Wanted! Belle Starr! (7 page)

“
Only some brown paint,”
Belle replied cheerfully. “His imagination and the way you backed
my play did the rest. It hadn’t affected him and couldn’t beyond
the slight sting when it hit, but I’m betting the antidote
will.”

“
What was that brown stuff
in the bottle?”

“
Some croton oil, ipecac,
cayenne pepper and gunpowder, all mixed together like I was making
a son-of-a-bitch stew. Once he gets that stuff working inside him,
I’ll bet he has to stay real close to the back house seat for a day
or two.”

“
Whooee, and isn’t that
the living truth?” the Kid ejaculated, being aware the first two
ingredients in particular had extremely potent laxative qualities
even without having been as range country cooks referred to a stew
containing whatever items of food might be available mixed until
one did not know what each separate ‘son-of-a-bitch’ might be. “I’d
say he’ll likely by wishing we had used a real poisoned dart and
‘blowing pipe’ on him afore he’s through with it.”

“
Or it’s through him,”
Belle supplemented. “I only wish I could have thought up some way
to make dear Emily drink it as well. That would have taught her as
well as the ‘Duke’ not to come wide-looping marks on my home
range.”

“
You’re a real mean woman,
Miss Starr,” the disguised Texan declared.

“
I’ve never claimed I
wasn’t, Mr. Ysabel,” the lady outlaw replied.

“
Excuse me, sir, please.
But aren’t you that most celebrated author and playwright, Mr.
David Icke?”

Although he was not using that name at the
Railroad House Hotel in Mulrooney, Kansas, when he heard the
attractive feminine voice which appeared to be charged with open
admiration, the man to whom the question had been addressed turned
to find out who was aware of his true identity. He was on his way
to the reception desk to ask if there were any messages for him
under the name he had given when registering, so he hoped the
speaker using his correct name was not the person from whom he was
expecting to hear.

Just over middle height, slender to the
point of thinness, David Icke was in his late forties. He had lean,
pallid and, apparently, aesthetic features generally set in an
expression indicative of a conscious superiority to those about
him. Longish black hair dangled from beneath a rakish broad brimmed
black felt hat. Taken with the long black cloak lined with red
satin, brown pin-striped three-piece suit, white silk shirt,
flowing mauve cravat and Hersome gaiter boots, the headdress
suggested he had a connection with the arts or the theater. He
showed no sign of being armed in any fashion. Nor, to anybody
conversant with his advanced ‘liberal’ point of view, would he be
expected to carry arms. He professed to have a profound hatred of
all firearms and had frequently advocated, on suitable political
platforms, that legislation preventing private ownership of them
should be ratified by Congress.

What Icke saw upon completing the turn, his
antipathy towards people with Southern accents especially those
indicative of wealth and good breeding notwithstanding, made him
feel pleased he had been recognized. The only person close enough
to have spoken had drawn his attention in the dining-room of the
hotel on more than one occasion, but she had never, until now,
given the slightest indication that she knew who he was. She, on
the other hand, had been the frequent subject of his lecherous
speculations even though he had considered these were almost
certain to remain unfulfilled.

The ‘celebrated author and playwright’ had
sought to satisfy his curiosity with regards to the blonde, very
beautiful, curvaceous young woman standing before him, despite
feeling doubtful that anything was likely to materialize from his
knowledge. Her name, he had discovered, was Darlene-Mae Abernathy
and, as was suggested by her always expensive attire and jewelry,
she was very wealthy. She had come from Richmond, Virginia, to
Mulrooney accompanied, if rumor was correct, by a dumpy and
unprepossessing maid to attend to an important matter of business
on behalf of her family. Whenever he had seen her, she had always
been in the company of Dennis Hobert; a good looking man of her own
age who was employed as a teller at the National Trust Bank in
which Icke had deposited a large sum of money on arriving in the
town.

Much to Icke’s satisfaction, the beautiful
young woman appeared to be alone at this moment!

“
Why yes, Miss Abernathy,”
the ‘most celebrated author and playwright’ confirmed, always
willing to acknowledge his identity when it was requested in such a
flattering manner. He did not pause to think it was surprising that
a wealthy Southron would consider him in such a complimentary
fashion, her kind being a major subject for vilification in his
works. Instead, he noticed there was a reddening around her eyes as
if she had recently been crying and other suggestions of some
deeply disturbing emotion on her beautiful face. “That’s who I
am!”

“
I hope you will forgive
me for addressing you without our being formally introduced!” the
blonde began. “B—But how did you-all know my name?”

“
I always try to learn the
names of beautiful young ladies,” Icke claimed, exuding an oily
charm which he had found efficacious on numerous occasions in the
past. “And, if I may say so, you are one of the most beautiful
young ladies I’ve ever come across.”

“
I—I don’t f—feel very
beautiful right now!” Darlene-Mae Abernathy complained, seeming on
the verge of breaking into tears once more. “In fact, I feel so
miserable I could just disgrace myself by starting to cry in
public!”

“
Surely not?” the
playwright asked, and then continued, although his intentions were
far less honorable than merely a desire to render assistance. “Is
there anything I might be able to do for you?”

“
Well actually—er—that is
why I sp—spoke to you,” the blonde admitted, wringing her hands and
showing suggestions of distress mingled with embarrassment. “B—But
it is no use. I just can’t bring myself to talk out here in
public!”

“
Then we could go into the
dining-room,” Icke suggested, hoping for a refusal on the same
grounds.

“
Tha—That would be almost
as public as out here!” Darlene-Mae pointed out.

“
Then where would you feel
comfortable for us to go and talk?” Icke inquired, believing the
answer he was hoping for would prove more suitable for his
intentions if it came from the woman he was addressing.

