The Fortune Hunters (2 page)

THE Right Honourable Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrave-Woodstole—or as she was better known, Freddie Woods, co-owner of the Fair Lady Saloon and mayor of Mulrooney, Kansas—sat on the edge of her bed and rolled a black silk stocking up over a very shapely leg.

Thinking of the previous night, Freddie smiled. If anybody had told her a man would attract her in such a manner, she would have laughed in the teller’s face. Several men had tried; rich men prepared to drop their all in her lap; handsome men with a string of female conquests behind them. Until last night all had failed to attract the beautiful and mysterious lady mayor of Mulrooney.

True, the successful man had made quite a name for himself. He had been a Confederate Army captain at seventeen, with a name as high as Turner Ashby or John Singleton Mosby’s ever stood. With the War over, he did not sink into oblivion and dreams of past glories, but had become the segundo of the OD Connected ranch and famous for his ability both as ranch foreman and trail boss. It was he who tamed a tough Montana mining town when three good, but lesser, men died trying.
¹
And he became Mulrooney’s first town marshal, responsible for framing the laws which made Freddie’s city into the one Kansas trail drive end where a Texas man received a fair deal. Folks claimed he was the fastest gun in the West, and Freddie did not dispute the claim. Nor was he a mean hand with bare fists in a roughhouse brawl.

A man with such a reputation and capabilities should, by popular conception be a veritable giant, handsome as a god of old and fully able to attract the favours even of as discerning a lady as Freddie Woods.

Dusty Fog stood five foot five and a half inches in his bare feet. Although she had long since forgotten the point, Freddie was a good two inches taller than him. His dusty blond hair looked tousled as he stood washing the shaving-lather from his face in Freddie’s small bathroom. While he was good looking, he did not have eye-catchingly handsome features, yet there was strength to his face if one took time out to look. He seemed more impressive with his shirt off, for then the spread of his shoulders, the powerful muscles, lean waist and generally strong physique showed their full potential. One was inclined to pass Dusty by and ignore him as a small, insignificant cowhand when dressed, for he did not have the flair to best set off his expensive clothes. His black Stetson hat, with a Texas style low crown and wide brim, hung on the chair where rested his gun-belt, a matched brace of bone handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers, butt forward for crossdraw in the holsters. His new bandana and shirt lay among Freddie’s clothes, his boots and socks with Freddie’s shoes and a pair of button tipped rapiers on the floor.

He had just completed a trail drive and last night had been one to howl.

In many ways the trail drive had been a swine. Dusty brought it north earlier than usual and they hit swimming water over the willows in three rivers, but forced their way across. The bad luck dogged them and was only averted by damned hard work on the part of every man of the trail drive crew. A bunch of rustlers tried to hit the herd six days from Mulrooney, only to be driven off and trailed to their hide-out. The rustlers had been busy, with a herd of five hundred head of unbranded stock to show for their efforts. After the shooting ended Dusty took the cattle as compensation for his trouble. He still brought in the first drive of the season and sold it for top prices. Then, as he promised he would, Dusty threw a party for his men in the Fair Lady Saloon.

Just how he and Freddie ended up in her private suite of rooms, Freddie could not remember. They left while the party was at its height; with Freddie wishing her partner, Buffalo Kate, had not gone East on vacation, for this celebration would be Kate’s idea of fun. In the suite Dusty and Freddie shared a

<<>>

bottle of champagne. Then she insisted he ran a few passes with the duelling swords, for Freddie was an unconventional young woman and could handle a blade, saying it was good exercise for hex’ figure. After that things took their course and Freddie had no cause for complaint.

A knock sounded on the door, it opened and Freddie’s maid entered with a buff coloured telegraph form in her hand. Crossing the room, she handed the form to Freddie without even a glance at the open bathroom door.

‘It’s for you, Dusty,’ Freddie called.

Dusty came from the bathroom wiping his face with a fancy, soft white towel. He stopped dead as he saw the maid, but her back was to him and she ignored his presence. Crossing to where Freddie sat, Dusty took the paper and read its message.

‘What is it?’ Freddie asked.

‘Darned if I know,’ he replied. ‘It’s from Uncle Devil, says for me to go see Counsellor Talbot as soon as I can and tell him I’m Elmo Thackery’s agent, then do what he wants doing.’

‘Talbot?’ Freddie asked in a puzzled voice. ‘He’s my lawyer. But he won’t be at his office until after nine o’clock. Will this work he has mean you’ll be leaving Mulrooney immediately?’

‘I don’t know. It most likely will though.’

‘Oh!’ Freddie sounded disappointed.

