by J. T. Edson
After having exchanged glances and nods of what appeared to be confirmation with his companions, ‘Sheets’ picked up their glasses and, shoving back his chair, he rose to walk across the room. Despite the bar being empty along the rest of its length, he made his way straight towards where the massive newcomer was standing. Arriving, he contrived to jog the young man’s elbow. Concluding this was not accidental, Trilby wondered why he was behaving in such a fashion. While the tallest and most heavily built of the trio, he could not match the newcomer in size and heft. Nor, particularly as he had imbibed only two beers since entering and had seemed completely sober when ordering the first, did he have the look of one who had drunk sufficient hard liquor to be ‘on the prod’ and seeking to impress his companions by picking a fight with a bigger opponent. Another possibility came to the bartender’s mind, but he decided to see how the situation developed before taking any action.
‘Sorry, friend,’ Sheets said, as some of the beer held by the newcomer was spilled. His heavily mustached broad face had lines suggesting a jolly nature, but there was a hard and calculating glint to his eyes. ‘Here, let me have your schooner filled up again.’
‘No thank you, sir,’ the young man replied, his voice redolent of politeness rather than annoyance. ‘It was an accident.’
‘Sure, that’s all it was,’ Sheets confirmed. ‘But I’d feel a whole heap better was you to let me buy you one for what I’ve spilled.’
‘Oh very well,’ the young man acceded, after another seemingly worried glance at the batwing doors of the front entrance. ‘As it’s your health that’s at stake, I’ll agree with pleasure.’
‘My health?’ Sheets queried, looking blank for a moment. Then understanding came and, letting out a booming guffaw of laughter, he slapped his right hand against his thigh. ‘Hey, that’s a good one. Damn me, I’ll have to remember to use it the first time I get the chance.’
‘If you thought that one was good,’ the young man drawled, clearly delighted by the response to his remark. ‘Do you know why the chicken crossed the road?’
‘No,’ Sheets replied, with such apparent sincerity he might have been speaking the truth. ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’
‘For some foul reason,’ the young man supplied.
‘By golly, if you aren’t a card!’ Sheets bellowed, after mirth far in excess of what the feeble and very old joke warranted to the bartender’s way of thinking. ‘Hey, I bet you know a whole heap more like that. Seeing’s how you’re on your lonesome, why don’t you come over and join us. The boys’ll really enjoy hearing ‘em.’
‘That’s most kind of you, sir,’ the young man declared. ‘Time was hanging rather heavily on my hands with moth- Yes, I’d admire to join you.’
Watching the newcomer accompanying Sheets to the table and sitting down, Trilby frowned. Except that he did not believe the trio to be professional gamblers, he could see a pattern emerging with which he was all too familiar. However, the supposition he formed placed him on the horns of a dilemma. Although he was expected to divert trouble, if possible before it could start, there were limits to how far he could go without provoking it himself. He could not intervene in the present situation merely on the strength of what he believed might be planned and it would be sure to create resentment, even complaints to his employer, should his suspicions be unjustified. Deciding he would keep the group under observation, he turned his attention to a customer who had come to the bar and was waiting impatiently to be served.
‘Hey, fellers,’ Sheets said. Pausing and glancing in an interrogatory fashion at the guest he had brought to the table, he continued, ‘This here’s Mr—!’
‘The name is Trudeau Front de Boeuf, gentlemen, from Beaufort Parrish, Louisiana,’ the young man responded to what had clearly been a request for such information. ‘But my friends call me “Beef-Head”. That’s my name translated from French into English, you know.’
‘Glad to meet you, Beef-Head,’ the tallest of the trio boomed, extending his big right hand to be enfolded in an even larger white palm which was smoothly soft to the touch and seemed incapable of exerting any strength. ‘I’m Harvey Q. Forrest, but they call me “Sheets” ‘cause I travel in bed linen.’
‘You’re wearing clothes like the rest of us today,’ Front de Boeuf remarked, with the air of believing he was making an original and most witty comment.
