by J. T. Edson
‘That Burbage jasper was telling three of the Pink-eyes about it just afore they left here. Sounded real interested.’
‘He maybe reckons Mark might’ve got the taste for gunning bounty hunters,’ suggested Bragg dryly.
‘Could be,’ cackled the old owner.
‘Now they know about you and Framant,’ Bragg said as he and Mark walked out of the barn.
‘Word about that kind of thing gets around,’ Mark answered. ‘Reckon they can tie you in with Belle from it?’
‘I don’t know. The marshal up to Elkhorn never let on to anybody that she was mixed in the game. Only me, him, Belle and Calamity Jane knew the truth.’
‘Calamity had no cause to like Belle, from what I heard,’ Bragg commented. ‘They had one helluva fight, way you told it.’
The previous night Mark had told Bragg about the happenings in Elkhorn when he first met both Belle Starr and Calamity Jane. Knowing he could rely on the foreman’s discretion, Mark gave almost the full details of the affair.
‘They laid into each other until they both got tuckered out,’ Mark admitted with a grin. ‘But after it Calam helped me smuggle Belle out of town and risked getting shot to save her. Nope, Calam wouldn’t talk out of turn.’
‘I know I’d never heard who the other gal was, ’cepting a blackjack dealer in a saloon,’ Bragg said. ‘But if they should know you stopped Framant laying hands on her, they could get all suspicious and fancy notions about you jumping that yahoo in the hotel.’
‘We’ll just have to worry about that when it comes,’ Mark stated. ‘Let’s go down to the sheriff’s office and see if Jules knows anything.’
At the office they waited until Murat returned from sending out telegraph messages to peace officers in the surrounding towns, although both realized that no answer could be expected until much later. When Murat came in, he told them what he had done so far and discussed their line of action the following day. With that attended to, Mark and Bragg left. They visited the undertaker’s shop to which Sailor Sam’s body had been taken and satisfied themselves that everything would be as the cook wanted in the matter of the burial.
‘We’ll have to let pappy know about Sam,’ Mark said as they left the building. ‘You wouldn’t go tell him, I reckon.’
‘You reckon right!’ snorted Bragg. ‘Write him about it and we’ll get some cowhand to take the letter out.’
‘Come on then, we’ll do it at the hotel,’ Mark said. ‘After we’ve got it off, we’ll go down to see Jules in case he’s heard anything. They do say he plays a mean game of checkers.’
‘That’ll be something,’ sniffed Bragg.
On their arrival at the Houston Hotel, the reception clerk held out a message form. ‘This just came for you, Mr. Counter.’
‘It’s from Ole Devil,’ Mark told Bragg after reading the message. ‘He says Dusty won’t need help and for me to come on home.’
‘What’ll you do?’ asked the foreman.
‘Telegraph to tell him what’s happened and say I’m going after Sam’s killer,’ Mark replied.
‘Reckon he’ll object?’
‘Nope. He’ll likely send Dusty and the Kid out to help me. Let’s get that letter to pappy written.’
Taking his key from the clerk, Mark led the way upstairs and to his room. After unlocking the door, he shoved it open and let Bragg go in first. As the foreman started to enter, removing his hat, an arm holding a wicked leather-wrapped billy lashed at his head from inside the room. No man grew up in the wild frontier country of Texas without developing fast reflexes. Hearing the faint hissing sound, Bragg jerked his hat back on to his head so that the billy struck its crown. While that broke the full force of the blow, it still arrived with enough power to drop him unconscious to the floor.
Like a flash Mark lunged forward, hands reaching for the arm which struck down his friend. Even as his fingers closed on their objective, Mark heard a sound from the other side of the door and saw it start to swing close. The lamp had been lit and turned down to a faint glow. By its light he saw a tall man in range clothing by the wardrobe and a second, a slightly shorter dude, at the window.
All that registered in his mind as he laid hold of the arm of Bragg’s attacker. Before any of the men in the room realized just how wrong their plan had gone, Mark gave a swinging heave at the trapped arm. A startled, agony-filled yelp rose as the billy slipped from limp fingers. Then Quigg, the Pinkerton agent, swung into sight. His feet struck against Bragg’s body and he tripped to crash his head into the door.