‘I’d best get the boys woke, in case it’s urgent,’ Dusty drawled.

‘Martha will do it for you,’ Freddie answered, watching him start to don his shirt. ‘It seems a pity to waste time until nine o’clock though.’

‘Sure,’ Dusty smiled, watching the maid leave the room.

Freddie removed the stocking she had put on and yawned, stretching. ‘I think I’ll be lazy and have breakfast in bed,’ she said. ‘Did you ever have your breakfast in bed, Dusty?’

‘Only when I was sick.’

‘You’re looking a little peaked right now,’ Freddie said, and Dusty took off his shirt again.

On leaving the bedroom in which he spent the night, Mark Counter walked to the next door and pounded on it.

There stood a man who might have served as a model for what Dusty Fog should look like by popular conception. Six foot three inches in height, with a costly white Stetson hat on his curly golden blond hair. He had an almost classically handsome face, yet one with strength of character and intelligence. Great wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, clad in an expensive tan made-to-measure shirt over which the ends of a scarlet silk, tight rolled, bandana hung from his throat. He wore levis which had been made for him, for he would have had difficulty to obtain such a perfect fit by buying off a storekeeper’s shelves. His high heeled, fancy stitched boots had been made by the same master hand which tooled his gunbelt. The matched ivory butted Colt Cavalry Peacemakers hung in contoured holsters built for speed on the draw.

He was Dusty Fog’s right bower, and a man in his own right. During the War, Mark rode as a lieutenant in Bushrod Sheldon’s cavalry regiment. He gained a name as a brave fighter, and the Beau Brummel who set uniform design fashions among the bloods of the Confederacy. Now his taste in clothes dictated rangeland fashions among the Texas cowhands. His strength was a legend, his prowess in a roughhouse brawl spoken of with awe wherever it had been witnessed. Few could say how good he might be with his guns. The few who knew claimed Mark to be second only to Dusty Fog in the matter of speedy withdrawal and accurate shooting.

The room door swung open under Mark’s push and he found his good friend, the Ysabel Kid locked in the arms of a very pretty red haired girl.

Clad all in black, from hat to boots, the Kid stood six foot, with a lean, wiry, whipcord strong frame. His hat hung on his back by its storm-strap and his hair was curly, black as a raven’s wing. Looking at the Kid’s tanned face, one might put his age at a young sixteen, so almost babyishly innocent were the features, Then one saw the eyes, they did not look sixteen years old, but cold, red-hazel, savage and ancient in wisdom.

There was something wild, alien about the Kid, Indian-like almost. His father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian, his mother of mixed Comanche-French Creole blood. From these parents he gained a sighting eye like an ancient mountain man and an almost uncanny skill with a rifle. He could handle the ivory hilted bowie knife which hung at the left side of his gunbelt with the skill of old Jim Bowie himself and might be accounted fair with the Colt Dragoon revolver pointing its walnut grips forward in the holster at his right. Fair in Western terms meant he could draw in around a second and hit his man at the end of that time. He spoke several Indian tongues and fluent Spanish, could track where a buck Apache might fail, slide through thick bush with the silence of a shadow.

Taken any way one looked at it, the Ysabel Kid made a good friend, or a real bad mean enemy.

‘What the—!’ he began, turning towards the door.

‘Dusty wants us downstairs
pronto
,’ Mark replied.

Holding the girl at arms’ length, the Kid looked down at her. ‘
Adios
, honey lamb, happen we have to pull out.’

‘I hope you don’t, Loncey,’ she replied, using the Kid’s Christian name.

Turning, the Kid walked from the room, passing Mark and not noticing his big
amigo
had not followed him. Mark stepped forward, scooped the girl into his arms and gave her a kiss. Her arms closed around him, gripping him tightly and she looked a trifle glassy eyed when he released her.

‘Are you going too?’ she asked.

‘Why sure,’ he grinned. ‘We’ll maybe see you around.’

‘I’ll be here,’ she breathed.

Mark left the slightly dazed looking girl and found the fourth member of the floating outfit already in the hall.

His only name was Waco. A tall youngster in his late teens, he came between Mark and the Kid in height, though showing a developing muscular heft to his wide shoulders and lean waist. He had curly blond hair, a tanned, handsome young face with blue eyes and a mouth which now smiled easily. From his hat to his boots he spelled tophand Texas cowboy, his clothes modelled on Mark’s design. The gunbelt supported a matched brace of walnut handled Army Colts. Waco had ordered a brace of the new Peacemakers, but they had not yet reached him so he retained his old armament. From the way the belt and guns hung, he did not wear them as decorations.

‘Sleep well, boy?’ asked the Kid, although he looked younger than Waco.