‘By cracky, boys, is he a card or is he a card!’ Sheets boomed and his companions contrived to appear equally amused by the feeble attempt at humor. ‘This here’s Un-Mench. It’s short for “Un-mentionables” and we call him that ‘cause he’s a drummer for them fancy do-dads we all know’s ladies wear under their dresses. And this’s Dishpan. He sells kitchen ware.’
‘I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen,’ Front de Boeuf asserted, then glanced at the cards and money on the table. ‘But aren’t I interrupting your game?’
‘Well, yes, I reckon you might say that,’ Sheets admitted. ‘But I reckon the boys would rather hear some of your jokes.’
‘I would,’ asserted Un-Mench. Surly looking, he was of medium height, with a bulky frame which had run to fat. ‘I can always use some new ‘n’s.’
‘Trust you pair to want to quit,’ Dishpan growled. Being almost as tall as the bed linen salesman albeit much slimmer, he had a sallow, foxy cast of features. ‘No offense, Beef-Head, but they’re doing all the winning and I’d sure like a chance to get my money back.’
‘I can understand that,’ Front de Boeuf declared, but he was not entirely successful in trying to convey the impression that he was an experienced man of the world. ‘I always like to win it back when I’m gambling and losing.’
‘Don’t tell me you play poker?’ Sheets inquired.
‘I haven’t played recently, mother doesn—!’ Front de Boeuf replied, then cut off his words abruptly and looked sheepish as if realizing he was making a less than manly statement. Avoiding the eyes of the three drummers, he went on, ‘Not since I left college, but I was known as being quite a poker-wolf while I was there.’
‘I just bet you were,’ Un-Mench said. ‘Fact being, I’d say you was a mite too good for the likes of us. We only play for the fun of it.’
‘So do I, sir,’ the massive young man protested. ‘Land’s sakes, you don’t think I’m a card-sharper do you?’
‘Of course we don’t,’ Sheets answered reassuringly. ‘It’s just old Un-Mench’s way of joshing you.’
‘Yeah,’ seconded the salesman of ladies’ underclothing. ‘No offense meant, Beef-Head’.
‘None taken then,’ Front de Boeuf declared, looking mollified.
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Un-Mench asserted. ‘Say, happen you’ve a mind, I’ll show you some of the fancy do-dads I’m peddling.’
‘Later, perhaps,’ the massive young man replied, but without showing any great enthusiasm for the opportunity to view female ‘unmentionables’. ‘Right now, I’d rather play some poker.’
‘Then let’s get to playing some,’ Sheets suggested, reaching for the deck and holding it towards his guest. ‘Here, you have first deal.’
‘How about these, Mrs. Front de Boeuf?’ inquired Cuthbert Alan Bleasdale the Third, waving a hand at the animals crowded into the two corrals behind his livery barn. Only just five foot seven in height and corpulent, there was an expression suggestive of a desire to be helpful on his less than prepossessing florid face. As usual, he was clad in an expensive, somber-colored and somewhat old fashioned style calculated to inspire confidence in his integrity. His appearance and the sober, upright, piously church-going members of the community with whom he associated were assets in his business as a horse-trader. ‘I think you’ll agree that they’re just what you’re after.’
‘I’m not so sure,’ replied the woman to whom the comment was addressed. In comparison with the somewhat nasal Mid-West accent of the man by her side, her rich contralto voice had the timbre of a well educated and imperious Southron long a
ccustomed to having her every whim gratified. ‘They aren’t very big.’
In any kind of company, Jessica Front de Boeuf would have been an imposing figure. Five foot nine in height and in her early forties, she had on a Wavelean straw hat with a spray of guinea fowl plumes at the front, secured by a decorative pin to elegantly piled up black hair, which made her appear to tower over Bleasdale. Although the texture of her skin was beginning to coarsen a trifle more than could be hidden by the amount of make-up permissible for a ‘good woman’, and despite being somewhat marred by lines indicative of an arrogant and domineering nature, her olive-skinned face was beautiful. Obviously selected to take advantage of the current style in acceptable feminine attire and yet seeking successfully to avoid offending the susceptibilities of the kind of people with whom she was mingling in Abilene, her obviously expensive brown two-piece travelling suit and royal blue silk blouse emphasized the curvaceous fullness of her Junoesque figure’s ‘hourglass’ contours. The jewelry which glistened on her wrists and fingers and about her throat appeared to be equally tasteful and costly. Despite the weather being mild, she had a brown fur muff on her left hand and the right grasped the carrying strap of a neat matching leather reticule.
