The Fortune Hunters (7 page)

‘What the hell happened here?’ Strogoff snarled, before Mark could answer Chaseman’s greeting.

‘Some folks just don’t know when to get tough,
hombre
,’ Mark answered. ‘And I don’t take to a man pulling brass knuckles on me. Can I come in and talk, Phil?’

‘Any time, Mark. Hi, Calamity, you in on this?’

‘Why sure. That other feller, the one with the gun by him, was all set to throw down on Mark from behind, so I asked him not to.’

Angry growls came from Strogoff’s throat, but he did not direct any of his thoughts into words. In his own way Strogoff could be a hard citizen, but he was far out of his own way now. Those two unconscious toughs proved that.

‘Come on in, Mark, bring Calamity with you. You’d best see to your men, Strogoff. I’ll talk to you about this business of yours later.’

‘I’m one against three here,’ Strogoff growled. ‘Alan’s not going to like it when he gets my report.’

‘You tell him what your boys did to wind up like that, and tell him true. I aim to in my report,’ Chaseman answered.

Still growling angrily, Strogoff stamped down the steps and pushed by Mark to walk towards the groaning Meyer. Mark picked up his bedroll and Calamity lifted and coiled her whip.

‘Meyer’s wrist’s sprained and it looks like his jaw’s broke,’ Strogoff snarled, looking up at Chaseman.

‘He’ll know better’n try to hit a lady next time,’ Calamity answered. ‘You look at the other one, Strogoff, I bet he don’t feel too good either.’

On examination it was proved that Meyer had a sprained wrist, but his jaw was not broken, although he did not feel like eating for a couple of days. Nor did Sid—his jaw was broken. Which left Strogoff without the support he needed to carry out the work he had been sent to do.

Chaseman left Strogoff to attend to his men, showing Mark and Calamity into his car. The railroad company had done their construction boss proud in the matter of accommodation. The front compartment of his car, into which he showed his visitors, served as a meeting room for Chaseman and was comfortably furnished.

‘Take a seat, Calamity, Mark,’ Chaseman said and waved a hand to the bar in the corner of the room. ‘What can I get you to drink?’

‘Whisky for me, please,’ Mark replied.

‘I’ll take a little snort of red-eye myself,’ Calamity went on. ‘Whooee, you sure live well.’

‘So I’ve been hearing from some of my mick construction workers. One of them wanted to know why I could have a car like this and he couldn’t.’

‘What’d you tell him?’ grinned Mark.

‘Asked him if he reckoned he could run the camp. He said he couldn’t. So I told him that when he got to where he could, then he’d have a car like this to work in. I think he took the point. What brings you up here, Mark?’

‘Thackery.’

Lowering the bottle from which he was pouring drinks, Chaseman looked hard at Mark, then threw a glance towards the door of the car. He walked across the room and lowered the window through which Mark had overheard some of his conversation with Strogoff.

‘What about Thackery?’ Chaseman asked.

‘How’d you like to get him out of your hair?’ Mark drawled.

‘I’d like it fine,’ Chaseman admitted, bringing two glasses of whisky to his guests. ‘So would head office. That’s why they sent Strogoff and his men up here. This’s between us, don’t forget.’

‘We won’t,’ Mark promised.

‘You’ve got my word on it,’ Calamity went on.

With any other woman Chaseman might not have been so keen to believe a promise of silence, but he knew Calamity never broke her word, and also that she knew how to keep her mouth shut.

‘I’m against shutting Thackery up that way,’ Chaseman confessed. ‘It only makes a martyr of him. Brutal railroad company abuses defender of the poor workers, silences freedom of speech. You know the sort of things some of the Eastern newspapers would say.’

‘I’ll get rid of him for you, Phil,’ Mark drawled, sipping appreciatively at his drink. ‘Man, that came from the real bottle.’

‘It sure did,’ agreed Calamity. ‘You listen to Mark, Phil. He’s got him a jim-dandy idea for getting rid of Thackery.’

‘How?’ Chaseman asked.

