The Fortune Hunters (11 page)

After bringing the dance to a close, the Kid turned and called:

‘Hey, Dusty, did you bring my makings?’

‘I never thought you’d get round to using them,’ Dusty replied. ‘They’re the same ones you had when we first met up on the Brownsville trail.’*

‘I’ll go fetch ‘em,’ the Kid grunted. ‘Getting so a man can’t—’

‘Who’ll dance with me if you go, Lon?’ Jennie put in. ‘You know Dusty doesn’t like dancing and everybody else is partnered up.’

‘If you put it that way, Miss Jennie,’ grinned the Kid, ‘I’ll just naturally stay on here—happen one of these gents loan me the makings.’

For an hour the party went on. Dusty watched Jennie and wondered about her actions. The girl had always been something of a snob, and it surprised Dusty to see her dance with a hired hand, even if the man was one of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. Yet she danced with the Kid and between dances persuaded the other men to loan him tobacco and papers.

Watching the others, Dusty saw that both Borg and Thackery were well on their way to being drunk. Both had punished the punchbowl and the ranch’s liquor supply, and neither could take their drink. Borg grew more sneering and insulting. Thackery fawned over Joan in a manner which embarrassed her and the other occupants of the room. More to prevent a scene than for any other reason Mark had started to dance with and entertain Marlene. This did not please Borg, but even as drunk as he was, the foreman had more sense than tangle with Mark Counter.

Crossing the room, Borg halted at Waco’s side as the youngster sat telling a wide-eyed Frankie about some of the things which happened while he helped Dusty run the law in Mulrooney.

‘That’s it, boy,’ Borg said, slapping the youngster on the shoulder. ‘You got it made with that little gal. It ain’t everybody can marry young and rich.’

While Waco accepted that he would most likely always be the ‘boy’ to Dusty, Mark and the Kid, he objected to any other person calling him by that name. He also did not like having drunks slobber over him.

Coming up from his chair, Waco drove his right fist into Borg’s stomach. He had learned fist-fighting from Mark Counter and knew how to throw a punch. The blow caught Borg squarely and folded him over. Up lashed Waco’s left fist in a backhand blow which lifted the man erect and set him up for the right cross to the jaw. Borg spun around and crashed to the floor, rolled over once and lay still.

A dull red flush crept to Waco’s cheeks as he realised what he had done and that every eye in the room was directed at him.

‘Poor old Borg,’ Mark drawled. ‘He’s done fainted away.’

‘I figured he’d get around to it,’ answered the Kid. ‘Whereat’s he sleep, Aunt Mamie?’

‘I’ll show you,’ she replied. ‘Bring him along.’

The Kid and Waco took Borg’s arms, Mark lifting his legs, and they carried the unconscious foreman from the room, following Mamie to Borg’s quarters on the ground floor.

After the men and Mamie left, Marlene had time to see her husband’s behaviour. Thackery leaned on the side-piece, holding Joan’s hand and fixing her, or trying to fix her, with his eyes. To give her her due, Joan tried to get her hand free, but could not.

‘Know shomethin’, Joanie?’ Thackery asked seriously. ‘My wife doeshn’t unnerstan’ me.’

And telling Joan something she had only heard a couple of thousand times before, Thackery slid to the floor in a limp heap. Joan felt relieved, for the man had been making suggestions which she doubted his wife would approve of should she hear them.

‘Reckon we’d best get him to bed, Frank,’ Dusty drawled. ‘I reckon the party’s over.’

‘It looks that way,’ the lawyer admitted. ‘Take his head, I’ll have the feet.’

The two men lifted the sleeping Thackeray and carried him from the room. Marlene turned and glared at the two girls.

‘Get to bed, the pair of you!’ she snapped.

Annoyance and anger glinted in Jennie’s eyes. In her grandfather’s lifetime nobody would have dared speak in such a manner to her inside the walls of Casa Thackery.

‘Come on, kids,’ Joan said quietly, laying a hand on their shoulders. ‘I’ll go up with you.’

‘You won’t!’ Marlene snapped. ‘You and I are going to have a talk in the library.’

‘We’ve nothing to say to each other,’ Joan answered.

‘I don’t want to say what I have to say in front of the girls, or the other people in this house!’ Marlene warned. ‘But I will if—’

‘Have it your own way,’ Joan sighed. ‘Go to bed, Frankie.’

The four women went into the hall, the girls making for the stairs and Joan walking before Marlene into the library. Jennie, behind her cousin, glanced back at the door and heard the lock click.

‘I wonder what they’ll do in there,’ Frankie asked.

‘I don’t know. Hurry along, Frankie.’

