Cure the Texas Fever (A Waxahachie Smith Western--Book 3) Read online

  “Stop that, or I’ll fire!” the clerk yelled, standing sideways to the door and lining up the revolver as the second of Ramsbottom’s victims blundered into view after the first.

  Anybody possessing a greater knowledge of such matters could have warned Street that his behavior was ill-advised and could put his own life in danger. However, in one respect, the clerk might have counted himself fortunate. Being alerted to the threat he was posing, the surviving man—to whom the words were directed— might have turned and reacted in a manner he would be unable to counter. While he was a good shot, he had never fired at another human being, or, in fact, on a living target of any kind. Nor was he aware of just how swiftly a skilled gunfighter could respond to the situation he had created.

  The last of the would-be attackers was unable to prevent himself from glancing around on hearing Street, but he was not allowed to take any action against the possible threat from that direction. While part of his mind absorbed the potential danger from the lobby, the rest was just as cognizant of the greater peril in the barroom. However, he failed to stop an involuntary wavering of his Colt from its original target.

  Small though the movement was, it proved sufficient for a man with Ramsbottom’s capabilities. Swinging swiftly, almost as if of its own volition and drawn by some magnetic force, the slip-gun changed its point of aim. Appreciating the danger Street had brought upon himself by shouting, its owner began to operate the hammer and fire with all the speed he could muster. Three times the specialized weapon crashed, at a pace only “fanning” could achieve with a single-action revolver that had not been modified in such a fashion. Yet, despite the rapidity, the barrel was moved slightly between each detonation and the nine components of the multi-ball loads spread as if sent through a shotgun. Four of them missed, but the rest found their way into the body of the man before he could rectify his error and return his Colt to its original alignment. Letting out an abbreviated profanity as the pieces of lead tore into his body, he twirled on his heels. As he was colliding against the wall, the weapon slipping from his grasp, he measured his length on the floor.

  “Are you all right, Mark?” Ramsbottom inquired, satisfied that he had ended his part of the threat.

  “Why, sure,” the blond giant replied, turning around without holstering his guns even though he, too, considered the danger to be over. “And, like I was saying just before we were interrupted, welcome back to Texas, Waxahachie Smith.”

  “Gracias,” Ramsbottom replied, making no protest over the name by which he had been addressed. “Only, seeing’s how this’s the second time I’ve had to stop jaspers trying to kill me since I crossed the New Mexico line, I’m beginning to wonder how come somebody doesn’t want sweet, lovable, li’l ole me to come back.”

  Chapter Ten – I Reckon You’ve Made Some Enemies

  “The second time?” Mark Counter repeated, a frown creasing his almost classically handsome features.

  While speaking, returning the left-hand Colt Cavalry Peacemaker to its contoured holster, the blond giant opened the loading gate on the right side at the rear end of the other revolver’s six-capacity cylinder. Using the spring-operated ejector rod beneath the seven-and-a-half-inch-long barrel to remove each empty case in turn from the chambers, he replaced it with a live round drawn out of the loops on his buscadero gunbelt. Such was the skill he had attained over the years, he did not need to look down at what he was doing and instead glanced through the connecting door between the barroom and the entrance lobby. Looking pale and shaken by what had happened, Barrett Wimpole Street was coming from behind the desk with the Smith & Wesson revolver dangling by his side. What was more, he was only the first of those wanting to investigate the commotion. Several of the guests from the other two floors were appearing on the stairs.

  “Why, sure,” Waldo “Waxahachie” Smith confirmed, starting to replenish the slip gun with an equal facility. “This’s the second time today somebody’s tried to shoot me down.”

  “Whee dogie!” Mark exclaimed, then contrived to give a shrug without halting the reloading. “And to think’s how we picked on here to meet you because we figured it’d be safe!”

