The Fortune Hunters (4 page)

oooOooo

1. Told in
Quiet Town
by J. T. Edson.

2. Told in
The Peacemakers
by J. T. Edson.

CHAPTER THREE

‘WHERE at’d a feller find Joan Shandley, friend?’ the Ysabel Kid asked.

Looking towards the speaker, the bartender of the Buffalo Hide Saloon made a mistake. Before coming to Newton the bartender had worked in a Dodge City saloon much patronised by the Earp brothers. Except when absent on business trips—the trips always coinciding with the arrival of some Texas trail crew headed by a man noted for his speed and skill with his guns—the Earps kept cowhands firmly in their place and the bartender tended to look down on them. He expected cowhands to speak deferentially to him.

‘Over there, playing poker,’ he grunted and started to turn away.

‘Which one’d she be?’ Waco inquired.

Swinging, the bartender looked the two cowhands over, seeing two young men who, at first glance, seemed to be no different from a hundred or more who visited Newton every trail season.

‘Why?’ he growled.

‘She’s my mother,’ Waco answered.

‘Yeah,’ drawled the kid, ‘and I’m related to him on my father’s side.’

Something in each young man’s appearance and attitude warned the bartender not to push things too far. Under the bar lay a twin barrelled ten gauge, its barrels cut short to spread the shot better when fired. Glancing at the two tall young Texans, the bartender decided they would be ten gauge meat—happen a man had the guts to reach down and lift it. Only the man had best be able to lift the shotgun in less than a second, or he would likely die trying.

There was another point to remember. This was Newton, not Dodge City and he did not have the Earps to back him—always assuming the Earps would chance tangling with those two Texas boys.

‘No offence, gents,’ he said. ‘Only Joan don’t—’

‘Who said we wanted to?’ growled the Kid. ‘You likely wouldn’t believe us, but we done come to tell her she’s inherited a fortune.’

The bartender felt undecided. Maybe that black-dressed heller with the Comanche-mean face had made a joke and expected laughter to applaud it. Or again perhaps he did not want a laugh. Either way, the wrong response could be equally fatal.

‘That’s her, the brown haired little gal in the blue dress, just dealing,’ the bartender said in a more civil voice. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Two schooners of beer,’ Waco drawled. ‘And take something for yourself.’

Deciding the two Texans were maybe nicer gents than he first imagined, the bartender collected the drinks. Then he leaned an elbow on the polished bar top and jerked a thumb in the direction of the table across the room where a poker game attracted a lot of interest and attention.

The poker game attracted attention for two reasons: first, the players were saloongirls; second, they were not playing for money.

Nobody could ever say Homer Trent failed to provide his customers with entertainment. He had needed an attraction to counter the crowd-drawing show at a rival establishment and, as the new town marshal of Newton allowed a certain freedom to such places which crossed his palm with silver, organised a poker game between five of his most willing and attractive girls.

While the idea proved to be a success and pulled a good crowd into the Buffalo Hide. Trent could not honestly claim to have been the first to use it. He had heard of the owner of another saloon using the same method to counter the drawing power of a rival’s show.

Anticipation ran through the crowd as the small, pretty, brown haired woman in the blue dress dealt the cards. Most of the jewellery had been bet and this deal ought to prove interesting.

‘I’ll open,’ Beegee Benson said, taking off her wide-brimmed, flower decorated hat.

Joan Shandley and Beegee Benson might have been sisters, so alike were they in height and build. The only difference noticeable at a distance was that Beegee wore a flame red dress of daring cut and had piled up blonde hair. For the rest, they had good figures; pretty, but not ravingly beautiful faces; and neither would see thirty again.

The betting went briskly, for the girls wanted to get the game over and resume their normal work. Only Beegee and Joan seemed to take it seriously, for they alone had insisted that whatever they won from each other would be kept as in a real game.

At last only three players remained. Joan, Beegee and a young red head. Having been told by their boss how far they could go, Beegee and the red head called Joan’s bet while still wearing their brief underclothes, although they had bet jewellery, hats, dresses, slips, shoes and stockings; removing them and putting them on the table used for the pot.

