Stringer and the Border War

by Lou Cameron

  Stringer did, then he trudged his gladstone to the one saloon open in town between exciting occasions, humming “La Cucaracha” under his breath. The old-timer was likely right. But if they didn’t kill him, Villa would rise again, and again, until the big shots learned to treat his people better.

  In the saloon he ordered a tall cold beer and didn’t blame the suspicious barkeep for asking him to pay in advance. He could see in the mirror behind the bar that he looked like a hobo who’d just been thrown off the train when it stopped to jerk water. He needed time to think as much as he needed the beer, as good as it tasted after all that cactus juice. He knew that white his trip across the desert with Bobbie hardly qualified as a shipboard romance, they were getting to that awkward point where she was probably wondering, too, just why they’d said and done all those nice things with nothing much in common but the fact that one was concave where the other was convex and there’d been nobody else to talk to.

  They called winding up like that with a gal you worked with or roomed with at the same boarding house propinquity. He knew better than to throw a term like that at a gal who hadn’t really finished high school before she’d decided she was a nurse. He didn’t know what he was going to tell the poor little gal. Women got men to promise the damndest things in a bedroll, with the desert stars smiling down so infernally romantic.

  But he knew it wasn’t going to help if he showed up sloshed, so he downed the last of the beer, picked up his gladstone, and went back to the hotel to face the tears and recriminations like a man who had ‘em coming.

  But when he got there, the old lady behind the desk stopped him, waving an envelope with the hotel’s address printed on it, to tell him, “That young lady left this for you, sir. She said she had to catch a train and, land’s sake, I hardly recongnized her after a bath and a brush-up.”

  Stringer allowed he could use the same and carried Bobbie’s message up to their hired room to read it as he ran himself a hot tub. As he tore the envelope open he wondered where she’d been packing her own money. He’d explored her pretty good and one of the things he’d been most worried about had been how he might persuade her to take the money from the horse sale without insisting she hadn’t, damn it, been doing it for money.

  He had to wonder, wryly, who’d been most guilty of what when she even used the word propinquity and then added insult to injury by explaining it to him. He couldn’t have written a better brush-off himself, and he was glad he hadn’t been stuck with the chore, for her letter was just as awkward and larded with self justification. He balled it up and threw it in the wastebasket, then he had a long soak and gave himself a good clean shave. He caught himself looking sort of sad-eyed in the mirror as he wiped the last of the lather off, chuckled, and told his reflection, “Well, hell, I guess I got a right to feel a mite let down, now that I don’t have to feel like a dirty dog. How was I to know she was such a good sport as well as a great lay? So now I’m all squeaky clean with a double bed at my disposal, and the only gal I know in town has lit out for Ohio!”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  The timing mechanism in Stringer’s skull had been thrown out of gear by all that night riding, so he was having a breakfast of salt peanuts and beer in the club car as his train rolled the last weary miles into the L.A. yards. Up forward, the porters would still be trying to get the Pullman passengers awake and dressed for public view by the time they got to the end of the line. A familiar figure with world-weary eyes and a shoulder rig bulging under the suit he had on entered the club car, spotted Stringer seated at his corner table in the early morning light, and came over to join him without pausing at the bar.

  “Morning, MacKail,” he said, “If I had a drink every time I made her back to this end of the train I’d wind up drunk as a skunk on duty. You may not remember me, but…”

  “You’re Doug Fraser, our clans fought side by side at the Battle of Culloden Moor.” Stringer cut in, adding, “I was never allowed to forget things like that. The MacBeans were on our other flank, as my grandfather used to recall. He couldn’t have been there, either. You still riding shotgun for the S.P. Line, Doug?”

  The railroad dick sat down, saying, “I am. It’s gotten back to the usual moll molesters and baggage thieves since all that excitement over Columbus way. To what do we owe the honor of your riding our scenic line in duller times, Pard?”

  Stringer explained he’d been sent to Columbus to cover the entertaining battle and had gotten sidetracked. As he went on to bring Fraser up to date on his recent adventures, as he noticed the railroad dick was commencing to look uncomfortable as a hound dog shitting on the church steps. He paused to sip some beer. Then he asked why.

  Fraser stared out at the greaswood and telegraph poles whipping by as he muttered, “You got me in sort of a bind. Us rare highlanders are supposed to stick together. But you do still write for the newspaper, don’t you?”

  Stringer nodded dubiously and said, “I don’t think I’ve been fired for failing to file a story on what everyone there agrees they found a dusty disappointment. Are you hinting you’ve got news that ain’t fit to print, Doug?”

  The railroad dick said, “Not if I want to hold on to my own job. But I might be able to save you a ride out to Western Avenue all fired up, if you’d like to give your word that none of what I tell you ever happened, officially, that is.”

  Stringer raised a cautious eyebrow to say, “Stranding folk on the desert and then sending hired guns when that failed to finish them hardly rates a cover-up by honest men, Doug.”