‘My way,’ Mark replied.

A grin creased Chaseman’s face. Back in Mulrooney he had seen Mark Counter in action. Even though Mark had been suffering from a shoulder wound during the early days Dusty Fog held office as town marshal, it did not prevent Mark taking his fair share of the work load.

Now Mark had no injury to slow him down, but Chaseman wondered what brought the big Texan out on to the plains so far from the Rio Hondo country and apparently looking for Claude Thackery.

It could be for political reasons, the newly formed Socialist Party being frowned on by the Democrats. Mark voted for the Democratic Party, what Texan did not? Yet he had never been so closely involved in the Party’s political activities that he would go out of his way to remove a member of some rival organisation.

Voices sounded faintly from outside the window, muffled yet showing surprise at what the speakers saw. A few seconds after the car’s doors burst open and Strogoff entered.

‘Both my men are out of action!’ he snapped. ‘I’m taking out a warrant against this pair, Chaseman.’

‘They started the fussing!’ Calamity replied hotly, coming to her feet.

‘From what I heard and saw, Calamity’s telling the truth,’ Chaseman went on. ‘I saw the brass knuckles Sid was wearing, and the gun by Meyer’s side. Was you to ask me, I’d say Mark and Calamity had a good case for assault against your men, if it comes to going to law.’

‘All right!’ snarled Strogoff. ‘I see I’m one against three again. But Alan won’t like it, and neither will your bosses, Chaseman.’

‘Maybe not. It’s been a long time since I last cared what Alan Pinkerton thought, and the bosses have locked horns with me before now. Take your boys to the hospital car, there’s a doctor aboard and he’ll tend to them.’

Strogoff spun on his heel and stamped towards the door of the room. Just before he left, the man turned and scowled back at Calamity and Mark in a threatening manner.

‘I’ve a long memory,’ he warned.

‘Then use it,’ Mark replied quietly, yet his voice held Strogoff like a bug pinned to a card. ‘If anything happens to Calamity, like she has an accident, I’ll come looking for you and I’ll nail your hide to a wall.’

‘I reckon I can stand up for myself, Mark,’ Calamity put in. ‘And Mr. Strogoff’d best mind it. If I lose any freight work, or have any fuss, I’ll save Mark the job.’

Directing a snarling blanket curse at Calamity, Mark and Chaseman, Strogoff turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

‘You’ve made a bad enemy there,’ Chaseman warned as they heard Strogoff snarling orders outside the car.

‘I never had a good one yet,’ grinned Calamity and sat down to finish her drink.

‘How do you reckon to handle Thackery, Mark?’ the railroad man asked.

‘Easy, provided I get him alone and can whisper a few words in his ear,’ Mark replied, winking at Calamity. ‘And don’t look so all-fired worried, Phil. I don’t aim to kill him, or even threaten him. But I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that he’ll take the morning train with me and you’ll never be troubled by him again.’

Seeing that Chaseman still had doubts, Mark explained his plan. Chaseman thought about it for a moment, wondering if such a fool scheme could work. Then he looked Mark over and thought back to the old days in Mulrooney. If any man could make that crack-brained scheme work, that man was Mark Counter.

‘Mind if I come along?’ he asked. ‘I’m coming, mind or not.’

‘Then feel free to join us,’ Mark replied. ‘There’s only one thing I want for you to do, if I pull this off.’

‘What’s that?’ Chaseman asked, and when Mark told him stared his disbelief. Giving a shrug, he agreed to Mark’s terms. ‘I’ll do it, Mark, but I sure hope the word never gets back to the head office that I have.’

* * *

Taken any way a man looked at it, the O’Sullivan’s Load Saloon was quite a place. In fact, considering the limitations of being built so that it could be transported when the base camp moved, the saloon could be said to equal the best many a good sized town could offer.

The bar was mahogany, built in sections for easy removal. All the fittings were of good quality, including a crystal chandelier which suspended from a specially strengthened central support. There were gambling tables, the liquor supply catered for all tastes, comfortable chairs for the customers, a bandstand and a stage large enough to present a decent show on it. Several gaily dressed and attractive girls spread their charms among the customers, the waiters were efficient and the bouncers capable.