‘Can I come to your room and talk?’

‘Not tonight, dear. I’m very tired. But I’ll show you around the house and the range, or some of it, in the morning.’

Frankie felt puzzled and a little hurt by her cousin’s tone. She had hoped to share a room with Jennie, but the other girl ignored the suggestion when she had made it earlier. It almost seemed as if Jennie did not like her newly arrived younger cousin.

Walking along the passage to her room, Frankie glanced through the door into her Uncle Claude’s quarters. Dusty and the lawyer were undressing Thackery and Frankie realised she must not let her Aunt Marlene catch her looking. So Frankie hurried along to her own room and entered. Although she had left the lamp burning low on her dressing table, it appeared to have gone out and the room was dark. However, she had put her night-dress out and could undress in the dark, having done so many times when in Cohen’s hands. Then a thought struck her. She could hardly wear her party dress the following morning and so should get the clothes she wore for the journey south.

Hearing voices in the passage, Frankie walked to the door and looked out.

‘Dusty,’ she said. ‘My lamp’s gone out, can you light it for me?’

‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘It’s maybe out of oil though.’

On shaking the lamp Dusty heard enough to tell him that shortage of fuel had not been the cause of its going out. Thinking the girl must have turned the wick too low, Dusty took out and lit a match. He raised the glass flame-shield and found the wick high enough to have kept burning. Applying the match’s flame to the wick, Dusty twisted the control knob and raised the light volume. He placed the glass cover over the flame and looked around the room.

‘Frankie,’ he said quietly, but urgently. ‘Go to my room and bring one of my guns.’

‘But—’

‘Do it, gal!’ Dusty snapped, never taking his eyes off the bed.

The girl obeyed. On the trip south she learned to obey without question when Dusty used that tone of voice. Darting across the passage, she entered Dusty’s room and took one of the colts from his gunbelt’s holsters. The other three Texans were just turning along the passage as she came out and they sprang forward.

‘What the hell, Dusty?’ Mark asked.

Dusty did not reply. Taking the gun in his right hand, he went towards the bed, gripped the bed-clothes and heaved them back. Throwing the bed-clothes clear, Dusty exposed the coiled shape of a big rattlesnake. Instantly it curled its neck up in an S shape, the evil spade-shaped head drawing back for a strike as its tail buzzed out a warning. Frankie’s scream and the crash of Dusty’s Colt sounded at the same instant. The headless body of the snake went flying from the bed to land in a coiling, writhing heap on the floor.

‘Get the kid out of here!’ Dusty snapped to Waco who held the girl, for once without complaint, in his arms. ‘Take her to her Aunt Mamie.’

‘Sure, Dusty,’ Waco replied. ‘Come on, short-stop, it’s all over now.’

‘How the hell did that get in here?’ Mark asked, looking down at the snake. ‘I’ve heard of rattlers getting into a bed, but never on the second floor of a stone-built house.’

‘I don’t know,’ Dusty replied. ‘Why hasn’t the sound of the shot brought the others in here?’

‘Don’t reckon Thackery’d hear a cannon,’ grinned the Kid.

‘And anybody in one of these rooms with the door shut wouldn’t hear a thing. Want me to go get the women out of their rooms?’

‘No point in disturbing them,’ Dusty answered.

At that moment the lawyer arrived, running into the room and skidding to a halt, his eyes going to the Colt Dusty held.

‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘I saw Waco and Frankie.’

‘She had a snake in her bed,’ Mark explained.

‘A snake— But how—?’

‘That’s what we’d like to know, how it got here,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Sure this is rattler country, but you don’t often get them coming into a house like this and getting into a bed.’

‘It’s strange you should say that,’ Gaunt answered. ‘One of the Mexican maids was killed by a snake that had climbed into her bed. But that was downstairs on the ground floor.’

‘When was this?’ Dusty asked.

‘About a month before Elmo died. The girl’s lamp wasn’t working, she jumped into bed in the dark and the rattler got her.’

At that moment Waco entered the room, throwing a glance at the moving body of the snake.

‘Aunt Mamie took care of her,’ he said. ‘Got her quietened down a mite. That was a bad shock you gave little short-stop there, Dusty.’

‘It’d’ve been a damned sight worse happen she’d climbed into bed, boy,’ growled the Kid. ‘Damned if I don’t shake my bed out afore I climb in it.’

‘And me,’ Mark agreed. ‘Come on, let’s get some sleep. We’ll be riding in the morning, won’t we, Dusty?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe we’ll stay on for a spell,’ Dusty replied and turned to Gaunt. ‘How sound-proof are these rooms, Frank?’

