by J. T. Edson
‘Nope, thanks,’ the small Texan refused. ‘I’ll be riding in the box to keep an eye on my horse.’
‘But surely your men could do that?’ the New Englander inquired, glancing at the three cowhands.
‘They’ve got their own to look out for,’ Dusty replied, just a trifle coldly, realizing the invitation had been meant for him alone.
‘Very well,’ Sangster assented. ‘I’ll go and board.’
‘You know something,’ Mark drawled, watching the New Englander walk away. ‘For all he saved you in that bushwhack, Dusty, I just can’t take to that fell—!’
‘What the hell,’ Waco snapped, breaking in upon the blond giant’s comment with a savage ejaculation and his right hand dipped towards the staghorn grip of his off side Army Colt.
Ten – Dave Short Wants You
Looking around, the two Englishwomen and the rest of the Texans had no trouble discovering the reason for Waco’s words and action. Michael Meacher was approaching through the crowd of onlookers, all of whom were showing signs of disappointment that the loading of the horses had failed to produce any dramatic display. At the sight of the staghorn handled revolver, which came into the blond youngster’s right hand with a speed indicating much practice and suggesting a similar ability at shooting accurately, most of the spectators, even those who had not heard of his competence in such matters, hurriedly scattered. However, the cause of the reaction skidded to a halt and, accepting the pain caused to his injured shoulder, jerked his hands into the air.
It was obvious from the would-be hired killer’s appearance that, although he had not been subjected to any physical abuse, his sojourn in the jailhouse had left its mark. Beneath the stubble on his cheeks, his face was pale and haggard. Despite having been fed adequately during his confinement, he had lost weight and his clothes were hanging somewhat baggily. Although the rest of his attire was the same, he was wearing a shirt out of his warbag—recovered by the peace officers along with the property of his dead companions from the horses they had left at the rear end of the alley where they waited for their intended victim—to replace the one damaged when Doctor Brian Farnsworth gave first aid to his wounded shoulder. However, his gunbelt and its two Colt 1860 Army Model revolvers were conspicuous by their absence.
‘H—hold hard th—there!’ Meacher requested in a quavering voice.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Waco demanded, retaining the Army Colt’s barrel in a rock steady alignment and holding back the hammer with his thumb while keeping the trigger depressed by his forefinger.
T—To See Cap’n Fog,’ replied the survivor of the abortive ambush. ‘I—I’m not toting a g—gun!’
‘Come ahead,’ the small Texan commanded, feeling sure the assertion was correct.
‘What the devil is he doing here?’ Raymond Sangster demanded, striding back quickly and pointing at the newcomer. ‘Has he escaped from the jail?’
‘Hey!’ Meacher yelped before the question could be answered, staring at the New Englander. ‘You’re the one—!’
‘The one who what?’ Waco demanded, still without having lowered his revolver.
‘Who—!’ Meacher began, then paused for a few seconds before continuing, ‘Who—Who hoodwinked me that night in the jailhouse.’
‘That wasn’t difficult,’ Sangster sniffed disdainfully. ‘But why isn’t he still being held there?’
‘He’s been turned loose,’ Dusty Fog replied, the words being directed his way.
‘Turned loose?’ the New Englander repeated, sounding as if he could not believe his ears.
‘That’s right,’ the small Texan confirmed. ‘I’ve decided not to have him brought to trial.’
‘Why ever not?’ Sangster asked, looking at Meacher and finding he was being subjected to a scrutiny he assumed to be caused by awe over the memory of the successful deception he had achieved when they were together in the cell.
‘For one thing,’ the small Texan drawled, employing a reason he felt sure would be most acceptable to the New Englander. ‘If he was hauled in front of the judge, I’d have to stay on in town to be a witness—And that would mean I couldn’t come with you to the railhead until the trial was over.’
‘I can see that,’ Sangster conceded and gave a shrug. ‘Well, you know best. But why has he come here?
‘I was just going to ask,’ Dusty admitted, then glanced at the blond youngster. ‘Leather it!’