Bracing himself, Mark kicked hard at the door, slamming it back into the man behind it and hearing a pain-filled curse in a western voice. Then he heaved Quigg back again, twisting the man around to slam into the wall. As Quigg struck, Mark released him and he collapsed forward limply.
Bounding over Bragg’s body, Mark saw the other two men rushing at him. He clenched his fists and whipped them both up and out in backhand swings that drove hard knuckles into his attackers’ faces. Each man shot away, spun around by the force of the blows.
Blood running from his nose, Burbage sprang from behind the door. Mark heard him coming and turned. Going under the blow Burbage lashed at him, Mark hit the man in the stomach. Before he could follow up his advantage, the man in range clothes reached him. Mark felt the other’s fist catch him at the side of the face and staggered. Driven sideways by the force of the blow, Mark brought himself to a halt. His attacker sprang after him and the second dude rushed forward holding a billy like Quigg used. Out shot Mark’s hands, grabbing the westerner by the shirt front. Then Mark pivoted around, swinging the man. Too late the dude saw what Mark intended. Already the billy rose and hissed through the air in a blow aimed at Mark’s head, but the blond giant moved backwards. With a dull thud, the billy landed on the western man’s head and the force of his being turned had caused his hat to fly off. So he lacked the protection Bragg’s Stetson afforded when Quigg made the treacherous attack.
Feeling the man he held go limp, Mark hurled him at the billy-armed dude. Struck by the flying body, the dude reeled backwards. He and the unconscious westerner went down with a crash by the wardrobe. The force of their arrival caused its door to commence opening. Then, in an inexplicable manner, the door reversed direction. It slid back until almost closed, remaining still maybe an inch from its shut position.
Burbage caught Mark’s arm, turned him and hit him in the face. Across whipped the man’s other fist, snapping Mark’s head the other way. Closing in, Burbage felt hands like steel traps clamp on his vest. To his amazement he felt himself lifted and hurled over Bragg’s body through the door. Landing on his feet, Burbage could not prevent himself continuing backwards and his progress was halted by colliding with the door of the room facing Mark’s.
Spluttering curses, the dude rolled his limp companion from him and sat up. His billy lay halfway across the room where he dropped it when struck by his companion’s body, but he made no attempt to reach it. Instead he drew the Smith & Wesson No. 2 revolver from its holster. A puny weapon to most range- dwellers’ way of thinking, the .32 bullet would still kill or wound at close range given the chance. As Mark had his back to the other man, it seemed that the chance was being presented. Up lifted the revolver, for the man did not intend to miss if he could help it. So engrossed was he in taking aim that he did not see the wardrobe door open, or notice the arm which came from inside. Down drove the arm, clothed in a dark shirt’s sleeve and hand gripping around the frame of what at first sight looked like a Navy Colt. The butt of the weapon landed with some force on top of the dude’s head and he collapsed as if he had been boned, the Smith & Wesson dropping unfired at his side. Instantly the arm disappeared into the wardrobe and the door closed completely to.
Mark heard the sound behind him, so turned ready to deal with whatever fresh menace might arise. Before he faced into the room, the wardrobe door had shut and he stared wonderingly at the sprawled out shape of the dude. Time to think over what caused the
dude’s condition was not granted to the blond giant. Three of his attackers might be rendered hors de combat—although he could not think how one of them came to be so—yet a fourth and maybe the most dangerous remained active. Just how active Mark rapidly discovered.
After hitting the door facing Mark’s room, Burbage bounced forward a step before digging in his heels and bringing himself to a halt. While determined to take revenge for his rough treatment at the blond giant’s hands, Burbage had no desire to continue fighting with fists. Twice he had received samples of Mark’s great strength and seen enough to warn him that further fist-fighting was out. Seeing the big blond’s back towards him, Burbage grabbed for his gun. The door into which he collided opened and an indignant-looking man glared out. Seeing Burbage reaching for a gun, taken with the sight of Bragg sprawled in the doorway opposite, the man’s indignation became rapidly tinted with caution. His angry demand to be told what the hell somebody thought by damned nigh knocking the door off its hinges died with barely four words said. Retreating hurriedly, he slammed the door closed and twisted himself with some rapidity around until he stood with the wall and not the door’s flimsy paneling between himself and any stray flying bullets.
