by J. T. Edson
‘Was he as tall as me?’ Sangster suggested, stepping forward.
‘T—Taller,’ Meacher estimated. After turning his gaze from the small Texan to direct a glance from the New Englander to the Kid, he continued, ‘He wasn’t nowheres near as big as Cap’n Fog. Be about ’tween you and the deputy there.’
‘Was he fat, or thin?’ Sangster continued, having found the estimation of the heights very significant despite its inaccuracy and being able to appreciate what had caused the prisoner to make the mistake.
The supposition with regards to the reaction of the prisoner to Dusty’s size strengthened the New Englander’s belief that he was correct in the assessment of the small Texan’s character. Ever since he had become aware of Dusty’s full potential, he had wished that he could win a similar respect and exert such dominance over men from many walks of life. Being endowed with the ability to exude so great a strength of personality that it transcended mere physical appearance would be of the greatest assistance to him in the work upon which he was at present engaged.
‘Not thin,’ Meacher asserted after a moment’s thought, although he still had only the vaguest recollection, but he hoped to avoid the painful treatment he was expecting to receive if he failed to supply satisfactory answers. ‘I’d say he was hefty.’
‘None of which helps us much,’ Dusty remarked, concluding the prisoner could not say anything else which would be of use. ‘If he was one of the Little family looking for evens, he could’ve been wearing a disguise. This hombre wouldn’t’ve noticed it wasn’t a real beard and I don’t reckon the two yahoos who were with him would be a whole heap smarter. Put him back in the women’s cell for now and maybe he’ll come up with something else later.’
‘There might be a way you could find out whether the Little family’s involved,’ Sangster said, after Meacher was taken from the office by Barrel. His tone was deferential and indicated eagerness to help, ‘if you don’t mind a suggestion, that is.’
‘I’m always willing to listen to suggestions,’ Dusty claimed, then threw a mock derisive look at his deputies. ‘Depending on who-all makes them.’
‘I was always keen on amateur theatricals while I was at college and might be able to pull it off,’ the New Englander concluded, having explained his idea. ‘And I’ve got some clothes that would help down at the hotel.’
‘Go with Mr. Sangster and lend a hand, boy,’ the small Texan instructed. ‘And, while you’re at the Railroad House, happen he hasn’t already heard, you’d best tell Mark what’s happened.’
Five – Who Did the Hiring?
Crossing the slightly sloping roof of the lean-to where the hotel kept a couple of vehicles that were used for collecting customers’ baggage from the railroad depot, Belle Starr was pleased she had been able to obtain a room at the rear overlooking the roof. Dressed as she was, not only had she reached it from her window without difficulty but she could easily descend to the ground and she was confident she would be able to return by the same route when her business was concluded. While the changes made to her appearance might have allowed her to go out through the first floor without any of the other guests suspecting the deception, she had felt sure the same would not apply to Mark Counter and Waco if they were still in the lobby.
Meeting the youngster when she and the blond giant had come downstairs caused the lady outlaw to revise her plans. He had explained that he was waiting for Raymond Sangster, who had gone to his room to make the preparations required for a plan to discover whether a member of the Little family was responsible for the attempt to kill Dusty Fog. Asked for further information about the abortive ambush, Waco’s comments on the unsuitability of the trio for the task had included a scathing reference to the one dressed like Wild Bill Hickok. Remembering her thoughts when she had seen the man who, the prisoner claimed, had hired them watching and following them from Honesty John’s Tavern, she had decided to conduct an investigation in the hope of discovering, if not his identity, something to help track him down. Deciding not to mention certain suspicions she had drawn about the mysterious employer, she had excused herself from accompanying the Texans to the jailhouse on the grounds that the survivor might recognize her. Then she had returned to her quarters.