‘Near on perfectly. Elmo thought the servants were spying on him and had every room fixed so that you couldn’t hear a thing from it once the door was shut. What’s wrong, Dusty?’

‘Nothing much. We’ll have this room cleaned out in the morning. Now let’s get some sleep.’

Although Gaunt noticed nothing, the three cowhands studied Dusty with inquisitive eyes. They knew Dusty very well, too well to be fooled by his casual tones. Dusty was worried, and they wondered what worried him, if his worry was connected with Frankie’s narrow escape.

Dusty was worried. Things were taking shape in his head and he did not like the pattern he was beginning to form.

oooOooo

* Told in
The Ysabel Kid
by J. T. Edson.

CHAPTER EIGHT

JOAN SHANDLEY sat in the tall-backed chair and watched Marlene Thackery pace the room, halting every few minutes to listen at the door. For almost ten minutes Marlene had walked up and down the library, her long flowing skirt rustling, her bare shoulders white in the light and contrasting with the sleek black of the dress. Each time she turned, the library’s hanging lights glinted on the diamond cluster ring she wore.

At last Marlene halted, standing with hands on hips, her magnificent bust rising and falling as she drew in deep breaths.

‘You’re a cheap looking slut,’ Marlene finally said. ‘What did Claude’s father see in you?’

‘A free meal,’ Joan answered, determined not to be pushed into something she might regret.

‘There’s no accounting for tastes, I suppose,’ Marlene went on. ‘I’d have thought a man as rich as Elmo Thackery could have done better for himself if he had to take a saloon whore.’

‘You talk like you’ve had experience,’ Joan replied.

‘Don’t think I missed the way you were pawing my husband—’

‘I thought it was the other way round; and that you was too busy pawing Vint Borg—or trying to paw Mark Counter.’

Marlene’s left hand clenched, the light gleaming on the ring. Only with an effort did she control herself.

‘I’ve an offer to make to you,’ she gritted out. ‘It’s as much Claude’s as mine. My first idea was to have you thrown out of the house, but Claude said we should at least give you enough money to see you on your way. So I’m offering you two thousand dollars to leave this house and never return.’

‘Two thousand?’ Joan replied.

‘If you leave tomorrow.’

‘And if I stay on a few more days I get two hundred and fifty thousand. I don’t like your offer, Mrs. Thackery.’

‘You may as well know my husband is contesting the will,’ Marlene warned. ‘With two thousand dollars you could buy a whore-house of your own, until you find some other doddering old fool to sleep with.’

‘I could buy a better one with two hun—’ Joan began, holding the sides of her chair to prevent herself leaping up and attacking the red head.

‘My husband is contesting the will!’

‘He has to win his case,’ Joan pointed out, coming to her feet. ‘I’ll take a chance.’

With that Joan started to walk by the other woman, but Marlene shot out a hand, caught her arm and turned her around. Marlene’s breasts rose and fell as she drew in short, angry breaths, and hate glowed in her eyes.

‘You’ll either take my offer!’ she hissed, ‘or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’

‘You’ll do what?’ Joan answered.

‘I don’t care what you might have been for a couple of nights to the old fool!’ Marlene almost screamed. ‘But no cheap dancehall whore is sharing my money!’

‘Your money?’

‘Mine and my husband’s! When I’ve finished with you—’

‘Just hold it, girlie!’ Joan cut in savagely. ‘You can fancy-talk and name-call all you want and get by. But the moment you start face slapping you’re playing my game. I’ve tangled with girls tough enough to make you look like a plate full of mush.’

‘Have you?’ purred Marlene.

For a moment Joan thought Marlene would back down and call off the fight before it came to physical violence. Then without any warning Marlene swung her right hand around in a slap that sent Joan sprawling on to the settee.

‘That’s just for a start, whore,’ Marlene said. ‘Now I’m going to teach you respect for your betters.’

Jumping forward, she dragged up her skirt to above her shapely knees and drew back her right leg. It lashed forward, straight into Joan’s hands as the little woman thrust herself up from the settee. Gripping Marlene’s ankle, Joan gave it a jerking twist. Marlene lost her balance and fell over, landing on and breaking her fall with her hands, the leg still trapped. With a heave, Joan stood the other woman on her head, allowing her skirt and petticoats to fall around her waist, exposing her black stocking clad legs and frilly garters to view. Shoving the trapped leg from her, Joan let the woman fall on to her back. Joan moved around to stand before Marlene and put a hand up to touch the mark left by Marlene’s fingers on her cheek.

‘Give it up while you’re ahead,’ she warned. ‘From now I’m fighting back.’