  “Which being, I’m right pleased you didn’t pick on some place’s might’ve proved dangerous,” the reddish-haired Texan commented dryly, wondering whether he would be expected to carry on employing the alias Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third when the local peace officers arrived. Before he could raise the point, he saw the desk clerk approaching and his voice lost the bantering timbre it had held on his arrival as he turned in that direction. “Like to thank you for shouting the way you did, Mr. Street. Though there’s a few folks here and there’s might say I’m not worth it, you saved my life.”

  “I’m pleased to have been of service, Mr. Ramsbottom” the desk clerk answered. Having looked from one to the other of the bodies sprawled on the lobby’s floor in passing and put the Smith & Wesson in his jacket’s pocket, he had swung his gaze around on entering the barroom. “Such a thing has never—!”

  “Maybe you’d best keep everybody out of here until the sheriff comes,” Mark suggested gently, seeing an expression of nausea creeping across Street’s face and bringing the explanation to an end uncompleted.

  “I—I will!” the clerk accepted, struggling to keep control over his stomach as it sought to expel the supper he had eaten and returning to the lobby hurriedly, but avoiding even another glance at the corpses.

  “I’ll be damned if that li’l feller wasn’t ready to take on these jaspers to protect us,” Smith drawled with admiration. “He’s more of a man than I reckoned when we first met, and I’d be wolf bait for sure now if he hadn’t yelled to make the third of ’em turn away just long enough for me to cut loose.”

  “I’m right pleased he did,” Mark drawled, glancing through the door to where the first of the guests were approaching.

  “That makes two of us,” Smith asserted with a wry grin. “And me more than you, likely. I’m all I’ve got.”

  “There’s some might say you deserve pitying for that,” the blond giant drawled, also smiling. “Only, I won’t tell you where I stand on it.”

  Despite his queasy stomach, Street proved capable of carrying out the instructions from Mark. However, although he stopped the rest with a firmness that was far different from his normal demeanor when dealing with the influential people who used the Cattlemen’s Hotel, he allowed one person to pass.

  The exception was a tall and slender woman a few years younger than Mark, an ankle-length blue silk robe wrapped tightly around her and Comanche moccasins on her feet. There was just a hint of silvery gray in her blond hair, which had been taken back in a tight bun suitable for wearing to bed, and she had a good-looking, tanned face imbued with lines of maturity and character. She did no more than direct a quick look with no discernible emotion at the three bodies in passing, but showed concern as she hurried into the barroom. However, it faded when she saw the blond giant standing uninjured and placing the now reloaded Peacemaker by its mate.

  “There’s been a mite of trouble, honey,” Mark said, commencing the replenishment of the second revolver.

  “I kind of got the notion there might have been,” the woman replied with the accent of a Texan. “What started it?”

  “We don’t know yet,” the blond giant admitted. “Could be they were after Mr. Ramsbottom here.”

  “Mr. Ramsbottom?” the woman queried, eyeing Smith in a speculative fashion.

  “Aloysius W. Ramsbottom, the Third,” Mark elaborated loudly enough to be heard by Street and the onlookers. Then, lowering his voice, he went on, “Wax, meet my wife. Dawn, this here’s Waxahachie Smith.” xvii

  “Hello, Wax,” the woman greeted, speaking no louder.

  “Howdy, Miz Counter, ma’am,” Smith replied, thrusting the Colt slip gun—its cylinder once again charged with multi-ball cartridges—back into the Missouri Skin-Tite holster. However, although he swept off his hat with a courtly gesture indicative of
good manners, he did not make another change of raiment dictated by convention before offering to accept the right hand held his way. “Hoping you’ll excuse the gloves, ma’am, but—”

  “I understand,” Dawn said gently and sympathetically. Then, knowing the reason for the omission and sensing that the subject was a particularly delicate one to the man she was addressing, she went on, “Where on earth did you dig up Aloysius W. Ramsbottom, the Third? It’s one hell of a high-toned summer name.”

  “I picked it out real careful, ma’am,” the reddish-haired Texan replied, speaking so soberly he might have been imparting information of the greatest importance and expecting it to be noted. “See, I reckoned with something that fancy, folks’d be more likely to take kindly to me than if I let on I was just a plain ole Smith.”