On her arrival in Mulrooney, Belle had only intended to relax in Mark’s company. Nevertheless, being aware that she led a most precarious life as a result of her various illicit activities, she had taken the precaution of packing clothing other than that suitable for wear by her alter ego in the trunk which was her only piece of baggage. Wanting to be less noticeable on the streets than would be possible as ‘Miss Marie Counter’, she had chosen from the masculine attire which was included. The selection consisted of a flat cap and a brown two-piece suit—with the jacket sufficiently baggy to conceal her more obvious feminine physical attributes and the Manhattan Navy revolver tucked into the waistband of her trousers—a white masculine shirt and dark blue necktie. To complete the ensemble, she retained the black riding boots concealed by the long skirt when wearing her feminine attire. Dressed in such a fashion, which offered a greater freedom of movement than her female raiment, she felt sure she could pass in the darkness as a male visitor from the East and would be unlikely to attract attention while going to her destination.
Reaching the ground without hearing anything to suggest her unorthodox way of leaving had been observed, the lady outlaw strode swiftly away. Continuing at a brisk walk, she was soon on the fringes of the middle class area and arrived at her destination. Standing in the center of a small garden, with glints of light showing from small gaps in the drawn drapes to suggest the occupants had not retired for the night, the house looked no better nor worse than its neighbors. However, opening the gate in the picket fence and walking along the path, she felt sure that—if anybody in Mulrooney could—the owner would be most likely to satisfy her curiosity about the attempted killing of Dusty Fog. Knocking on the front door, after a few seconds, she heard footsteps approaching.
‘Yes,’ called a masculine voice with a New York accent. ‘Who is it, please?’
‘Shalom, you-all!’ the lady outlaw answered just loud enough to be heard. Without needing to see a small circle of light in the middle of the door, she knew she was being studied through a concealed peephole and, feeling sure the observer had not recognized her, gave verbal proof of her identity. ‘Can I come in, Edmund?’
‘Of course, my dear,’ the voice agreed, the words accompanied by the sound of bolts being drawn and a lock turned. However, on the door being opened, Belle was not surprised to discover the lantern used to examine her through the peephole was placed so it would reveal little of her appearance to anybody who might be watching. ‘Momma’s off playing whist with her lady friends and the boys aren’t here, so I’m all alone. Come in and welcome.’
Crossing the threshold, with the speaker quickly closing the door, the lady outlaw accompanied him to what looked like the combined sitting-room and office of a not too wealthy businessman. Nevertheless, unimpressive though it might be, she was aware that it served as the center from which the operations of a network of receivers and information brokers for the criminal element of the West were directed. There was not so much as a hint that it often held large amounts of stolen jewelry, money, and other kinds of easily portable loot, before they were concealed in a hiding place which the speaker took delight in challenging those few privileged illicit customers who came into personal contact with him to find. Although they—and Belle—were experts at locating such places, his secret had never been discovered.
A couple of inches shorter than the lady outlaw, Edmund Fagin was plump and jovial looking. The black skullcap, dark blue smoking jacket, collarless white shirt, yellowish brown Nankeen trousers and old carpet slippers he wore were no more expensive than the attire of his neighbors. In fact, like his surroundings, nothing suggested he carried on a long established family tradition by being the most successful fence in the West and very knowledgeable about criminal m
atters of all kinds. When anybody with literary leanings commented about his surname, he would laugh depreciatingly and reply, ‘My life, no. I’m not related in any way to the “Fagin” that Britisher, Mr. Dickens, wrote a book about.’ [16]
‘Well now, my dear,’ Fagin said, after having seated Belle in a comfortable chair and poured her a glass of Mogen David wine; something he only did for visitors who he held in high esteem. Aware that she knew his way of operating through intermediaries, unless the loot involved was especially valuable and as he had not heard of her acquiring such, he went on, ‘Have you something of particular interest to me?’
‘There are some quite good diamonds headed down your pipeline,’ the lady outlaw answered in an offhand tone. ‘But they’re not why I’ve come. You’ve heard what happened to Captain Fog?’
‘I have,’ the fence confirmed and, although Belle felt sure such was not the case, his tone apparently expressed no more than casual interest. ‘In fact, I’ve sent the boys to find out all they can. Do you know anything?’