‘I’ll see it, three fives,’ the red head stated.

Joan smiled. ‘I knew I had you beat, Red,’ she said. ‘But I was scared that Beegee might fill her straight.’

‘And I did,’ Beegee whooped delightedly, turning over her cards. ‘Five to nine, climbing up. Read them and weep.’

‘Oh, I beat that too,’ Joan put in as Beegee’s hands went towards the pot. ‘Three threes and two kings, full house. Hard luck, darling, anyway you ran a good second.’

For a moment Beegee sat eyeing Joan, a flush climbing up her cheeks. Joan tensed herself ready for an attack. It would not be the first time she and Beegee had tangled.

Two things stopped Beegee from jumping Joan; they were not dressed for a brawl; and the boss had given them definite orders. Not that Homer Trent had any scruples or dainty feelings to cause his objection to the girls fighting. He remembered the time he brought together a pair of lady gamblers in a saloon he owned down Texas way. Trent had not needed two gamblers, but hoped to gain some publicity by a fight between them. He succeeded, partially, in his wish. The girls put on a fight, but unfortunately it spread to the crowd and before Trent could stop it, his place had been wrecked.*

So Homer Trent fought shy of such lusty entertainment as arranging, or allowing, spontaneous brawls between his female employees.

Draping a cloak around her, which gave her some slight coverage in excess of her underwear, Joan scooped up what money had been used in the game. The other girls knew their property would be returned in the back room and so did not raise any objections as Joan yelled that she would buy drinks for the house. Beegee was the exception to the rule. Due to her boasting before the game, Beegee and Joan had insisted they would play for keeps.

‘Get your drink, boys!’ Joan called. ‘And you, girls. Then I’ll go put on my new hat and frock and come back to let you see how it looks.’

Picking up the red dress and Beegee’s hat, Joan nodded to the waiters, who carried the rest of the pot into the back room to be collected by its owners. Joan headed for the bar, receiving congratulations and compliments from all sides.

‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ a soft drawling voice said behind her.

Turning, Joan looked at the two tall young Texas men who stood side by side and clear of the crowd. She studied their trail stained clothes and their weapons with some interest. A woman did not work in saloons all her grown life without she gained a knowledge of men. Joan reckoned she could read the signs pretty well. Two cowhands, young men, yet handy and capable. They did not appear to be drunk, nor had they the look of a pair of men who wanted female company.

‘Everybody was included when I shouted for the house, boys,’ she said. ‘So belly up and call your poison.’

‘We were hoping you’d join us at a table, happen you’re Miss Joan Shandley, ma’am,’ the Ysabel Kid replied.

‘My, aren’t you the choosey one?’ she smiled.

‘There’s an empty table across there, ma’am,’ Waco drawled. ‘We’d like to talk to you.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Away from the crowd,’ the Kid suggested.

Once more Joan studied the lean, Indian-dark faced boy—or was he a boy? Her second look led her to believe that black dressed Texan was older than she had first imagined.

‘These boys wanting something, Joan?’ asked a bouncer, moving forward.

Some instinct told Joan the two Texans meant her no harm; anyway she reckoned she could handle any cowhand in her own country. Another instinct warned her that it might go badly for the bouncer, despite his superior size and heft, if he tangled with that salty looking brace of Texans.

‘It’s all right, Benny,’ she said, then smiled at the Texans. ‘Come on, boys. Do you want a drink?’

‘No, ma’am,’ Waco smiled. ‘But you might.’

‘Might I?’

‘Sure, tna’am. Set, me ‘n’ Lon here, well we know what we’re going to tell you and you don’t.’

Joan signalled to the nearest waiter and told him to bring a bottle of whisky and three glasses to her at a table. Then she led the Texans clear of the crowd and sat down with them. Already Trent had his show starting on the stage so as to hold on to the customers who came in to see the poker game.

‘Do you know why I’ve come with you?’ she asked, determined to get things straight from the start.

‘You’re curious,’ Waco suggested.