  Fraser nodded and said, “I know. You’re adding two and two to get five or six. Your word this conversation never took place on company time, MacKail?”

  Stringer figured he could go along with that. So he nodded and Fraser leaned closer to tell him, “That French outfit, Pathe News, offered to sue the Southern Pacific flat broke for the way they wound up routed so odd on the S.P. tracks. So I was one of the boys Mister Huntington personally assigned to the case. A yard boss and some brakemen who don’t work for S.P. no more owned up to having been bribed by a certain rival motion picture outfit to make sure Pathe got there too late. Nothing was said about killing anybody. The Pathe crew was just supposed to get lost for a spell, see?”

  Stringer nodded soberly and said, “I was with ‘em. I got them to Columbus in time, even if the battle wasn’t all that thrilling on film in the end. But sending that hired gun after me hardly qualifies as a two reel comedy, Doug.”

  Fraser nodded and said, “I knew Jones by rep. I’m pleased as Punch to hear he’s out of business at last. His business was pure assassination, for big money. Way more than those railroaders ever got. Aside from which, no Hollywoodland wiseass had any motive for doing you in, once Pathe had made it all the way to Columbus, right?”

  Stringer muttered, “I liked it the other way better. Try her this way. I had words with your yard boss when his first move was an attempt to shunt that Pathe car to San Diego. I figured out how to get us off that deserted desert spur as well. Whether the film company who corrupted them knew that or not, they must have known I suspected they’d been corrupted, so…”

  “Wrong tree,” the railroad dick cut in, explaining, “One of the things that made Mister Huntington so mad was that those bums had sold out so cheap. That hired gun didn’t work for drinking money. Jones wouldn’t have even frowned at you for less than four figures, cash in advance. So whoever sent him after you was serious as hell about your demise. You’d know better than me who might want you shut up, about what.”

  Stringer thanked the railroad dick for his words of cheer and Fraser got back up to make sure nobody got off at the end of the line with the wrong baggage.

  As the train rolled past some shacks on the outskirts of the sprawling city, Stringer considered his own baggage under the table. He’d naturally packed his six-gun away with his shaving kit and such before boarding in Columbus. L.A. was getting too sissy these days, for a man to wander about dressed
up for Dodge. He wasn’t up to explaining he’d come west to be a motion picture cowboy star when, not if, some copper badge inquired as to his intent in the crowded Union Depot. In any case, it seemed hardly likely anyone would be laying for him as he changed trains. He had to be arriving unexpectedly, since he hadn’t known he’d be aboard this particular train, himself, before he’d boarded it clean over in New Mexico Territory.

  On the other hand, it was always better to be safe than sorry. He made room for his gladstone on the table, opened it, and took out only his .38, shutting the holster and gunbelt away again.

  He made sure the double-action hammer still rode on an empty chamber, leaving five in the wheel for real, and shoved the cold muzzle down the front of his jeans. With his denim jacket buttoned down the front he could likely pass for slightly pregnant.

  He must have, judging from some of the odd looks he got as he got off at the end of the line in his faded cow duds and beat-up Stetson. These days folk in L.A. were more used to wooly chaps and ten gallon hats, it seemed.

  Feeling slightly foolish, Stringer headed for the platforms where one caught the Frisco Coaster, packing his gladstone in his left hand and scanning the bustling crowd for signs of murderous intent. A railroad redcap fell in step beside him, offering to take charge of his bag. Stringer shook his head and said, “It’s not that heavy and I’m almost there.” By this time he was moving up the cement in line with the waiting coaster and only needed to find an infernal set of open steps to climb aboard the train. He saw the others were boarding a few cars up, where a pestiferous conductor was making them show their tickets before he’d let them pass.

  A couple of young gals were walking in step just ahead of him and the fool redcap, who tagged along behind him. Their skirts parted like the Red Sea as they moved on past a gent who was just standing there. As their eyes met, Stringer knew. And the son of a bitch already had his gun coming out from under his long travel duster!

  The redcap pushed Stringer into the narrow slot between two passenger coaches, but it was still close. A bullet spanged off metal as Stringer rolled under the coupled platforms without taking time to think. There wasn’t time to think, as all hell broke loose on the far side of the train. Stringer rose in the gloom between his train and the next one over, gun in hand, to see yet another redcap facing him down at the far end. The railroad worker’s hands were empty and he seemed to be waving Stringer his way. So Stringer went on, numbly wondering, as he got a mite closer, when they’d started hiring orientals instead of colored gents as baggage smashers.

  The mysterious redcap yelled, “Behind you!” Stringer whirled about, landing on one knee in the grit, just in time to peg an unaimed shot at the bastard aiming at him with a Colt Dragoon. Whether by luck or instinct, Stringer sat the would-be back-shooter on his ass with a dead-center hit just above the heart. Then he was up again and running after the redcap, who certainly had to have a better notion than he did where they were going.