‘Yo!’ Waco replied, giving the traditional cavalry assent to an order. Relaxing his forefinger and allowing the hammer to sink on to the safety notch between the two uppermost percussion caps on the chamber under the control of his thumb, he twirled away the long barreled Army Colt almost as swiftly as it was drawn. A timbre of warning came into his voice as he raised his empty hand, ‘I can right easy get it out again, should it be needed.’
‘It won't be,’ Dusty asserted and gave his attention to the newcomer. ‘Well, what does bring you here?’
‘I—I—!’ Meacher began, swinging his gaze from Sangster with what appeared to be reluctance. ‘I wanted to thank you afore you left town for making ’em turn me loose, Cap’n Fog.’
‘How’d you know where to find me?’ the small Texan inquired, showing none of the surprise he felt at the expression of gratitude.
‘The new marshal told me,’ Meacher replied.
‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted. ‘And what’ve you got in mind to do now you’re free?’
‘Get me some work to raise enough money so’s I can head back home,’ Meacher answered and, once more, his gaze flickered on the New Englander.
‘There’s none for you on the railroad,’ Sangster stated bluntly.
‘I didn’t want none, mister,’ Meacher corrected. ‘It’d take me further away from home. I’m looking for something around town.’
‘I’ll see what I can do to help you get something,’ Freddie Fog promised and, having a strong sense of justice, she tried to decide which of her associates had the hardest and least salubrious jobs which could be handed out as punishment to the young man.
‘Thank you kindly, ma’am,’ Meacher replied, bringing his gaze back to the beautiful Englishwoman after it had gone to Sangster again. ‘I can use some help, I reckon. And a place to stay, only I don’t have no money to get one. ’
‘Sell your gunbelt and guns,’ Freddie suggested. ‘They helped get you into trouble and you aren’t likely to need them on your way home.’
‘Nope, I don’t reckon I am, ma’am,’ Meacher admitted. ‘Only folks around town might not want to let me have a place to stay on account of what I let myself get talked into trying to do.’
‘I’ll do what I can about getting you somewhere,’ Freddie declared, ignoring the suggestion of a less willing part in the attempted ambush than she suspected had been the case. ‘Go and wait for me at the Fair Lady Saloon. Tell the barmaid I said you’re to have some hot water for a shave and you can have a meal on the house.’
‘That’s real good of you, ma’am,’ Meacher asserted.
‘It’s nothing,’ Freddie said.
‘It’s time for the train to leave,’ Sangster announced, before anything more could be said. ‘We’ll have to be getting aboard.’
‘Why sure,’ Dusty agreed and took his wife in his arms. ‘I’ll see you as soon’s I can, honey.’
‘Of course, dear,’ the beautiful Englishwoman replied, and she gestured to a nearby post supporting the glinting wire of the telegraph line which ran parallel to the tracks as far as the railhead. ‘I’ll send you any news that comes in.’
‘Bueno,’ the small Texan said, then gave Freddie a kiss. ‘And I’ll do the same for you should there be anything worth telling.’
‘You’d better,’ the Englishwoman warned with a mock severity. Nodding to where her maid was being accorded similar treatment by Waco, she went on with a smile, ‘Babsy and I’ll come up on the work train for a weekend in a couple of weeks—If that will be all right with you, Raymond?’
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��Yes,’ Sangster answered, wishing Meacher would stop staring at him with an expression of what appeared to be disappointment and which he could not account for. ‘That will be all right.’
‘Bueno,’ Dusty drawled, being too absorbed in taking his departure to notice Meacher’s behavior. Nor, with the moment of leave-taking at hand, did any of his amigos. ‘Look after yourself, honey.’
‘And you, dear,’ Freddie requested, stepping away. ‘I hope it isn’t too long before you can come back.’
‘And me,’ the small Texan seconded, then he turned and followed his three companions up the ramp into the horse box.
Having withdrawn to an alley, Michael Meacher watched with mixed emotions as the train pulled out of the depot and the Englishwoman climbed into the buggy to drive away. Then, disappointed by one aspect of the departure, he turned and walked off.
