Texas Killers Read online

  “Shucks, I didn’t need to come here to find out if there was going to be any danger, ma’am,” Dusty elaborated, mentally conceding that the woman knew how to utilize her physical attractions to their best advantage. He felt sure she had employed them against the other members of the floating outfit, but was confident that none would have succumbed. “I knew that there would be. So, seeing’s how that Beguinage hombre’s the biggest danger of all, I came here acting like a hired killer hunting work to see if I could smoke him out.”

  “Good heavens!” Charlene gasped, guessing what the term implied although she had never heard it used in such a context. Her hand fluttered up to her throat in well simulated alarm and she went on, “You mean that, in spite of knowing he had killed others with the same intention, you deliberately allowed Beguinage to believe you would be willing to kill Rud—His Highness?”

  “It seemed like the only thing to do,” Dusty confirmed, still ignoring von Farlenheim’s presence at the table.

  “But how gallant and courageous of you!” the Comtesse praised, changing her attitude to one of wide-eyed admiration. Although she doubted whether the small Texan came into such a category, especially after her lack of success where his three companions were concerned, she continued to employ tactics which had lured more than one impressionable young man—and some who should have been old enough to know better—into her clutches. “I hope that your brave and noble endeavors have been rewarded with the success they deserve.”

  “There’s some who’d claim they have,” Dusty answered, adopting an air of blatantly false modesty which he felt sure would annoy von Farlenheim. “Fact being, Beguinage’ll not be killing anybody else.”

  “Do you mean that you have captured him already?” Charlene gasped, genuinely impressed by the thought.

  So was von Farlenheim, in spite of his resentment over the way in which the small Texan was treating him. Like the Comtesse, he was aware that every law enforcement agency in Europe had tried in vain to apprehend the assassin and none had even achieved as much as learning his identity.

  “No, ma’am, not captured,” Dusty corrected, without giving as much as a glance to the other occupant of the table. “Way things turned out, I had to shoot him.”

  “Shoot him?” von Farlenheim barked, unable to restrain himself any longer. He remembered his uncle’s comments regarding the small Texan’s abilities where handling firearms were concerned. “So he is dead then!”

  “I’ve never seen anybody wind up deader,” Dusty replied, deciding that the time had come for him to start trying to profit from his treatment of the young Bosgravnian. “Not even that jasper from up north who offered me two hundred and fifty dollars to gun the Prince down.”

  “Two hundred and fif—!” von Farlenheim commenced heatedly, swinging a glare of accusation at the Contesse.

  “I agree, Alex!” Charlene said, in a purr that was charged with a furious warning when taken in conjunction with the savage glare she turned upon him, before he could continue. “That does seem a paltry sum for agreeing to assassinate such an important person—Not that I know anything about such things, of course.” Then, looking as if the thought had just struck her, she returned her attention to the small Texan and set about diverting his thoughts from the Bosgravnian’s potential gaffe, “But are you sure the man was serious, Captain Fog?”

  “Why else would he have come to me, ma’am?” Dusty inquired, showing nothing to suggest he had drawn any conclusions from von Farlenheim’s comment.

  “Perhaps he was nothing more than a somewhat foolish young man who hoped to be able to tell his friends that he had met a famous—hired killer, I think you called yourself.”

  “That’s what I made folks think I was,” Dusty conceded. “But, happen that was all there was to it, he paid a high price for doing it.”

  “A very high price,” the Comtesse agreed, throwing another prohibitive frown at von Farlenheim. Looking back at the Texan, she continued, “Why did you kill him?”

  “I didn’t,” Dusty corrected, watching the Bosgravnian swing a startled and worried glance at the woman.

  “But you implied that he had be—!” Charlene protested, bringing the words to a halt as a waiter who had entered arrived at the table. She sounded just a trifle relieved as she went on, “I’m afraid we’ve already eaten, Captain Fog. But if you would care to take something—?”

  “Nothing for me, ma’am, gracias,” Dusty drawled, realizing to his annoyance that the interruption was allowing the Bosgravnian to recover his composure.

  “You may bring our account,” Charlene informed the waiter and, after he had withdrawn, turned back to the Texan. “Isn’t he dead, then?”

  “He’s dead all right,” Dusty admitted, deciding that there was little chance of eliciting any guilty admissions from the pair. He might have succeeded with von Farlenheim if he could have kept the conversation along the lines it had been taking, but the arrival of the waiter had broken it, and Charlene would make sure that it did not return to such a dangerous level. “But I didn’t kill him. The town marshal had heard he was a hired gun from up North, figured he might be after one of us, and shot him before I could stop it.”

  “How unfortunate,” the Comtesse declared, sounding so solicitous that the sentiment might have been genuine. Noticing that von Farlenheim was making no attempt to conceal his relief at learning there was no danger of the go-between betraying them, she concluded it would be wise to remove him from the small Texan’s presence. She had already deduced that Dusty was hoping to provoke him into some incriminating comment and had managed to prevent it happening so far. Her gaze went to the clock on the wall and she gasped, “Good heavens. Is that the time? We must go and greet His Highness when he disembarks, Alex.”

  “There’s no rush, ma’am,” Dusty drawled, as von Farlenheim followed the Comtesse’s example and started to rise. “He’s not coming in on that steam-sloop.”

  “I don’t understand,” Charlene replied, continuing to stand up.