‘And you’re too smooth for your age,’ she answered, hoping to cut him down to size and show him that she was used to older, mature
men
. ‘I came to see if you boys had a new line. Most of you, depending on how long you’ve been chasing the Swamp Lightning, want to know what a nice gal like me’s doing in a place like this and can you marry me and take me away from it all.’

‘Well, we did kind of figger on taking you away from this, all right,’ the Kid admitted.

‘And marry me?’ she smiled. ‘Both of you?’

‘Always did want to marry rich,’ Waco drawled. ‘But I reckon you’d be too smart to take me.’

‘Well, that needn’t worry you. I’m not rich. How about your friend?’

‘Me, ma’am?’ grinned the Kid. ‘I wouldn’t marry anybody who’d marry a mean ornery cuss like me. We’d still like to take you out of here and make you rich.’

The smile left Joan’s face and it set in hard, warning lines. Yet she could not decide what to make of the two cowhands.

‘I don’t know where you boys heard about me, or what you heard,’ she said grimly. ‘But you heard wrong.’

‘You’re not Joan Shandley, ma’am?’ asked Waco.

‘Sure I am. But I don’t—’

‘I wouldn’t spit in their faces if their mouths were on fire,’ interrupted the Kid, ‘but I’ll say one thing, Pinkertons aren’t often wrong.’

‘How’d you like to be rich, ma’am?’ Waco went on.

‘I reckon I’d best get Benny over here.’

‘You got a grudge against him or something?’ drawled the Kid. ‘Or maybe you just don’t like the idea of being rich.’

Joan had started to rise, meaning to yell for the bouncers and to hell with the consequences. Then she sat down again and looked at the two young men. If they were wanting to sleep with her for the night, they sure showed a strange way to go about it. Most men tried to act as if they were doing her a favour and that she ought to be paying them. Not that Joan made a habit of entertaining the customers that way, but a saloongirl often received offers.

‘Did you ever see a drama, ma’am, where the heroine buys some old down-and-out drifter a meal, only he comes out to be real rich and leaves her all his money in his will.’

‘Sure, I’ve played the heroine,’ she replied. ‘Corn like that goes down well with the rubes.’

‘Reckon that play Lon talked about couldn’t come true then?’ Waco grinned.

‘I only wish it would for me.’

Reaching out a hand, Waco took the whisky bottle and poured out a stiff drink, pushing the glass towards Joan.. Then he nodded to the Kid.

‘There’s seven of you to share it,’ drawled the Kid, never taking his eyes from Joan’s face. ‘But I’d say your cut’d be nearer two hundred thousand dollars than one.’

‘What’s this all about?’ Joan asked, searching their faces for some hint of cowhand humour and finding none.

‘Do you remember back when you was working in the Bon Ton in Dodge, and you set an old feller up with a meal?’ asked the Kid.

Screwing her face in a puzzled frown, Joan thought back to all the times she had bought needy folks meals. At first she could not think of any old man while she worked for the Bon Ton, in fact she had not been long in the Bon Ton’s employment, having a rooted objection to sleeping with the customers, picking pockets and rolling drunks even if the place did have the patronage and support of the Earp brothers.

‘Sure!’ she said, slapping her brow. ‘Some old bag-line bum—’

‘His name was Emo Thackery,’ the Kid put in.

‘Oh sure,’ Joan answered. ‘And you’re Dusty Fog.’

‘No, ma’am. I’m some better looking than Dusty. ‘Sides which he’s gone to Chicago after Thackery’s niece. I’m the Ysabel Kid and this’s Waco.’

‘You’re serious!’ she gasped.

‘No, ma’am. The Ysabel Kid, like I told you. And Elmo Thackery’s done left you a share of his fortune. All you have to do is go to Casa Thackery with us and see a lawyer.’

‘Nice feller, Elmo Thackery,’ Waco carried on after the Kid stopped speaking. ‘Or so somebody said, leastways, somebody somewhere must have said so.’

Joan barely heard a word Waco said. She turned a dazed, unbelieving face to the Kid and asked, ‘You mean that old feller I bought a meal for was Elmo Thackery, the richest man in Texas?’