Hearing the sound behind him, Burbage tried to do two things at once. The Houston catered for a good class of customer and there was a possibility that whoever opened the door might be Mark Counter’s friend. In which case Burbage knew a warning would be given at least; or possibly a bullet driven into him to stop his attempt on the blond giant’s life. No Texas jury would convict a man who used a gun to prevent somebody shooting another in the back. So Burbage looked over his shoulder, but did not prevent his hand drawing the gun. Such were the trained reflexes a man like Burbage possessed that he completed his draw and fired while still looking away. A man shooting for pleasure or practice might have felt highly satisfied by the result, for the bullet sent Mark’s hat spinning from his head and punctured a hole in the top of its crown. Not bad shooting under the circumstances—if Burbage shot for pleasure or practice.
Only he did not. His bullet had been intended to cripple Mark and, in missing, achieved nothing more than to warn him of his danger. As the big blond whirled around, his right hand dropped down to and drew the off-side Colt. Already angry at the treacherous attack, Mark did not hesitate in his actions. He did not know that Burbage merely meant to wound him, nor would the knowledge have made him feel any more inclined to leniency. All he knew was that a man tried to shoot him and stood holding a revolver capable of being used for another attempt. So Mark countered the threat as fast and completely as he could manage.
Flame tore from the barrel of Mark’s Colt. Like Burbage, he shot from waist high and by instinctive alignment. Only he looked towards his target and had nothing to distract his attention. The .44 bullet drove into Burbage’s shoulder, spinning him around and causing him to drop his gun. Striking the wall instead of the door, he slid down to the floor. Pain tore through him and his right arm felt numb, refusing to obey the dictates of his mind. Through the haze that misted his eyes he saw the revolver and reached towards it with his left hand.
After shooting, Mark lunged through the door. He cocked the long-barreled Colt on its recoil, ready to shoot again. Nor would he have hesitated to do so if the man showed any sign of fight. Stepping across the passage, Mark kicked the revolver from Burbage’s reach. Foiled in his attempt, the man gave a low moan and went limp, flopping forward on to his face.
Voices raised in the lobby and feet thudded to, then up the stairs. Doors along the passage opened, people looking out cautiously. Seeing that there did not appear to be any chance of further shooting, the guests left their rooms. Most of them knew Mark and put the shooting down to his having disturbed a thief in his room, or about to enter it.
Ignoring the guests who converged on him and the clerk appearing at the head of the stairs, Mark returned to Bragg’s side. Holstering his Colt, Mark knelt by the foreman. An expression of relief came to the blond giant’s face as he saw Bragg start to force himself up. A glance into his room told Mark that there would be no further trouble from that direction. Then he looked at Bragg who had reached hands and knees, staying there while shaking his head to clear it.
‘Whooee!’ Bragg groaned as Mark helped him to rise. ‘What happened? Who in hell done it to me?’
‘What’s happening here?’ demanded the clerk, forcing his way through the guests and speaking before Mark could answer Bragg’s question.
‘How’d you feel, Tule?’ Mark asked.
‘Lousy. What happened?’
‘The Pink-eyes jumped us.’
Despite being dazed by the blow and dizzy from it, Bragg did not make any incautious or incriminating statement. Putting his shoulder against the door jamb, he looked first at Burbage and then into the room.
‘Did I get any of ’em?’ he asked.
‘None, you just lay down and slept through it all,’ Mark replied and turned to glare at the desk clerk. ‘Just what kind of a place do you reckon to run? Last night I see a feller in a gal’s room and figure he’s robbing it. Now I come here and get jumped by a bunch of yahoos.’
Figuring that the best defense was a good strong attack, Mark launched it immediately. He did not know how much the Pinkerton agents told the desk clerk, or what excuse they made to obtain entrance to his room, but decided to arouse doubts in the man’s mind before any of his assailants could contradict it.