  “And have they?” Dawn queried with a smile.

  “Not if those yahoos are anything to go on,” Smith admitted, gesturing to the lobby. “Or the other two.”

  “Which other two?” Dawn asked, looking to her husband and then back at the other Texan.

  “You’ll hear all about it when Tom Maskell gets here, honey,” Mark answered.

  “Which’s right now,” Smith stated, nodding to where two new arrivals were coming through the front entrance to the lobby. Showing a family resemblance, they were dressed in Texas-style range clothes. Each had the badge of a peace officer on his vest and supplemented his low-tied Colt Peacemaker with a short-barreled shotgun. “Happen Tom Maskell’s the sheriff.”

  “He’s sheriff, which’s how come we picked here to meet you,” Mark confirmed, and put away the second revolver. “Howdy, Tom, Wilf.”

  “Howdy, Dawn, Mark,” the shorter and older of the local peace officers responded as both took off their hats in deference to the presence of a lady. However, although he was not being spoken to, they were giving Smith the majority of their attention. “Looks like you’ve been having more than a mite of trouble.”

  “You could say that,” the blond giant drawled before his guest could speak. “But give credit where it’s due, we managed to have it afore you went off watch. There’s some who’d’ve waited until you gone home and got to bed.”

  “Why, thank you ‘most to death for being so thoughtful,” Sheriff Thomas Maskell said dryly. In his mid-forties, he was leathery faced and had the bearing of an outdoorsman. Neat and clean, his attire was not so expensive as to raise suspicions with regard to his means of purchasing it. All in all, even without having heard of his reputation, he would have struck Smith as being honest and competent. “Was you in on this, Mr.—?”

  “Ramsbottom,” Mark introduced. “Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third. He’s the gent I wrote and told you we’d be meeting up with here.”

  “Howdy, Mr.—Ramsbottom,” the sheriff greeted, his gaze going to the black gloves still worn by the man he was addressing.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” the reddish-haired Texan replied, then his voice took on a complaining timbre. “Way folks always say my name comes summer, I almost wish I’d been born plain ole Smith.”

  “You’d likely have a tolerable slew of kinfolks here and thereabouts if it was,” the lanky deputy sheriff commented amiably, sharing his superior’s satisfaction over the way they had been informed that Ramsbottom was only a summer name. “Might even be some of ’em down to Waxahachie.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me none at all,” Smith admitted, although his parents were dead and no other members of his family had been living in the town that was his birthplace when he had left. “But there’re no Ramsbottoms there.”

  “I’ll bet the good folks of Waxahachie figure that’s a crying shame,” the sheriff declared sardonically. Then he glanced at the shattered window in the side door and went on, “Was them three in the lobby all of ’em?”

  “You’ll find another out there, likely dead seeing’s how there wasn’t time to try nothing fancy like just nicking him,” Mark replied. “Had an amigo, but he lit a shuck like he’d got real important business elsewhere and’s likely long gone.”

  “Go take a look, Cousin Wilf,” Maskell instructed. “Then you’d best help ’Rett Street send all those good folks back to their rooms and pass the word for Jones the Burial to come and move the bodies to his place. The lights were still on’s we came by, so he’ll likely be headed here looking for business.”

  “You surely like to give the good taxpaying folks hereabouts plenty of value for my pay,” claimed Deputy Sheriff Wilfred Piggot, who looked like a younger, slightly taller version of his uncle and had already acquired a similar reputation for honesty. Glancing to where the local undertaker was crossing the lobby followed by two Chinamen clad in an equally somber fashion, he continued, “Do you reckon they’ll feel cheated ’cause he’s got here, ’stead of me having to go fetch him?”

  “Likely not,” the sheriff assessed dryly. “Howdy, Mr. Jones. Sorry you had to turn out this late.”