Marlene sat on the floor and spat out a mouthful of curses, all her veneer of refinement falling away. On getting to her feet she stood facing Joan who crouched lightly on the balls of her feet, fists clenched ready to defend herself. For a moment they faced each other, then Marlene started to turn away from Joan. A faint smile came to Joan’s lips as she also started to turn. It looked like Mrs Thackery did not aim to take the matter further.

Bunching her left hand into a fist, Marlene whirled around and lashed a blow at Joan’s head. The smaller woman caught the start of the move and made a bad mistake. She turned around, straight into Marlene’s fist. Smashing into Joan’s cheek, the cluster of diamonds gashed the flesh and the force of the blow spun Joan around, dropping her face down on the floor. Joan lay there, dizzy and partly stunned by the blow, helpless for the moment.

Luckily for Joan, Marlene knew little about the rudiments or refinements of hair-yanking brawls. Instead of smashing both knees down on the defenceless woman’s back, Marlene hauled her skirts up and dropped to kneel astride Joan. Digging her hands into Joan’s hair, Marlene began to pull, at the same time forcing Joan’s face down into the carpet.

Pain cleared Joan’s head and she knew she must do something before she lost her hair and scalp-skin too. Bracing herself, Joan forced her body up on hands and knees. Marlene gasped, releasing Joan’s hair with her left hand to swing it at the other woman’s head and back. The ring hurt when it landed and Joan knew she must get rid of it or sustain serious injury.

Using all her strength, Joan rolled Marlene over so the red head landed on her side. Pure instinct caused Marlene to close her legs, locking them around Joan’s middle. Her left hand reached around Joan’s head to try to claw at her face while the right one gripped the neck of Joan’s dress and tore at it, ripping open the fastenings. Joan grabbed the left wrist, trying to get the ring off, but Marlene clenched her hand into a fist. Not to be beaten, Joan dragged the hand to her mouth and bit at the base of the thumb. Marlene screamed, her fingers opened and her other hand beat a tattoo at Joan’s head. Twisting the ring from Marlene’s finger, Joan threw it across the room to land in the hearth by the fire. Marlene’s legs opened and Joan rolled free.

Twisting around and on to her knees, Joan flung herself at Marlene as the bigger woman lay holding her bleeding hand and screaming. Joan landed on Marlene, one hand digging into and ruining the neatly coiffured red hair, the other driving into Marlene’s face and body. Pain came to Marlene’s rescue this time. With a heave of her body, she rolled Joan over and landed on top.

For almost ten minutes the two women rolled and thrashed over and over on the floor. Despite her extra size and weight, Marlene got the worst of the fight, for she had never before engaged in physical combat while Joan had experience gained in a dozen bar-room brawls to back her and make up for her lack of size.

They came to their knees, gasping, squealing and lunging at each other. More by accident than design, Marlene’s hands closed on Joan’s throat and clung to it. Then the big woman forced herself to her feet, still holding Joan by the neck and ignoring the hard little fists which thudded into her body.

Joan was desperate, for the grip on her throat cut off her air and she could not breathe. Then Marlene released her, giving up a hold which would have ended the fight so as to grab Joan’s hair and use it as a means to throw the smaller woman across the room. Joan landed on the settee and rolled off it as Marlene hurled herself forward. The big woman landed where Joan had been and was dragged to the floor by the legs to resume the fight.

Never had Joan been in such a brutal, savage fight. Marlene fought with the strength of hatred, if she had been skilled too it would have gone hard for Joan. Even without skill, Marlene’s strength gave her an advantage and she handed brutal punishment to the other woman although Joan gave back as good as she got.

At last, almost half an hour after the first blow landed, Joan rolled a weakly struggling Marlene flat on to her back and knelt astride her. They had fought with fists, feet, elbows, knees and teeth, tearing hair, punching, slapping, clawing, pushing each other across the room. Both were naked to the waist, the upper parts of their frocks either hanging around their hips, or lying on the floor; their skirts torn; shoes gone and stockings in tatters; blood flowed from noses, lips, bites and scratches, and each body had a mottling of bruises.

Gripping Marlene’s hair in her hands. Joan lifted the red head and banged it on the floor. Marlene struggled weakly, her hands coming up to dig claws into Joan’s shoulders. Again Joan raised Marlene’s head and drove it down. Four times in all she crashed Marlene’s head to the floor, the hands fell away from her and the struggles ended.

‘I—I—told—you——!’ Joan gasped, trying to rise.

She could not. Waves of pain and exhaustion welled through her, all she could do was rest her hands on the floor and try to support her aching body. A distant squeaking rumble came to Joan’s ears, but she had not the energy to turn her head and see what caused the noise.