‘Why sure, though I wouldn’t say he was the richest. I ride for Ole Devil Hardin myself.’

Ignoring the cowhand belief that his boss must be the best man alive, no matter what aspect was being discussed, Joan shook her head as if to clear it.

‘And he’s left me some money?’ she gulped.

‘We don’t know how much,’ Waco replied, grinning. ‘But he left you an equal share with six other folks. Reckon you could use that drink now.’

‘I reckon I could,’ Joan agreed and sank four fingers of rye whisky in a single gulp.

The bite of the raw liquor ragged her and made her cough, bringing tears to her eyes. However it also served to force coherent thought into her head. Such things did not happen in real life, folks didn’t come into a saloon and tell you that you’d come into a fortune—only this pair of cowhands had just done so.

If this’s a joke!’ she warned grimly.

Taking a letter from his pocket, the Kid slid it across the table to Joan. She took it up, extracted a sheet of paper from the envelope and read its contents with growing amazement and certainty that this was not a joke. Or, if joke it be, those two Texans had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to put it over on her.

‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said. ‘You know what I’m going to do?’

‘No, ma’am,’ grinned the Kid.

It was on the tip of Joan’s tongue to say she aimed to treat the house to decent drinks instead of the cheap whisky which had been served the first time.

‘How soon can you start back to Mulrooney with us, ma’am?’ Waco asked before she could speak.

‘Mulrooney? I thought the ranch was in Texas.’

‘Sure it is,’ agreed the Kid. ‘But we’re meeting some of the other folks, who get a cut of the will, down there.’

‘I’ll catch the noon train tomorrow. But this’s my night to howl.’

Grins came to two Texan faces. Way they saw it, Joan had a right to howl and they reckoned they could help her do it.

‘How do I attract folks’ attention?’ Joan asked.

‘You want to?’ grinned the Kid.

‘Sure.’

Rearing up from his chair, the Kid threw back his head and let out the most hideous scream Joan had ever heard come from a human throat. Waco added a wild cowhand yell and Joan, though taken by surprise, came in with a screech like a train going through a tunnel.

On the stage a group of tumblers had reached the high spot of their act and all six of them stood in a human pyramid. The yells spoiled their concentration and the pyramid collapsed faster than it had been built. Every eye turned to Joan and her companions, the floor manager started forward with a couple of bouncers tagging along on his heels.

‘Yahoo!’ Joan yelled. ‘Hit that bar again, boys, and serve them some decent liquor for once, you bardogs! Take the show folks a bottle of champagne.’

‘Have you gone crazy, Joan?’ the floor manager growled.

‘I’ve just had good news,’ she replied.

‘You’re stunk-up drunk!’ the manager spat out and eyed the two Texans. ‘And you pair best look through the doors.’

‘Hold it, Stan!’ Joan snapped.

Stan held it. He noticed that the bouncers showed a marked reluctance to tangle with the two young cowhands. Also he felt curious as to why Joan, who he knew could hold her liquor, should act in such a manner on the few drinks she had taken that evening.

‘What’s it all about?’ he growled.

‘The lady’s done come into money, friend,’ the Kid drawled. ‘Look at this, Stan,’ Joan went on, handing the man the letter.

Although he considered himself a shrewd poker player, with a face that gave only such indication of his emotions as he wished it to, Stan stared bug-eyed at the paper after reading a couple of lines. The more so because he had worked in Mulrooney and recognised Lawyer Talbot’s handwriting. Here was no cowhand joke, Joan really did have a share in a sizeable fortune.

‘Well,’ Joan said with a smile. ‘Do I set them up?’

‘Sure you can,’ the floor manager replied. ‘Good for you, Joan.’

By now the crowd realised something of more than usual importance had happened. Western crowds were never noted for looking gift-horses in the mouth, especially when the gift-horse carried free drinks with it. Once more they swarmed to the bar to accept Joan’s hospitality, although on this occasion they were treated to much better liquor, for the bartenders read the floor manager’s sign correctly.

‘Hey, Red,’ Joan said, catching the arm of the girl who shared the last pot in the card game. ‘Where’s Beegee?’