  “That’s all right,” the black-clad newcomer replied, his voice tinged with the singsong lilt common to the country of his origins. Although not on terms of friendship with the peace officer—as was indicated by the emphasis on the honorific and employment of his surname—he had once explained that he had acquired his sobriquet because his family had been undertakers for generations and Jones was such a common surname in the Welsh valley from which his family had emigrated that some form of definition was necessary to differentiate among them. “I was just finishing off that Box L cowhand ready for burial tomorrow, so I thought I would come to see if there was any work for me.”

  “Bueno, ’cause there is,” Maskell said. “Can you handle things if Cousin Wilf lends a hand?”

  “There isn’t any need for him to do that, look you,” Llewellyn Jones asserted. “I’ve my own men here, and you might need him.”

  “We’ll leave it’s you’re Aloysius W. Ramsbottom the Third, for the time being,” the sheriff declared after the undertaker had walked away and he was seated with the Counters and Smith at a table in the center of the barroom. He held his voice to a level that would not reach the ears of anybody in the lobby. “So let’s start by you telling me what happened.”

  “And, way things turned out,” Mark claimed at the conclusion of his and Smith’s explanations, “there wasn’t anything else we could do.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me on that,” Maskell promised.

  “But you will from me,” Dawn stated, eyeing her husband grimly. “You’re getting too old for this sort of thing, Mark Counter.”

  “I’ll try to keep it in mind, honey,” the blond giant promised, laying a big hand on and gently shaking his wife’s head a couple of times. “’Cepting I don’t recollect ever being young enough to reckon this sort of thing was a sociable and fun-filled way of spending an evening.”

  “I didn’t see any of those three in the lobby about town while I was making the rounds earlier,” the sheriff remarked. “So they must’ve just rode in. Leastwise, there’re three hosses loose tied to the hitching rail outside that’ll likely belong to them. Do you reckon they were the bunch who were hanging around your spread, Mark?”

  “Somebody was after you?” Smith inquired of the blond giant.

  “They didn’t try anything, if they was,” Mark replied. “A couple of our hands were riding the home range and came in to say they’d seen signs like five or six fellers were watching the trail. I got me some more of the crew and we went to take a look, but they either saw us coming and lit a shuck, or they just happened to be passing through. As luck would have it, we’d a bunch of mares to fetch up and put to stud with Tolly Maxwell’s stallion. So to be on the safe side, Dawn and I came with the boys who’re delivering them. There was some dust rising over a rim behind us ‘bout halfway, but we didn’t see who, or what, was stirring it.”

  “Which don’t help us decide who-all this bunch was after,” Maskell complained wryly and looked at the reddish-haired Texan. “Didn’t you say something about this being the second time somebod
y’d tried to jump you tonight?”

  “Why, sure,” Smith confirmed. “’Cepting the first time was earlier today, out along the trail near the New Mexico line.”

  “Whereabouts along the trail?” Maskell inquired with what appeared to be a hopeful air. “Was it in Texas or their side of the line?”

  “In Texas, I reckon,” Smith supplied.

  “It would be,” the sheriff said, realizing that the location must be within the boundaries of Deaf Smith County. Although it did not fool his audience, there seemed to be bitter resignation in his tone as he went on. “Where’d it happen?”

  “I’d just crossed a stream when they tried to jump me,” Smith explained. “But I didn’t see nothing to tell me its name, if it’s got one.”

  “That’ll be Palo Duro Creek,” the sheriff assessed. “Which being, it is in Texas and on my bailiwick, blast the luck. So it falls on poor ole me to go look things over in the morning. Until then, did you know them?”

  “Never seen either of ’em afore, as far as I can recollect.”

  “And this bunch tonight?”

  “Can’t bring to mind ever having crossed trails with the three in the lobby.”

  “How about the two in the alley?”

  “I didn’t see either of them,” Smith admitted.

  “Take a look afore the undertaker gets out there,” the sheriff suggested.

  “He’s as much of a stranger as the rest of ’em,” Smith assessed, having gone with the blond giant and Maskell to the door giving access to the alley and looked through the shattered pane. “But, like I said, I didn’t see the other jasper. What’d he look like, Mark?”