‘Such as?’
‘Were the men who tried it somebody he knew?’
‘No. The one who came through it alive claims they were hired for the chore.’
‘Hired?’ Fagin repeated, showing puzzlement to somebody who knew him as well as did the lady outlaw. ‘Do you know them?’
‘We met briefly and just the once,’ Belle admitted. ‘Even though one said he was kin to Dave Short, I wasn’t impressed.’
‘Dave Short?’
‘That’s what he said, but he might only have been trying to impress Honesty John and me.’
‘Not if he’s who I think he might be, my dear. Word from Mr. Short’s been making the rounds that a young nephew of his and two friends are trying to set up as hired guns and nobody is to give them work on those lines, or he’ll be coming to ask why.’
‘He must be real keen to have them stopped getting their warnings.’
‘You could say that,’ Fagin answered dryly. ‘So keen he’s said he’ll be looking for anybody who either hires them, or even arranges for them to be taken on—and he won’t be looking peaceably.’
‘Then who did the hiring?’ Belle asked, knowing the man in question to possess sufficient of a reputation as a gun fighter to have his wishes on the matter respected by most people.
‘I haven’t heard even a hint that anybody wanted to kill Captain Fog,’ Fagin declared. ‘Much less was looking to hire it done.’
‘“Mean Mick Meach”, as he calls himself, was the one to come through it alive,’ the lady outlaw said, but failed to detect any trace of the name having struck a chord with the fence. ‘He allows it was one of those Missouri hill country Littles who’ve been raising fuss around Mulrooney.’
‘They’ve cause and we both know how their kind always go for evens,’ Fagin answered. ‘But, as far as I know, all of them who were hereabouts got gunned down the night they tried to break their brother out of the jailhouse. There wouldn’t have been time for word to get back to the Missouri hill country and some more to come.’
‘That’s how I see it,’ Belle conceded. ‘In fact, I’m sure the man I saw follow them, when Honesty John told them to leave his place, is who hired them and, unless I’m mistaken, he was wearing a wig and false beard. There wouldn’t be any reason for a disguise if he was one of the Little bunch, at least not at the Tavern.’
‘So why have you come to me?’ Fagin inquired.
‘You’ve already answered that,’ the lady outlaw replied. ‘If anybody would have heard should somebody have been trying to hire men to go after Dust—Captain Fog, it would be you.’
‘My life!’ the fence ejaculated. ‘You don’t think I would have been such a meshuge—so crazy—I’d even think of taking up such a proposition?’
‘Not for a moment,’ Belle asserted placatingly. ‘But you would have heard if anybody else was thinking of it. ’
‘I wish I could help you, my dear,’ the fence claimed and his sincerity was genuine. ‘If the ambush had come off—Well, I wouldn’t have wanted to even stay in Kansas the way Miss Woods and the rest of the OD Connected crowd, from Ole Devil Hardin to that boy, Waco and—’ the next words were accompanied by a genuine shudder indicative of greater alarm, ‘the Ysabel Kid in particular—would have started hunting for whoever did it. This whole State and the rest of the West would be too hot to live in until they’d found out and taken their revenge. As it is, except to those three young fools who tried to kill him, no harm’s been done. All right, so Short’s been making threats. I’d bet Captain Fog can deal with him once he’s heard about them.’
‘What Dave Short might try won’t make me lose any sleep, because I’m going warn Dusty.’ the lady outlaw asserted, meaning give the information to the small Texan as soon as possible and save Fagin doing so. ‘It’s whoever hired them worries me. He’s failed to have it done once, but he’s likely to try it again.’
‘Hey, Mean Mick Meach!’
Seated huddled against the rear wall of the jailhouse on the hard wooden bunk he had selected, holding his still throbbing injured shoulder with the other hand, Michael Meacher looked more like the frightened young man he was than the professional killer he and his two dead companions had aspired to become. What was more, such was his dispirited condition, his brain failed to register hearing his ‘tough sounding’ sobriquet.