That morning, on being told the reason he was to be released and would not stand trial by the new town marshal of Mulrooney, Meacher had been surprised but delighted. When Kail Beauregard had questioned him about his plans for the future, realizing they were subject to revision in the light of what was happening, he had thought quickly and given much the same explanation as he had just repeated to Freddie and Dusty Fog. Instructed to watch his behavior, he had learned the whereabouts of the small Texan by announcing his desire to apologies for being part of the ambush and to express his gratitude. Admitting this would be a good gesture, the marshal had supplied the information and stated he could return to collect his belongings after he had done so. Having no intention of attempting offensive action against the big Texan, in what he knew would prove a vain hope to avenge his dead companions, he had not felt in the least concerned because his gunbelt and revolvers were included in the property retained at the jailhouse.
Freddie had been partially correct in her assumptions about how Meacher would react to his captivity and the possibility of a much longer, far less easy going, incarceration in the State Penitentiary after his trial. However, she had not known he had been sustained by a belief that he might be able to get a reduction in his sentence. Commencing on the day he and his companions arrived in Mulrooney, while Ronald ‘Rocky’ Todd was contacting their employer and William Dougal ‘Bad Bill’ Hamilton wasted the last of their money gambling at a saloon, he had come into possession of some information he had felt sure he could trade with Dusty Fog to obtain leniency.
When Meacher had reached the railroad depot, there had been a most unexpected development which at first led him to wonder if he was going to be able to benefit from the information he had. Then, in the light of what he had seen and heard, he had with a speed which would have surprised his deceased companions, drawn a shrewd conclusion. His companions, like other people, had always tended to regard him as a dim witted hanger-on to their schemes. Deciding there could be more profit if he employed his knowledge in a different way, he had appreciated the need to remain in Mulrooney for an indefinite period before he could put his new plan into effect. While not enamored of the prospect of having to work for his living in the interim, he was grateful to the beautiful Englishwoman for her offer of assistance in finding accommodation and employment. He suspected that without either he would soon be considered a vagrant and ordered to leave by the marshal.
‘Hey,’ a harsh voiced growled with a Mid-West accent. ‘You’re Ronnie Todd’s sidekick, Meacher, ain’t you?’
Jolted from his reverie by the words, the survivor of the failed ambush found himself confronted by two men. Somewhat taller and more heavily built than himself, with low tied revolvers in better designed gunbelts than he had ever owned, they had on none too clean range clothes. However, the garments were of good quality and the grime was the result of long traveling in the open air rather than from having been worn while working cattle. Unshaven for a few days, their faces had a hardness and menace which he would have found disconcerting and frightening even if he had been armed. They were, in fact, the kind of tough looking hard-cases he and his companions had always sought to give the impression of being.
‘Th—That’s my name,’ Meacher admitted worriedly.
‘We heard tell’s how you was siding Todd in the bushwhack when he got killed by Dusty Fog,’ growled the taller of the pair. ‘Only you came through it just nicked by a bullet ’n’ was hauled off to the pokey.’
‘I was,’ Meacher confirmed.
‘So how come you’re roaming around loose?’ the man inquired suspiciously.
‘I got let out,’ Meacher answered, but was not allowed to continue.
‘How come?’ the shorter of the pair demanded.
‘Cap—Dusty Fog’s got him took on with the railroad as a hired gun, or some such, and didn’t want to have to stay around town for the trial,’ Meacher explained, wondering if he had fallen into the hands of a couple of bounty hunters who believed he had escaped from the jailhouse and thought they might procure a reward if he was returned. ‘So his missus, she’s mayor and—!’
‘We know who she is,’ the shorter man stated coldly. ‘And what.’
‘Well,’ Meacher said. ‘Being who she is and having so much pull around town, she passed the word for the new marshal to turn me loose ’n’ he did.’
‘Did, huh?’ the shorter man said in a tone of disbelief.