Of all the people in the saloon good old Beegee must be the one to help Joan celebrate. Joan intended to return all Beegee’s belongings, including the fancy red dress Beegee sneaked out of a shop knowing Joan wanted it. Not that Joan objected, given half a chance she would have done the same to Beegee. They had been friends for more years than either liked to think about and Joan wanted Beegee to share her good fortune. Perhaps Beegee would come along with her to collect the money, then settle down in some permanent town and open a dress shop. It had been their ambition to do so, even though neither of them really expected to ever achieve it; and both were reaching the age where the better class saloons thought twice before hiring them.

‘She went out, looked all riled up,’ Red replied, pulling her arm free so as to head for the bar and collect her free drink.

Wasn’t that just like old Beegee though? Getting her wild up and storming off when Joan had good news to share with her. All right, if that was how she wanted it, that was the way Joan intended to play it.

For the first time Joan remembered how little clothing she wore. A grin came to her face. She reckoned Beegee would be fit to be tied if the blonde saw her in the red dress and wide brimmed hat. When Beegee got that way, things were likely to pop and Joan was so happy she wanted to do something violent. To hell with Homer Trent’s orders, after tonight Joan and Beegee would not need to care what the saloon’s owner thought.

‘Look, boys,’ she said to the Kid and Waco. ‘I’m going out the back and to the hotel to dress and fix my face. Come on down in about ten minutes and meet me. We’ll hooraw the town.’

‘Whatever you say, ma’am,’ the Kid replied.

‘Hey, Joan!’ yelled a woman. ‘You’re not running out on us now you’re rich, are you?’

‘Nope!’ Joan yelled back and the crowd fell silent to hear what she had to say. ‘I’m just going to the hotel to change into Beegee’s frock and hat, then I’m going to howl.’

Picking up the red dress and hat, Joan entered the back room to gather up the jewellery which lay scattered on the table after the other players in the game had helped themselves to their property. It would make old Beegee pot-boiling mad if Joan turned up wearing her jewellery as well as the dress and hat.

Joan left the saloon by the rear door and went along the back alley to the small flea-bag hotel where she roomed. Nobody was in the hall and Joan climbed the stairs to the poorly lit passage where her room lay. She unlocked the door, pushed it open and entered.

A noose of rope dropped over her head and shoulders and clamped tight on her arms. The hat and frock fell from her hand, she let out a startled squeal and felt herself being pushed forward towards the bed. Two more loops of the rope came over her head and drew tight on her arms. Taken by surprise, Joan could not stop herself being shoved forward until she fell face down on the bed. A knee rammed into her back, holding her down, a mouthful of bed clothes prevented her from screaming; not that it would have done much good screaming, for the hotel catered for saloon workers, most of whom would be out at work.

Struggling wildly, but with no result, Joan felt her hands drawn behind her back and secured. Her unseen attacker sat with knees astride her and weight on her back. Then the weight eased off, a hand gripped her hair, pulled her head up from the pillow and, as she opened her mouth to scream, released the hair and pulled one of her own stockings around her face in a gag.

Rolling over, Joan found herself looking up at laughing Beegee. Bending, Beegee grabbed one of Joan’s ankles, reaching for the other leg. Kicking wildly, Joan tried to buck herself free of the hands which held her ankle and escape from the ropes. Twice Beegee grabbed and missed, then managed to get a noose around the free ankle and draw the rope tight. She ignored Joan’s angry splutters as she fastened the ankles together.

‘Now who’s come off second best?’ Beegee grinned, rolling Joan on to the bed. ‘What’s wrong, Joanie, cat got your tongue?’

Leaving Joan lying back down on the bed, Beegee went to pick up the dress and put it on. She lifted Joan’s vanity bag which had fallen with the clothes and tipped the entire contents into her own bag. After putting on the hat, Beegee came across the room and stood with hands on hips grinning down at Joan.

‘Your make-up’s all smeared, Joanie,’ she said and dipped a finger into the pot of rouge on the dressing table, rubbing her finger on the tip of Joan’s nose and leaving a red stain. ‘That’s better. Now for some eye-shadow.’