Although Meacher had not been subjected to any of the brutality he had expected and feared, the interrogation to which he had been subjected by the peace officers combined with the disastrous results of the attempted ambush, had left him in a condition of self pity and alarm. Nor had he recovered from it while alone in the smaller room in which he had been incarcerated, until the arrival of a big woman wearing the badge of a deputy town marshal, escorting two disheveled and protesting saloon-girls, caused him to be transferred into the main block of cells. Shortly after being put there, he was given what, in different circumstances, he might have considered company. Waco and the Ysabel Kid had brought in a man whose demeanor implied he had drunk ‘not wisely but too well’ resulting in his arrest. Paying no attention to Meacher, he had flopped on to the other bunk and sung drunkenly while watching his gaolers return to the front of the building and close the connecting door.
‘Hey, Mean Mick Meach—’ the newcomer repeated, his harsh Western accent taking on a timbre of urgency.
Slowly Meacher began to appreciate a change had come over the man. Leaning forward on the bunk, all trace of drunkenness had left him. However, despite the urgency in his voice, he was a far from impressive sight. Of medium build, with a straggling mop of longish brown hair and a dirty face marred by a long scar on the left cheek, his attire was the kind often worn by poorer town-dwellers.
‘No offence, but I know you,’ the newcomer went on in a placatory and apparently admiring tone. ‘There’s only one Mean Mick Meach’ and it’s a real privilege to make your acquaintance. Did them bastard john-laws work you over?’
‘No,’ Meacher admitted and his voice rose as he continued. ‘But who’re y—?’
‘Talk softer,’ the newcomer hissed, nodding to the wooden wall between the cells to warn there were occupants on the other side. ‘They likely reckoned’s they’d be wasting their time to do it. Everybody know’s how, no matter what those two yahoos you had helping you might’ve done given they’d been caught ’stead of made wolf bait, Mean Mick Meacher’s too staunch to talk no matter what gets done to try and make him.’
‘And I was!’ Meacher declared, sitting up straighter under the influence of the flattery. As had happened during the meeting with the bearded man in Brownton, he was too delighted by the treatment—which formed a most pleasant change from the way the peace officers had behaved—to question where the newcomer had heard about him. Wondering why the other’s voice sounded vaguely familiar, he went on, ‘Anyways, I don’t recollect our trails having crossed. Who’re you and why’ve you come here?’
‘I didn’t come over and say,
“Howdy, you-all” in Honesty John’s after you’d taken down those two jaspers,’ the man replied, making the words sound like an apology. Rising and stepping forward, holding out his right hand, he did not supply the requested information. Even if he had, he would not have told the truth by admitting he was Raymond Sangster in disguise, putting into effect the plan he had outlined to Dusty Fog. ‘But it was nice a piece of work as I ever clapped eyes on and I’ve seen plenty. Hell, you didn’t need those other two yahoos to help. You could’ve tooken them out yourself.’
‘I could have,’ Meacher boasted, without offering to shake the offered hand. His spirits had risen to a pitch where he overlooked there having been no mention of the way he and his companions had been ordered to leave the Tavern by its owner in a very disrespectful manner considering his supposed importance. Starting to believe he really was “Mean Mick Meach” and had the qualities assigned to him, he adopted a tone of demand as he continued, ‘But I still haven’t heard your name!’
‘Herbie Smith,’ Sangster lied, impressed by the way in which the tactics suggested by Dusty Fog were achieving the desired effect. ‘I’m kin to Will Smith.’
‘Smith,’ Meacher snorted. ‘Don’t hand me that bullshit, mister. I know his name’s Will Little.’
‘Hot damn!’ the disguised New Englander ejaculated, slapping the rejected hand against his thigh. ‘I told Cousin Will’s how, no matter he’d fooled those other two, you’d seen through his summer name and knowed who he was.’
‘There’s not much gets by me,’ Meacher boasted. ‘Where’s he at?’
‘Up to Brownton,’ Sangster supplied, watching for any suggestion to indicate the young man knew he was lying.