All this the saloon had—and O’Sullivan’s Load.

It stood before the bar on a floor of solid unpolished oak; an enormous iron dumb-bell with a sign before it. The sign announced for all to see, if they could read, the legend of O’Sullivan’s Load.

‘O’SULLIVAN’S LOAD,’ the sign read. ‘On the night of April 19th, 1865, while celebrating the end of the Civil War, the great Seamus O’Sullivan did lift this dumb-bell and raise it to arms’ length over his head.

‘I, Thomas Barraclough, owner of the O’Sullivan’s Load Saloon, do promise to pay any man who can equal O’Sullivan’s feat of strength the sum of ONE HUNDRED dollars. I will also supply all who witness a repetition of the feat with free drinks until midnight on the day it is performed.’

Standing on a raised dais usually occupied by the saloon’s band, Claude Thackery ignored the offer. For one thing he did not have the strength necessary to do anything about it; for another, he was busily engaged in making an impassioned speech on the subject of the equality of men.

Thackery was a tall, thin man with a pinched, mean-looking face that bore a strong resemblance to his father’s, except that Claude’s complexion tended to be sallow and unhealthy. He did not wear a hat and his long hair hung straight back on his thin skull. Usually he wore a better suit, but not when speaking to the workers about equality. His white shirt was grubby and the red tie hung limp on it.

One reason he spoke in the O’Sullivan’s Load saloon was that his wife Marlene saw its owner and arranged for him to do so. Marlene was good at arranging such matters. While he went out to speak, she remained in their hotel room, or in this case a borrowed tent. Thackery could not see the owner of the saloon present, but did not care. Barraclough was not promising party material any way.

‘The conditions under which you live and work are worse than those of the slaves we freed in the Civil War!’ he told the attentive crowd, forgetting that his sole contribution to the Union cause had been making patriotic speeches many miles from the fighting area. ‘It is time you stood firm and demanded your rights!’

At that moment Calamity Jane, Mark Counter and Phil Chaseman entered the well-lit room. Almost instantly Thackery found his audience began to lose interest in his words of wisdom. Some, on seeing the big boss of the railroad, assumed expressions of complete disbelief at what Thackery was saying; others turned their attention from the politician completely.

‘Is that sign true?’ Mark asked the bartender who came to take their orders on their arrival at the counter.

‘Yep, sure is,’ the man replied. ‘The moment she’s hoisted up overhead, the money’ll be paid and the drinks start to flow.’

Turning from the bar, Mark walked forward and stepped on to the boards. He tested them carefully, making sure they were firm and would not move under him. Satisfied on this point, Mark examined the huge dumb-bell and guessed at its weight. If that O’Sullivan gent raised it over his head, he must have been a tolerable strong and powerful feller for it would weigh all of five hundred pounds.

All eyes went to the big Texan, noticing the way he examined the boards and studied the dumb-bell. Thackery might have been talking to the walls for all the notice anybody took of him. Slowly his voice trailed off and he stood on the dais with his mouth hanging open speechlessly.

Unbuckling his gunbelt, Mark handed it and his Stetson to Chaseman. Much to Mark’s surprise Calamity had not followed them from the bar, but stood near to the bartender. Mark wondered why Calamity did not join him, for it was unlike her to miss a chance of being at the centre of an attraction. Stripping off his shirt, to many admiring female and male glances, Mark handed it to Chaseman.

Now Thackery was completely forgotten as the crowd studied the great spread of Mark’s shoulders, the powerful muscles writhing under his tanned skin, the enormous biceps, the swelling forearms and large, strong-fingered hands. Some of the crowd recognised Mark from the old days in Mulrooney and others could recall hearing Texan cowhands boast of the blond giant’s strength.

One of the house gamblers, on being asked if he would take bets, threw an inquiring look at the bartender. Although he nodded his agreement, the bartender felt worried. A jerk of his head brought one of the waiters to him.