Surprise showed on the clerk’s face as he stared first at Burbage and then into the room. ‘I assure you, Mr. Counter, that I had no idea they were even in the hotel!’ he squeaked with such sincerity that Mark believed him.
Before he could say any more, Mark saw the bell hop and two deputy marshals appear at the head of the stairs. Thrusting through the crowd, the peace officers holstered the revolvers they drew when climbing the stairs.
‘Howdy, Mark,’ said the taller of the pair. ‘What happened?’
‘This bunch jumped me,’ Mark replied.
‘Hey!’ yipped the second deputy. ‘That’s Burbage, he's been working with them Pinkerton sneaks ’
‘You’ll find three more in the room there,’ Mark told him.
‘You shoot ’em too?’
‘We only heard one shot, Buck,’ the taller deputy reminded.
‘There were two fired,’ Mark said. ‘That feller put a hole in my hat.’
‘Tried to shoot this gent in the back, too,’ put in the man from the room opposite and whose actions saved Mark from injury.
‘What set ’em on to you, Mark?’ asked the taller deputy.
‘I rough-handled one of them last night ’
‘So I heard. Looks like they figured to jump you and get even. They lay for you in your room?’
‘Sure,’ Mark agreed. ‘Only being a gentleman I let my guest walk in first.’
‘Gentleman nothing!’ snorted Bragg, holding his hat in one hand while he delicately ran a fingertip across his skull. ‘I reckon he knowed they was there and sent me in first to get whomped on the head.’
‘You’d maybe best make sure they didn’t steal anything, Mark,’ the taller deputy suggested. ‘We'll tend to their needings.’
Entering the room, the two deputies hauled the westerner and dude towards the door. While they did so, Mark crossed to the wardrobe. He doubted if the Pinkerton men would have searched his property, but noticed that the wardrobe key was no longer in the lock. Yet it had been when he left the room. So he walked to the door and tugged at its handle.
Fortunately the deputies had their backs to him and none of the people in the passage could see by his powerful frame. The wardrobe’s door began to open and Mark became aware that it held something not there when he last looked inside. Only with an effort did he prevent an exclamation of surprise from slipping out and he closed the door before the deputies could learn what lay behind it.
‘They didn’t take a thing,’ he said and hoped that his voice sounded natural.
&nbs
p; Eight – A Debt Repaid
The taller of the deputies proved to be a man of action. A doctor staying at the hotel had already attended to the wounded Burbage. After dispersing the remainder of the crowd, the deputy gave thought to disposing of the rest of Mark’s attackers. He looked at the groaning men, then turned to the big blond.
‘Do you want for me to haul them down to the pokey, Mark?’
‘You’d best until their boss allows that they’ll steer clear of me,’ Mark replied. ‘The next time I might not go so easy on them.’
‘I’ll see he gets to know,’ the deputy promised, walking to where Quigg sat by the door. ‘All right, hombre, on your feet.’
Realizing the futility of argument, Quigg rose and helped the other dude lift the still unconscious westerner. Then the two deputies escorted the men from the room. Mark followed them and prepared to defend his position to the desk clerk.
‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Counter,’ the man said before Mark could start. ‘But I didn’t know they had come into the hotel, or were in your room.’
‘It’s not your fault,’ Mark replied. ‘I’m sorry it happened.’
Leaving the removal of Burbage and the other men to the deputies, Mark entered his room. After doing what he could to save Burbage’s life, the doctor went to check whether any of the others suffered damage. With the passage clear, Mark returned to his room. Watched by a surprised-looking Bragg, he locked the door and then drew the curtains before turning up the lamp.
‘What the—?’ Bragg began.
‘You can come out now,’ Mark said in the direction of the wardrobe.
Bragg had taken a seat on the edge of the bed, but he bounced to his feet as if the cover was red hot. With bugged-out eyes he stared at the wardrobe door, which opened apparently of its own volition.
At another time Mark might have found the sight of Bragg’s show of emotion to be amusing. Under normal conditions he would have been pleased to see a beautiful young woman—even if she also be an outlaw—stepping from his wardrobe. Neither sight particularly attracted him at that moment.