‘Why not?’ Waco replied with a grin. ‘I got me a clear conscience.’

There had been a time when Waco’s conscience might not been so clear. Left an orphan almost from birth, the youngster had been raised on a Texas ranch. At thirteen he never moved without an old Navy Colt thrust into his waistband. By the time he reached fourteen, Waco had killed his first man, a bunkhouse bully of the worst kind. Two years later Waco rode for Clay Allison’s CA outfit, and no man, or boy, worked for that Washita curly-wolf unless he could handle his guns. Waco had been well on the trail ridden by Wes Hardin, Bad Bill Longley and many another handy Texas boy, with a quick gun and a foot on the slide. Then he met up with Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. After Dusty saved his life, Waco followed the Rio Hondo gun wizard with almost dog-like devotion and hero-worship. Now Waco rode as a member of the elite of the OD Connected crew, Ole Devil’s floating outfit. From the other three, who treated him as a younger brother, he learned much and was now regarded as a respectable and very useful member of rangeland society.

The three cowhands went downstairs and sat at a table, to be served by a couple of Freddie’s girls with heaped-up breakfast plates. They all settled in to eat with good appetite, but their leader did not make an appearance through the meal.

‘I wonder what Dusty got us down here for?’ Mark asked, glancing at Waco who sat wolfing his food down. ‘Boy, you’re eating like it’s going out of style.’

‘Young feller like me needs his victuals to keep his strength up,’ Waco replied, swallowing a mouthful of ham and eggs.

Not until almost nine o’clock, when the three cowhands were muttering dire threats against him for dragging them away from their business without good cause, did Dusty join them downstairs. He crossed the room and sat at their table, meeting their gaze without any hint of shame for keeping them waiting.

‘What kept you-all, Cap’n Fog, sir?’ asked Waco, who had risen and politely drawn a chair out for Dusty to use.

‘I’ve been using a boss’ prerogative, boy,’ Dusty replied. ‘Having breakfast in bed. Say, that food smells good. Go raise me a plateful, will you, Waco?’

From the hearty meal Dusty ate, the other three concluded the food upstairs had not been as plentiful as served out to the peasants down below.

‘What now, Dusty?’ asked Mark. ‘And if it’s word from Ole Devil, don’t tell us, let us suffer.’

‘Sure,’ the Kid agreed. ‘Why I near on asked that lil gal to marry me.—Say, Ole Devil wants us to do something urgent, don’t he?’

‘We have to see a lawyer,’ Dusty replied, not failing to notice the hopeful note towards the end of the Kid’s words. ‘After that,
quien sabe
?’

‘I don’t and that’s for sure,’ groaned Waco. ‘But I’ll just bet my tired lil Texas bones it means work for us.’

They found out what was needed of them soon enough. Talbot had been notified of Thackery’s death and already consulted the Pinkerton field officers to learn of the location of the missing heirs to the fortune. This pleased Dusty, for few Texans wished to have anything to do with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. When Dusty left the lawyer’s office he knew what he had to do, and where to find the people he wanted.

‘We’ll have to split up,’ he said as they sat in the Fair Lady saloon following the visit to the lawyer’s office. ‘I’ll telegraph Ed Ballinger and ask him if he can meet up with me. He’ll likely be able to find this Cohen feller. Mark, you take the train up the tracks to the construction camps and pick up Claude Thackery and his wife.’

‘How about the hosses, Dusty?’ asked the Kid.

That would be a problem. None of their personal mounts took kindly to strangers handling them, and the Kid’s huge white stallion could be dangerous even with people it knew. They could not leave the horses in a livery barn, nor with the OD Connected’s remuda, for that would be headed back home in a couple of days along with the chuck and bed wagons.

‘You and the boy take my paint and Mark’s bloodbay with you,’ Dusty replied, after thinking the matter over. ‘Go by hoss and across country to Newton to meet up with the Chicago at around noon tomorrow.’

‘How about you, Dusty?’ Mark asked.

‘I’ll take the noon train east. It’s a fast mail and I’ll be in Chicago at around noon tomorrow. Happen I’m lucky, allowing for a day to find the girl, I’ll be back here on Friday. It’ll take you about that long, Mark.’

‘Sure,’ Mark agreed.

‘And us, if we go on hoss back,’ the Kid drawled. ‘Huh! Apart from taking me away from the gal I love, this’ll be an easy enough chore. Once we’ve got them to Casa Thackery, we’ll have finished with it.’

Which only went to prove that although the Ysabel Kid might be a damned efficient scout, a fighting man from soda to hock, and no mean hand at wooing a pretty little gal, he made a damned poor prophet.