‘Go get the boss,’ he ordered.

‘I thought Tom didn’t want disturbing until just afore that dude stopped his lip-flapping,’ the waiter objected.

‘Go get him!’ snapped the bartender. ‘I’ll take the responsibility.’ Then, as the waiter hurried away, leaned on the bar top and called to Mark. ‘Hey, friend, don’t you go lift it afore the boss gets here. Wouldn’t want you to have to do it twice in one night.’

From the bandstand, Thackery saw the crowd settle down again and wondered if he could attract their attention. Before he could start to speak, although he did not feel like chancing speaking while the head man of the camp stood in the same room, he had the matter taken out of his hands.

Stepping to where a girl sat at one of the tables, Mark bent over and whispered a request in her ear. She looked startled, but drew her chair clear of the table and sat on it grinning self-consciously.

The crowd fell silent, watching and wondering what Mark intended to do. He did not keep them in suspense. Bending, he gripped the chair’s back legs and started to lift it from the floor. The girl gave a squeal that was part delight at being the centre of attraction, and part fear. As the chair rose, she grabbed at its seat and clung on with both hands, her legs kicking out before her.

Lifting the girl and the chair at arms’ length and shoulder high, Mark took a couple of steps forward and set them down gently on the table. To laughter and applause from the onlookers, Mark lifted the girl to the floor although she stood five foot eight and had a buxom, Junoesque build which did not make her a feather-weight. Setting her down, Mark gave the girl a kiss she would never forget.

Watching the girl stagger away from Mark looking glassy-eyed, for all her experiences in such matters, Calamity smiled. Yet she made no attempt to leave the bar and go speak words of wisdom to the saloongirl. Not that Calamity was scared of the girl even though slightly smaller and lighter. Nor was the fact that Buffalo Bill, his client and the client’s wife sat in the railed-off area reserved for the upper-classes what held Calamity back. At another time Calamity would have gone straight across the room and explained to the girl that although a kiss from Mark Counter was something no female would be likely to forget, nothing would develop from that kiss while Calamity was around. Right now Calamity had something more important to tend to, so she put off pleasure until a later, more convenient time.

The saloon’s owner arrived still puffing on his cutaway coat and without a tie around the neck of his unbuttoned shirt. With his swarthily handsome face showing annoyance, Tom Barraclough asked his bartender why the hell he had been called out while working on the business’ books.

‘That big feller looks like he might be able to lift the weight, boss,’ was the explanation.

‘All right. But why the hell couldn’t you handle it without—’

‘I thought maybe the politician’d be through talking, seeing how nobody’s listening,’ replied the bartender. ‘And he don’t look like the sort to hang around in a saloon.’

With a grunt that might have meant anything, Barraclough turned and studied Mark’s giant physique. Like the bartender said, there was a man who looked as if he might be able to do something with the five hundred pound dumb-bell. Most likely he could not lift it clean over his head, nobody had done so yet—even the great Seamus O’Sullivan, for he was no more than a figment of the saloonkeeper’s imagination, a come-on which brought much trade to the house. Even should the big cowhand look like succeeding, Barraclough was prepared to prevent him from doing so.

‘Go to it, cowhand,’ Barraclough called. ‘Let’s see you helft that dumb-bell right up there.’

Before he started to make the attempt, Mark took certain precautions. He knew the danger to himself should the weight slip while he lifted, so went to the barrel of sawdust standing at the side of the room and helped himself to a double handful. After spreading the sawdust on the bar between the weights, and leaving a film of it on his hands, Mark levered off his boots. High-heeled cowhand boots were ideal for their purpose, but that purpose was not lifting heavy weights and a broken heel could cause Mark a serious injury.

Silence fell on the room as everybody watched Mark approach the dumb-bell. Placing his feet carefully into position, Mark bent, gripped the bar and made sure his hands would not slip. He drew in a couple of deep breaths and then began to lift, spreading his right leg back and bending the left knee. The weight rose slowly from the floor and the crowd watched hardly daring to breathe as the Texan threw all his enormous strength into the task of raising it chest high.