‘Yes,’ Meacher confirmed, looking around nervously and finding there was nobody else in sight. ‘I—I’ll c—come to the jailhouse with you so’s you can ask the marshal if I’m telling you the truth.’
‘You’re coming with us, all right,’ the taller man declared. ‘But not to see no god-damned tin-star marshal.’
‘Wh—Wh—Where’re we going?’ Meacher forced himself to ask, made more alarmed by the cold hostility with which he was being watched.
‘Dave Short wants you,’ the taller man explained.
‘D—Dave Short?’ Meacher repeated and, in his state of perturbation it took a moment for the implication of the name to sink in. ‘Isn’t he—Rock—Ronnie Todd’s uncle.’
‘That’s just who he be,’ the shorter man agreed with a mixture of contempt and menace in his attitude. ‘Which he’s wanting to know how come his favorite nephew got made wolf bait and you’re still alive.’
‘And I just hope you’ve got a damned good reason to give him,’ the taller went on, his demeanor similar to that of his companion. ‘Because, happen you haven’t, you’re going to wish you’d got made wolf bait ’long of the other two.
Eleven – This Isn’t Fun!
‘It’s not much further now,’ Raymond Sangster announced. He was sitting a horse taken from those kept available for such purposes at the work camp, and was accompanying Dusty Fog and, to his annoyance at their insistence upon being included in the party, the other three Texans. They were riding to where the construction of the spur-line was taking place. He did not give any expression of the relief he was experiencing, at the thought that the journey was nearly over, but it was implied by his tone. Being an indifferent rider at best, he would rather have made the journey on a hand-car; preferably with somebody to work the pump-like handles which supplied the motive power. ‘We should see it over the next rise.’
Having made the journey to the railhead without incident, albeit much faster than they could have traveled on horseback, the Texans had found something like a small town erected where the single track had points and a siding equipped to allow the engines to turn around. Further along, another siding had four converted passenger cars, to which the one used by the New Englander would be added. Two served as storehouses for the smaller and perishable items of equipment, or those which might easily be stolen. Like Sangster’s Pullman, the other pair were used as accommodation and offices for the men in charge of construction. To the south of the siding were numerous tents, or simple shanties made from wooden boards and tarpaulin roofs, supplying living quarters for the gandy dancers and others engaged in the manual labor of laying the rails. Between the two sidings, a couple of large pole corrals held a number o
f horses either for riding or use in harness. There were some sturdy freight wagons and lighter, basically passenger carrying, vehicles for transportation away from the track.
One contretemps, stemming from the lack of concern Sangster showed where anything to do with those he felt below his social status was concerned, had risen on arrival. Taken and shown where he would be quartered with the surveyors and other high grade employees in one of the converted passenger cars, Dusty had noticed that although there were half a dozen empty cubicles, there was no mention by the New Englander of Dusty’s three companions making use of any of them. When the matter was raised by the small Texan, the New Englander, making it obvious that the need to provide accommodation for them had not occurred to him, had given his grudging consent for them to be housed. Seeing the annoyance shown by Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid and, in particular, Waco—although it would not have been discernible to anyone who did not know them well—Dusty had suggested they put away their belongings, then give their horses some exercise by riding out to see what was being done further up the line. Sangster had suggested he accompanied them in a manner which implied he doubted whether they could find the area without his guidance. They had ridden in a northerly direction across the undulating open range parallel to the track already laid.
‘I thought I could hear something,’ Waco commented dryly, although he and, he felt sure, the other members of the floating outfit had been listening to various noises suggesting they were drawing close to their destination for some time. ‘Only I wasn’t real sure about it.’
‘Looks like you’re following an old buffalo trail,’ Dusty said, worried by the latest evidence that the blond youngster did not care for Sangster.
‘Why sure,’ the Kid concurred, also having been studying the signs indicating the spur-line was being constructed along a route originally taken by the once numerous herds of buffalo. Although sure his amigos had reached a similar conclusion, he continued, ‘Only, seeing’s the buffalo’re long gone from hereabouts, a fair slew of some other kind of critters’ve been using it more recent’ than that.’