By the time Beegee had finished, Joan’s nose looked like a clown’s and she appeared to have two glorious black eyes. All the time she had struggled and tried to free herself, but failed. At last Beegee stepped back and stood with hands on her hips, admiring her work.

‘It’s an improvement,’ she said. ‘Well, I’m going for a last look at the Buffalo Hide, Joanie. Don’t bother to see me out. I’ll tell somebody what’s happened to you—before I catch the midnight train.’

‘It’s time we went to collect Miss Shandley,’ Waco drawled, looking at the clock on the wall.

‘Why sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Ain’t that just like a woman, though. She done forgot to tell us which hotel she’s staying at.’

‘It won’t be the Bella Union or the Grand,’ drawled Waco and went to where the floor manager stood. ‘Where at’s Miss Shandley live?’

‘Along the street there, at a small hotel down on Crail Street. You turn left here and it’s first on the right.’

On leaving the saloon Waco and the Kid strolled along the sidewalk towards the junction of Crail Street. Already the town seemed to be waking up, people on the sidewalks going about their business or looking for pleasure. Yet Crail Street, lying just off the main entertainment area of the town, was silent and empty as the two Texans reached it.

‘I don’t like it,’ said the Kid. ‘It’s not natural for a chore to go this easy.’

‘Sure is restful, though,’ Waco replied. ‘Coming up here and—say, there’s Miss Joan now, new red dress and all.’

Ahead of them lay a small hotel, some three buildings down the street, and facing it a livery barn. A small shape in a daring red dress and wide brimmed, flower decorated hat, came from the hotel’s front door, showing in the light of the hall lamps.

Even as the two Texans started forward to meet the woman, they saw a couple of dark shapes detach themselves from the shadows by the livery barn. Flame spurted twice from the shapes, the flat crack of shots ringing out. The small shape jerked under the impact of lead and fell against the hitching rail and from there went down.

‘Take ‘em, boy!’ the Kid ordered.

One of the shapes whirled to face the two Texans. He brought up his hand, for they could tell the shape was masculine, sending a bullet from his gun at the advancing Texans.

All in one flickering blur of movement, Waco came to a halt, dipped his right hand, brought out the Army Colt from its holster at his right side and shot at the man. He shot instinctively, without using sights, although the range was greater than most folks would have cared to chance such shooting over. The man who fired at him staggered back a couple of steps; which was good, lucky—or both—shooting on Waco’s part. However, the man did not go down, nor did he drop his gun, for he fired again. Raising his Colt shoulder high, Waco shot to kill. He sent a bullet into the man’s head and dropped him to the ground.

Ignoring the yells and footsteps on the street behind him, Waco moved forwards, making for where the small shape in the red dress lay sprawled on the edge of the hotel’s porch.

The second man had turned and run instead of standing his ground. He reached the safety of the livery barn’s end and disappeared down the side alley almost before his pard died.

Leaving Waco to take care of the first man, the Ysabel Kid went after the second. Cold rage filled him as he raced along the alley at the other end of the livery barn. The Kid did not know why the man might have killed Joan Shandley, but he sure as hell did not intend to let him get away with it.

Turning the corner of the building, the Kid saw his man swinging afork a horse. The old Dragoon Cult came from the Kid’s holster even as the man reached for the reins of his pard’s horse which had been standing by the other animal ready for a quick departure.

‘Going someplace?’ the Kid asked.

His words brought the man swinging to face him. Up lifted the man’s right hand, the left coming across to strike back the Colt he held, hammer and fan off shots.

Fanning might not be the most accurate way to shoot, but it sure as hell could empty a single-action gun faster than any other method. It could also make things real interesting for the man at the wrong end of the gun.

After two bullets narrowly missed him, the shooter showing riding skill in the way he stayed afork his horse by knee-pressure alone, for fanning took both hands, the Kid decided he had had enough. Flinging himself to one side in a rolling dive, the Kid lit down in the shadows of the barn. His black clothing merged with the shadows and yet he, with an almost cat-like ability, could see enough of his man to be able to shoot straight.