Suddenly a brilliant flash of light seemed to explode before Joan’s eyes, then everything sank off into blackness and she collapsed to the floor.

‘You’re getting old, Joan,’ a voice seemed to be saying, ‘letting a fat bladder like her whip you.’

Then dull aching pain filled her body and she tried to lift her head from the carpet on which she lay. Joan had been knocked unconscious before and knew the symptoms. She waited for her head to stop spinning and tried to think straight. Memory came back to her, she remembered sitting astride Marlene and wondered where the red head gained that last reserve of strength to throw her off and deliver a finishing blow.

A shock of fear hit Joan, the room was dark—perhaps Marlene had—no, it was only that the room’s lamps had died down through lack of fuel and that her left eye had swollen shut.

One of Joan’s hands struck against something as it fumbled on the floor. Without looking, she raised the hand and felt at the thing, recognising the touch of human flesh. Lifting her head with an effort, she looked along her arms which extended before her. Something glinted on one hand, but she felt too exhausted to look what it might be. It took all Joan’s will-power to keep her head up and examine the thing her hand rested on. Her eyes took in a shapely leg with a tattered stocking hanging below its knee and a garter making a slash of colour against the white flesh of the thigh. A second leg bent up in the air beyond the first, one which was bare and had a dull, rusty red streak running down its calf.

‘She must have collapsed as soon as she finished me off,’ Joan thought with relief. ‘That explains why she didn’t scratch my eyes out.’

Slowly Joan’s eyes went along the legs to where they emerged from the torn black skirt. Passing the skirt, she looked along Marlene’s dirty, bruised torso, over the rich full breasts towards the throat, then jerked back towards the breasts again. Something rose from under the left breast—it took Joan only a moment to recognise that something for what it was.

‘Oh, my god!’ she gasped.

Weakly she forced herself to her feet, never taking her eyes from the knife hilt which rose under Marlene’s left breast. Turning, Joan stumbled blindly across the room and to the door. After tugging at the knob for a few seconds, Joan remembered Marlene had locked them in on entering. Her fingers did not seem able to obey the dictates of her mind, but she managed to turn the key at last and open the door.

The hall outside lay dark and still. Joan did not know which way to go or what to do. At first she thought of flight, leaving the house and fleeing before she could be blamed for the killing. Common sense came to her aid, she would not make half a mile in her present condition; half naked, bare footed and battered so badly.

Turning, she made her way to the stairs and dragged herself up them. Only one man could save her, prove that she had not killed Marlene. Joan could barely stand, her lungs seemed ready to burst as she staggered to and opened the door of the Texans’ room.

Always a light sleeper, the Kid woke as the door opened, reaching a hand to the lamp by the bed and turning up its wick to flood the room with light.

‘What the hell!’ he growled.

The other three were awake by that time and every eye went to the shape at the door. There was no time to think of personal modesty, or the proprieties of allowing a woman to see them undressed. All four men swung from their beds, grabbing and donning their pants with speed.

‘It—it’s the Thack—Thackery dame—’ Joan gasped, stumbling forward. ‘We h-had a fight.’

‘Looks that way,’ replied the Kid, springing forward to catch her as she collapsed and easing her down on to his bed.

‘Go wake Aunt Mamie, Waco!’ Dusty ordered. ‘We’d best get downstairs and see how bad hurt Marlene is.’

‘If she’s roughed as bad as Joan, she’s in poor shape,’ Mark replied, pouring water from the jug on the washstand into its bowl. ‘It must have been one hell of a fight.’

‘Marlene’s been spoiling for it since they first met,’ the Kid answered.

‘Sure,’ agreed Mark. ‘You pair get downstairs. I’ll tend to Joan.’

Knowing Mark had a considerable knowledge of treating fistfight injuries, Dusty gave his agreement and left the room followed by the Kid. They met Waco and Mamie at the stairhead, the old woman carrying a lamp.

‘We didn’t wake Frankie,’ she said. ‘What’s wrong?’

Mamie Thackery had lived all her life in the West and ignored the state of dress shown by all three men, for she guessed something serious was afoot. She wore a robe over her nightdress and had a sleeping cap on her head, but none of the men even glanced at it.

‘There’s been some trouble,’ Dusty replied and led the way downstairs to the library door.

Entering the room first, Dusty saw enough to tell him there had been bad trouble. Not only were the chairs turned over, the carpets rucked up and the table disarranged, swung at an angle to where it usually stood, but he could see Marlene’s body sprawled on the floor. Dusty saw more than just the body. Enough to make him thrust out an arm and stop the old woman entering the room.