‘Well, no, they aren’t very big,’ Bleasdale conceded. ‘They weren’t bred for size, but every one of them is up to carrying a goodly weight over rough country and has proved it. Don’t forget they’ve been ridden all the way from Southern Texas and worked hard while carrying a man—and we both know how big those Texans can be—as well as all his gear and one of those massive saddles they use. They’re bred for stamina and to be fast on their feet. Just what the deer hunting gentlemen down in Louisiana who’ll be your customers need, in fact.’
‘That’s the kind of mounts they need, I must admit,’ Jessica answered, but she did not sound entirely convinced.
‘Then these are the ones for you,’ Bleasdale asserted. ‘You won’t be offered another bunch like this in the whole of Kansas, ma’am.’
Which anybody with a greater knowledge of horses than the prospective customer appeared to possess, would have said was probably quite true, unless one’s luck was really bad!
Such a person might also have added no valid reason existed why there should be ‘another bunch like this’!
Bleasdale had spoken the truth when claiming the majority of horses used by the Texans bringing herds of half-wild longhorn cattle to the railroad towns in Kansas possessed the qualities he described. What was more, despite their comparatively small size, they would be ideally suited for following hounds which were chasing deer over rough terrain when well bred and in peak condition. However, not one of the animals in the corral would measure up to such a high standard. They were, in fact, the culls sold off as being worthless as working mounts—or having undesirable traits such as ‘bunch quitting’, breaking away from the remuda and ‘heading for parts unknown’—by various trail bosses who didn’t want the trouble involved in taking them home. He had obtained them cheaply and, until hearing of the scheme which brought the Southron woman to Abilene, had been meaning to pass them on to a purchaser employed by the United States’ Cavalry and who was as lacking in scruples as himself. Hoping to obtain a much better price, he had made the acquaintance of Mrs. Jessica Front de Boeuf and, ‘learning’ of her purpose during their first conversation, had offered to help her make the purchases she required.
‘You’re sure they’re all right?’ Jessica inquired.
‘I give you my word on it,’ Bleasdale replied, disregarding the fact that there were animals in the corrals which possessed every possible fault they could while still remaining on their feet. ‘Of course, if you wish you can have our local veterinarian examine them-Oh blast it, if you’ll forgive me for using such a term in your presence.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Jessica asked, the last comment having been delivered in tones of exasperation.
‘He’s gone hunting with the Marshal and some other friends and won’t be back until late tomorrow night.’
‘I could wait until Monday and have him look them over,’ Jessica remarked pensively.
‘That you could,’ Bleasdale agreed, employing what sounded like enthusiasm, although such an examination—especially when carried out by a man who suffered from no delusions about his true character and would not be afraid to tell the truth—was the last thing he would wish to take place. ‘Except—!’
‘Except?’ the Southron woman prompted.
‘Well, Mr Titus Merridew, the horse buyer for the U.S. Cavalry is in town,’ Bleasdale explained, which was true, as the man in question had arrived on the noon train. However, what he said next did not have a similar veracity. ‘He’s got his eye on this bunch and he’s had the veterinarian satisfy him that they are what he needs.’
‘Has he now?’ Jessica asked, looking perturbed. ‘Would you mind telling me how much he’s offered for them?’
‘Seventeen hundred and fifty dollars.’
‘Hum! Will he go as high as two thousand?’
‘Yes.’
‘How about two thousand five hundred?’
‘No,’ the horse trader admitted, his instincts telling him the woman would not increase the price.