  His mysterious guide slowed to a more sedate albeit still brisk walk as they moved through the crowded depot. They got a lot of odd looks until Stringer thought to stuff his smoking gun back in his pants. Behind them, police whistles were chirping but no more guns seemed to be going off right now. When they wound up on the walk out front, the redcap shoved Stringer into a horsedrawn cab, gladstone and all, and the cab lit out like it was on its way to a fire before Stringer had time to sit up and look around.

  When he could see where they were going, they seemed to be in Chinatown. The one in L.A. was small, so they only swung a few corners and then they were in an odd-smelling alley, where the driver told him curtly to get out, then left him standing there as he went cruising for another fare.

  Stringer stood there staring absently about until a tin door opened and yet another mysterious oriental hissed him inside. It was dark and someone had been burning sandal wood in hopes of disguising the smell of opium. It hadn’t worked. The guide he could barely make out led Stringer up a dark staircase. When Stringer asked where they were going, he got no answer, so he hauled out his gun again. A sliding door opened and he found himself alone with a mighty pretty Chinese lady in a more brightly-lit and handsomely furnished upstairs room, if one’s taste ran to blood-red drapes and gold wallpaper with all the low-slung furniture polished with India ink. The gal was dressed in red silk and she’d apparently combed her hair with India ink as well. She sat down on a low red cushioned divan and patted him to a seat by her side, saying, “You may call me Chin Chin if you like. The true name of my tong is of no more importance among friends.”

  Stringer stayed on his feet but lowered the muzzle of his .38 to a politer position as he smiled down at her uncertainly and said, “I sure don’t want to be your enemy. Your hatchet men are pretty good. But to what do I owe this honor, ma’am?”

  She stared soberly up at him with her warm sloe eyes as she told him, ‘To your own honor, of course. There was nothing to be gained and, as you now know, a lot for you to lose when you published that story about certain San Francisco real estate moguls wanting to move our people to the Hunter’s Point mudflats as a civic improvement. Why did you write that, Stuart MacKail? What had my people ever done for you that you should risk your own life for them?”

  He shrugged modestly and said, “Well, nobody in Chinatown ever did me harm, and it seemed just plain dirty to evict folk out to those mudflats just so greedy landlords could get even richer. I didn’t know I was risking my life. I wasn’t out to be a hero. I was only reporting the simple truth. That’s gotten me in trouble before. But it goes with the job, and I can take care of myself.”

  She shook her head firmly and said, “They have your boarding house on Rincon Hill staked out, too. Or they will have until dark. Our hatchet men, as you call them, prefer to work with less light on the subject. They did what they had to at the depot just now, because simple men like you are as hard to find as lavender jade, and more valuable. The evil man who wanted to have you killed has just died of a mysterious illness his doctors have no name for. But before we could get to him, he’d sent his running dogs out on your trail. It may take us a few days to make sure of every one. Meanwhile, you will be safe here with me, until all of your enemies have been eliminated.”

  He smiled crookedly and said, “I’m beginning to. They told me in Columbus that Jones enjoyed some chop suey in his jail cell just before he passed away so mysteriously. How big a tong might we be talking about, Miss Chin Chin?”

  She smiled softly and said, “Bigger than some think. I am not at liberty to confirm or deny suspicions about cowtown chop suey, save to assure you that you won’t be served any here. We’ve never understood why your people order it.”

  He laughed and said, “Ignorance of your ways, I reckon. I’ve learned to like real Cantonese cooking just fine and, come to study on it, I only had a few peanuts for breakfast.”

  She nodded and said, “In that case, allow me to order you a breakfast fit for an honored guest. My orders are to see to all your comforts and do my best to make sure your stay with me is all a man might desire.”

  Stringer put his gun away and she sure did. The food and drink he was served in bed for the next few days was as fine as any he’d ever had, although not half as spicy as Chin Chin herself was.

  THE END

  YOU CAN FIND ALL OF LOU CAMERON’S STRINGER SERIES AVAILABLE AS EBOOKS:

  STRINGER (#1)

  STRINGER ON DEAD MAN’S RANGE (#2)

  STRINGER ON THE ASSASSIN’S TRAIL (#3)

  STRINGER AND THE HANGMAN’S RODEO (#4)

  STRINGER AND THE WILD BUNCH (#5)

  STRINGER AND THE HANGING JUDGE (#6)

  STRINGER IN TOMBSTONE (#7)

  STRINGER AND THE DEADLY FLOOD (#8)

  STRINGER AND THE LOST TRIBE (#9)

  STRINGER AND THE OIL WELL INDIANS (#10)

  STRINGER AND THE BORDER WAR (#11)

  STRINGER ON THE MOJAVE (#12)

  STRINGER ON PIKES PEAK (#13)

&nb
sp; STRINGER AND THE HELL-BOUND HERD (#14)

  STRINGER IN A TEXAS SHOOT-OUT (#15)