“
Well—!” the blonde said,
hanging her head with an appearance of becoming modesty. “Unless
you think it too forward of me, I that is, although my maid isn’t
there to act as chaperone, perhaps you might be willing to come and
talk in my room?”

“
Your room!”

“
I know it does sound
forward of me and I wouldn’t think of making such an improper
suggestion except except—!”

“
Except?” Icke
prompted.

“
Except—!” Darlene-Mae
commenced hesitantly, then she finished in a rush. “I need your
help so badly!”

“
Then, my dear, I’m
completely at your disposal!” the playwright stated, trying to look
as if he was motivated by only the most honorable of intentions.
“Shall we go to your room and you can tell me how I can be of
service?”

Wondering what could be troubling the
hitherto calm and poised Southern belle so deeply, but certain it
was something far more serious than a ploy to make his
acquaintance, Icke escorted her upstairs. Trying to decide how he
could make the most of the opportunity with which he felt sure he
was being presented, he forced himself to wait with what patience
he could muster until she had led him into her second floor front
room. Even then, he concluded it would be advisable to allow her to
make the first move.

“
I—I—!” the blonde began,
having seated her guest at the writing table. “I hardly know where
to begin, nor how!”

“
Start at the beginning,”
the playwright suggested.

“
I—It’s my half-brother,
Dennis—!” Darlene-Mae started to oblige.

“
Dennis?” Icke inquired,
despite feeling sure he could supply the answer himself.

“
Dennis Hobert. You’ve
seen him at the National Trust Bank, I believe. And you may have
seen him in the hotel here with me.”

“
I remember him. He’s a
teller at the bank, isn’t he?”

“
Y—Yes. But he’s also in
such trouble—!”

“
What kind of trouble?”
Icke inquired, with an interest which was suddenly
genuine.

Having a secret and vastly more lucrative
business than that of author, playwright and radical political
speaker, the dapperly dressed man had on more than one occasion
found banks tellers in trouble to be if nothing more a useful
source of information.

“
S—Serious tr—trouble,”
the blonde replied, if far from succinctly. “H—He … W—Well, since
coming west, he’s fallen in with such bad company
and—and—!”

“
And?”

“
Well, he’s been
g—gam—gambling.”

“
Gambling!”

“
Heavily.”

“
And losing heavily, too!”
Icke guessed, deciding he was hearing an all too familiar story and
wondering how he was supposed to help in it unless he was to be
subjected to a request for a ‘loan’ to repay the losses.

“
And losing far more than
he could afford,” the beautiful blonde confirmed, twisting a tiny
handkerchief between her hands and showing distress over having to
make such a confession.

“
And now he’s in
debt?”

“
N—Not in the way you
think!”

“
Then in what way is he in
debt?”

“
The m—men he owed the
money to are dangerous brutes. Poor Dennis had to pay them what was
owing or or or they—!”

“
They’d have hurt him,”
Icke supplied, still uncertain whether the blonde was genuine or
merely trying to persuade him to part with money by playing upon
his sympathy. If the latter was the case, anybody who knew him
could have warned her the effort was wasted. While he advocated
sharing the wealth of others with those less fortunate than
themselves, like most of his kind, his charity began and remained
strictly at home. “So, as he didn’t show signs of being hurt when I
last saw him, I presume he must have paid what he owed to
them?”

“
He did!”

“
May I ask how he
paid?”

“
B—By borrowing
m—money!”

“
Borrowing
money?”

“
F—From the
bank!”

“
Borrowing money from the
bank?” Icke challenged, having found repetition a useful way of
winning confidences from hesitant or reluctant sources such as the
blonde.

“
Th—That’s how he g—came
by it,” Darlene-Mae claimed, but far too defensively to make the
affair sound as innocent as she wanted it to.

“
Let me get this
straight,” Icke requested and, although feeling sure such was not
the case, he went on, “You mean he went to Mr. Cockburn, the owner
of the bank, and asked for a loan?”

“
If only he had!” the
blonde wailed, shuffling her feet in embarrassment. “H—He took it
without anybody else’s knowledge, confident he could repay it long
before it was missed—!”

“
And now he can’t?” Icke
stated, instead of asked, having heard variations of the story in
the past and having no doubt that he could turn it to his advantage
as was the case on those previous occasions.

“
N—Not nearly as quickly
as has become necessary!”

“
I’m sorry, but I don’t
follow you!”

“
Our family would
willingly have made good the loss, even though the sum is almost
twenty thousand dollars, to save our good name. But—!”

“
But?”

“
Unfortunately,”
Darlene-Mae explained, with the air of having come to the crux of
the matter. “The Federal bank examiners are arriving tomorrow
and—!”

“
Hell’s fires!” Icke
ejaculated, coming to his feet hurriedly.

“
Is something wrong?”
Darlene-Mae inquired, showing alarm at the change which had come
over her visitor.

“
Wrong!” Icke snarled, the
words erupting from his mouth as he glared savagely at the
beautiful yet clearly perturbed young woman. Then, when he saw the
consternation his behavior seemed to be arousing, he made a visible
effort to regain control over his churned up emotions. After a
moment, except for his eyes, he contrived to remove the glowering
from his features. Taking a gold watch from the pocket of his vest,
he flicked open its cover and checked the time. With a sensation of
relief, he concluded that he could reach the National Trust Bank
before it was closed for the day. He also considered there might be
a way through which he could capitalize upon the situation where
Darlene-Mae was concerned. Forcing his voice to take on a less
aggressive timbre, he went on soothingly, “No, my dear. There’s
nothing wrong. I—I felt a cramp in my leg and stood up.”

“
Is it all right?” the
blonde asked, her manner suggesting solicitude.