‘Then, sir,’ Jessica said in determined tones. ‘Unless you have any objections to selling them to me instead of the Yank—US Cavalry, that is my offer for them.’
‘A good businessman always takes the best deal he’s offered,’ Bleasdale claimed. ‘So, Mrs. Front de Boeuf, you’ve got yourself a deal and a bargain.’
‘I have, providing you will throw in their keep until I can have them moved out on Monday’s east-bound train,’ Jessica corrected. ‘My poppa always told me there should be some “boot” to every trading deal.’
‘And he was right,’ the horse trader affirmed, being so pleased to sell the entire bunch at such a substantial profit—far above the best he could have expected from Titus Merridew, or any other source available elsewhere—that he was willing to forego the small sum feeding them would cost.
‘I don’t carry around so much cash-money, especially when I’m in Yank-,’ Jessica began, but halted just in time from making what she apparently realized could prove an offensive remark which might even spoil the deal she had just concluded. Opening her reticule, she continued, ‘But I’ll give you a draft against the First Stockmen’s Bank to cover the sum.’
For a moment, Bleasdale did not speak. Eager as he was to complete the lucrative deal, he remembered that the President of the bank had left on the hunting trip with the marshal and, when indulging in such a pastime, he invariably closed the premises prior to his departure on the grounds that the staff should not be expected to work if he was off enjoying himself. However, a moment’s thought reassured the horse trader that the method of payment would prove satisfactory. The train upon which his victim intended to transport her purchase did not leave until shortly after noon on Monday and he would have cashed the draft as soon as the bank opened in the morning.
‘That will suit me just fine,’ Bleasdale declared, accepting the proffered bank draft. ‘So I’ll go into the office and fetch you a bill-of-sale-.’ Seeing the woman showing signs of accompanying him, he went on hurriedly, ‘I’d wait here, if I was you, Mrs. Front de Boeuf. While you won’t find a cleaner place anywhere, a lady of your quality might still find the smell somewhat overpowering.’
‘As you will,’ Jessica acceded. ‘And may I say it’s very refreshing to receive such consideration from a Yankee.’
If the woman had seen the scowl which came to Bleasdale’s face as he turned away, she would have known she had been correct in refraining from referring to ‘Yankee country’ earlier in their conversation. The frown had not disappeared when he entered the big main building. There was the real reason he had been disinclined to let her accompany him. The two men who slouched from his office at the rear wore the dress style of cowhands, but nobody who knew the West would have believed this was their real vocation. Tall,
lanky, uncleanly and stubble-featured, the guns in their tied down holsters gave an indication of the means by which they earned their living. Even if the woman lacked the knowledge to draw the appropriate conclusion, they were sufficiently unprepossessing in appearance to have aroused suspicion when she saw them emerging from the room in which he conducted much of his business and had the words ‘PRIVATE, No Admittance’ inscribed on its door.
‘How soon do you want them hosses fetching in from your place?’ asked the taller of the pair, who was currently calling himself ‘Dick Lester’.
‘You can bring them as far as the woodland north of town on Monday afternoon,’ Bleasdale replied. ‘But don’t fetch them in here until after sundown.’
‘Hell, all their brands’ve been vented until nobody can say who owned ‘em,’ protested the other man, whose ‘summer name’ was supplied as being ‘Tom Clarke’ despite having a strong family resemblance to Lester.
‘You came by them honestly as far as I know,’ Bleasdale growled, despite being aware that the ownership of the animals under discussion was questionable to say the least. ‘And that’s not why I don’t want them here earlier. I won’t be getting the corrals emptied before then.’
‘You mean you’ve found a sucker to take that bunch of worthless crowbait?’ Lester asked, his harsh Illinois accent expressing incredulity.
‘I’ve sold the whole herd legitimately to a customer,’ the horse trader corrected pompously! Despite his belief that he was quite safe in accepting the offered bank draft, it was not in his nature to take chances and he went on, ‘So I want one of you to keep an eye on her until Monday for me. If she tries to move them out before it’s time for the east-bound train, let me know straight away.’