The bartender watched the weight rising as did every other eye in the room, or so he thought. Reaching under the bar, his fingers passed over the ten-gauge shotgun and into a box behind it. The box contained a couple of’ seemingly innocent objects, yet together they had a sinister and very dangerous purpose. Taking up the boy’s bean-shooter from the box, the bartender slipped the shiny pebble which lay beside it into the mouthpiece. He reckoned everybody would be so interested in watching the Texan that none would see him lift the bean-shooter and blow out the pebble.

A click came to the bartender’s ears; one sound he recognised any time he heard it for just what it was. Turning his head towards the sound, he looked first into the muzzle of a Navy Colt, then at the cold eyes of Calamity Jane.

‘Leave it lie,’ she ordered in a low voice.

Knowing Calamity, the bartender left it. He did not doubt that she would use the gun if he tried to raise the bean-shooter and blow the pebble at Mark’s straining back. Seeing he had no chance now of improving his boss’s chances, the bartender rested the flat of his hands on the bartop and watched the big Texan lift the weight.

Mark brought the bar up to chest height, changed his grips, straightened his legs and exerted all his power. A gasp ran through the crowd as the great dumb-bell rose to arms’ length’ above Mark’s head and he held it there. For a good five seconds Mark held that great weight over his head. Sweat soaked his body and poured down his naked torso, his muscles bulged and writhed like he had a python under his skin, and his lungs felt they would burst.

At last, in a silence that could almost be felt, Mark started to lower the dumb-bell, letting it swing down, and crash on to the stout timbers before him. For almost twenty seconds nobody moved or breathed loud in the room. Mark staggered slightly and Chaseman sprang to his side, helping him from the oak boards and to a chair at the nearest table.

‘Yeeah!’ Calamity screamed, firing a shot through the roof of the building.

The shot and yell broke the silence and instantly almost everybody in the room began to shout, cheer, jump up and applaud the blond giant from Texas’ mighty effort.

‘What happened?’ Barraclough snarled, swinging to face his bartender under cover of the excitement following Mark’s lifting the dumb-bell.

‘Calamity Jane was in the night that bohunk near on lifted it and guessed why he let it drop. So she had a gun on me and that gal’d shoot a man.’

Barraclough spat out a curse. On a previous occasion when he thought he might lose his money, a pebble blown by the bartender struck the weight-lifter—a bohunk, mid-European worker—causing him to lose his hold. That this crippled the man for life did not concern Barraclough, for it saved his money.

Although the saloonkeeper would willingly have refused to keep his part of the bargain, he knew better than try. The crowd would tear his place, and him, apart should he welch on his deal. So Barraclough forced a sickly smile to his face and walked to where Mark leaned on a table with Calamity Jane and Chaseman at his side.

‘Here you are, friend,’ he said with false joviality, taking out his wallet.

‘Forget it,’ Mark replied. ‘I don’t want the money, but set up the drinks like the notice says.’

That was some slight consolation for Barraclough. Anyway, he would make up the money not spent that night from the crowd in the future. Yet it hurt to think of the unprofitable night he was due to have. He could not see any man in the room showing moderation when free drinks could be had for the asking.

‘You heard the man,’ he said, turning to the crowd. ‘Belly up, it’s on the house until midnight.’

Barraclough was not the only man who knew what to expect when free drinks were offered. Leaving the bandstand, Thackery made his way across the room and thought unpleasant thoughts about the workers he usually professed such admiration and friendship for.

A man blocked Thackery’s path and he looked up to see who it might be, hoping to find some worker who had a greater interest in politics than in free drinks.

‘Mr. Thackery,’ Chaseman said, managing a smile at the man. ‘Would you come with me, please. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’

Cold fear hit Thackery at the words. This was his first trip into the wild and untamed West. Always before he campaigned in the East where the police, who he always spoke of in disparaging terms at other times, were on hand to save him from possible danger.