might have been sisters, so alike were they in height and build. The only difference noticeable at a distance was that Beegee wore a flame red dress of daring cut and had piled up blonde hair. For the rest, they had good figures; pretty, but not ravingly beautiful faces; and neither would see thirty again.

  The betting went briskly, for the girls wanted to get the game over and resume their normal work. Only Beegee and Joan seemed to take it seriously, for they alone had insisted that whatever they won from each other would be kept as in a real game.

  At last only three players remained. Joan, Beegee and a young red head. Having been told by their boss how far they could go, Beegee and the red head called Joan’s bet while still wearing their brief underclothes, although they had bet jewellery, hats, dresses, slips, shoes and stockings; removing them and putting them on the table used for the pot.

  ‘I’ll see it, three fives,’ the red head stated.

  Joan smiled. ‘I knew I had you beat, Red,’ she said. ‘But I was scared that Beegee might fill her straight.’

  ‘And I did,’ Beegee whooped delightedly, turning over her cards. ‘Five to nine, climbing up. Read them and weep.’

  ‘Oh, I beat that too,’ Joan put in as Beegee’s hands went towards the pot. ‘Three threes and two kings, full house. Hard luck, darling, anyway you ran a good second.’

  For a moment Beegee sat eyeing Joan, a flush climbing up her cheeks. Joan tensed herself ready for an attack. It would not be the first time she and Beegee had tangled.

  Two things stopped Beegee from jumping Joan; they were not dressed for a brawl; and the boss had given them definite orders. Not that Homer Trent had any scruples or dainty feelings to cause his objection to the girls fighting. He remembered the time he brought together a pair of lady gamblers in a saloon he owned down Texas way. Trent had not needed two gamblers, but hoped to gain some publicity by a fight between them. He succeeded, partially, in his wish. The girls put on a fight, but unfortunately it spread to the crowd and before Trent could stop it, his place had been wrecked.*

  So Homer Trent fought shy of such lusty entertainment as arranging, or allowing, spontaneous brawls between his female employees.

  Draping a cloak around her, which gave her some slight coverage in excess of her underwear, Joan scooped up what money had been used in the game. The other girls knew their property would be returned in the back room and so did not raise any objections as Joan yelled that she would buy drinks for the house. Beegee was the exception to the rule. Due to her boasting before the game, Beegee and Joan had insisted they would play for keeps.

  ‘Get your drink, boys!’ Joan called. ‘And you, girls. Then I’ll go put on my new hat and frock and come back to let you see how it looks.’

  Picking up the red dress and Beegee’s hat, Joan nodded to the waiters, who carried the rest of the pot into the back room to be collected by its owners. Joan headed for the bar, receiving congratulations and compliments from all sides.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ a soft drawling voice said behind her.

  Turning, Joan looked at the two tall young Texas men who stood side by side and clear of the crowd. She studied their trail stained clothes and their weapons with some interest. A woman did not work in saloons all her grown life without she gained a knowledge of men. Joan reckoned she could read the signs pretty well. Two cowhands, young men, yet handy and capable. They did not appear to be drunk, nor had they the look of a pair of men who wanted female company.

  ‘Everybody was included when I shouted for the house, boys,’ she said. ‘So belly up and call your poison.’

  ‘We were hoping you’d join us at a table, happen you’re Miss Joan Shandley, ma’am,’ the Ysabel Kid replied.

  ‘My, aren’t you the choosey one?’ she smiled.

  ‘There’s an empty table across there, ma’am,’ Waco drawled. ‘We’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Away from the crowd,’ the Kid suggested.

  Once more Joan studied the lean, Indian-dark faced boy—or was he a boy? Her second look led her to believe that black dressed Texan was older than she had first imagined.

  ‘These boys wanting something, Joan?’ asked a bouncer, moving forward.

  Some instinct told Joan the two Texans meant her no harm; anyway she reckoned she could handle any cowhand in her own country. Another instinct warned her that it might go badly for the bouncer, despite his superior size and heft, if he tangled with that salty looking brace of Texans.

  ‘It’s all right, Benny,’ she said, then smiled at the Texans. ‘Come on, boys. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Waco smiled. ‘But you might.’

  ‘Might I?’

  ‘Sure, tna’am. Set, me ‘n’ Lon here, well we know what we’re going to tell you and you don’t.’

  Joan signalled to the nearest waiter and told him to bring a bottle of whisky and three glasses to her at a table. Then she led the Texans clear of the crowd and sat down with them. Already Trent had his show starting on the stage so as to hold on to the customers who came in to see the poker game.

  ‘Do you know why I’ve come with you?’ she asked, determined to get things straight from the start.

  ‘You’re curious,’ Waco suggested.

  ‘And you’re too smooth for your age,’ she answered, hoping to cut him down to size and show him that she was used to older, mature men. ‘I came to see if you
boys had a new line. Most of you, depending on how long you’ve been chasing the Swamp Lightning, want to know what a nice gal like me’s doing in a place like this and can you marry me and take me away from it all.’

  ‘Well, we did kind of figger on taking you away from this, all right,’ the Kid admitted.

  ‘And marry me?’ she smiled. ‘Both of you?’

  ‘Always did want to marry rich,’ Waco drawled. ‘But I reckon you’d be too smart to take me.’

  ‘Well, that needn’t worry you. I’m not rich. How about your friend?’

  ‘Me, ma’am?’ grinned the Kid. ‘I wouldn’t marry anybody who’d marry a mean ornery cuss like me. We’d still like to take you out of here and make you rich.’

  The smile left Joan’s face and it set in hard, warning lines. Yet she could not decide what to make of the two cowhands.

  ‘I don’t know where you boys heard about me, or what you heard,’ she said grimly. ‘But you heard wrong.’

  ‘You’re not Joan Shandley, ma’am?’ asked Waco.

  ‘Sure I am. But I don’t—’

  ‘I wouldn’t spit in their faces if their mouths were on fire,’ interrupted the Kid, ‘but I’ll say one thing, Pinkertons aren’t often wrong.’

  ‘How’d you like to be rich, ma’am?’ Waco went on.

  ‘I reckon I’d best get Benny over here.’

  ‘You got a grudge against him or something?’ drawled the Kid. ‘Or maybe you just don’t like the idea of being rich.’

  Joan had started to rise, meaning to yell for the bouncers and to hell with the consequences. Then she sat down again and looked at the two young men. If they were wanting to sleep with her for the night, they sure showed a strange way to go about it. Most men tried to act as if they were doing her a favour and that she ought to be paying them. Not that Joan made a habit of entertaining the customers that way, but a saloongirl often received offers.