  “He and his party’ve been landed along the coast a ways,” the small Texan explained. “Mark and the boys’re waiting there and will be fetching him in later today.”

  “You’re a much more clever man that I thought, Captain Fog,” the Comtesse stated truthfully, although she was writhing inwardly at the latest evidence of how she had been outwitted. “I’m delighted to find out that Rud—the Crown Prince’s welfare is in such capable hands, aren’t you, Alex?”

  “Yes!” von Farlenheim barked, the word leaving his mouth like the cork popping from a bottle of champagne.

  “So much excitement!” Charlene gasped, fanning herself with the empty left hand and picking up the fan in the right. “I feel that I must have a breath of fresh air to revive me. Let’s take a stroll, Alex.”

  “Yes,” the Bosgravnian acceded, wanting an opportunity to speak with his fellow-conspirator privately.

  “Perhaps you would care to accompany us, Captain Fog?” Charlene suggested, making the invitation sound genuine although she hoped it would be refused so she would be free to deal with von Farlenheim.

  “I’d admire to, ma’am,” Dusty replied, appearing equally sincere. “But I’m figuring on getting my hair back to its real color before the reception tonight.”

  “His Highness will be here in time for it?” the Comtesse asked.

  “Why sure,” Dusty confirmed. “One thing you can say about those boys of mine, they always follow orders. Which’s why Mark didn’t tell you the truth about where he was going, ma’am. I hope you-all don’t hold it against him, but he’d been told to keep it to himself.”

  “That was quite correct,” Charlene declared, guessing the comment had been made to provoke either herself or von Farlenheim into a protest. She wondered what other orders Mark Counter had been given with regard to herself, but was consoled by the thought that she had neither done nor said anything to suggest her involvement in the plot against the Crown Prince. “You may tell him that I understa
nd. We will see you at the reception?”

  “You can count on it, ma’am,” Dusty answered, standing and lifting his hat from the back of the chair. Watching the couple walk away as he was donning it, he grinned and thought, “Now that’s given you both something to think about, I’d reckon. And, lady, you’re going to have to do some right fancy explaining to him, the way things have gone wrong for you.”

  Despite his conclusions, the small Texan knew he had not removed the couple as a threat to the life of the Crown Prince. While he felt sure that they were involved, “Breakast’s” death had ruined one way by which he could have gained evidence of their complicity. The conversation that had just taken place had also failed to produce any proof. Nor could he now hope to gain it by means of Mark’s association with Charlene after what had been said. In fact, the discovery she had made would make her even more wary and hard to trap.

  Unlike many men of his age and period, Dusty had no sense of masculine supremacy. He realized that he was up against an intelligent, unscrupulous and dangerous antagonist in the Comtesse de Petain. Thinking of other members of her sex against whom he had found himself in contention over the years, he did not consider the fact that she was a woman made her any the less deadly. Rather the opposite, as she was an expert in turning her physical attributes to good advantage. He wished that he had another of her gender to help him by meeting her at her own level.

  Wondering if he should try to obtain the services of Belle Boyd, or even his cousin Betty Hardin, Dusty strolled from the dining room. From what he had been told, he knew that the Rebel Spy was engaged upon a mission in her capacity as a member of the United States’ Secret Service and would be unavailable.1 Deciding he would ask the Crown Prince if his cousin could join the hunting party, should Charlene contrive to be included in it, he went toward the stairs which led to the guests’ rooms. He had told the truth to the couple about his intentions. With Beguinage and “Breakast” dead, particularly as the Comtesse and von Farlenheim were aware of “Rapido Clint’s” true identity, there was no point in continuing the deception. So he wanted to return to his normal appearance before attending the reception.

  A thickset man of slightly over middle height was standing at the foot of the stairs and looking upward. He was clad in the kind of dark blue peaked cap, semi-uniform pea-jacket, with black trousers tucked into heavy sea boots, frequently worn by officers of merchant ships. Both hands were thrust into the jacket’s pockets. In spite of that, beyond noticing he had a hard Slavic face partially obscured by a neatly-trimmed grizzled black beard, Dusty paid little attention to him in passing. Captains and mates of cargo or passenger vessels were not an unusual sight at the Portside Hotel.

  “Mr. Clint,” the man said, speaking in a low voice as the small Texan started to ascend the stairs. His English had a guttural timbre, but little trace of an accent.

  “If you-all’re meaning me, mister,” Dusty replied, just as quietly, halting and looking over his shoulder. “You’ve got the wrong name.”

  “It is the one given to me by the bartender at the Binnacle Tavern,” the man answered, and twisted his head to glance in the direction of the main entrance, through which Charlene and von Farlenheim could be seen crossing the street. “But if I do have the wrong man, I apologize.”

  “And if you haven’t?” Dusty challenged, knowing that the bartender worked for Rameses Turtle and had been instructed to send any potential employers to see him at the hotel.

  “I have a proposition which may be of interest to you,” the man replied, without removing his hands from the pockets.

  “Could be I’m already hired,” Dusty warned, turning to face the man and hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt.

  “If you are,” the man said, throwing another look and a nod toward the front door, “Whatever they are offering you, we will pay you more to work for us.”

  “Sounds like you and me’d best do some talking,” Dusty suggested. Although the Comtesse and the Bosgravnian had disappeared from view, the man’s gesture had been sufficiently informative for him to decide that continuing the conversation could be worthwhile. “Only I don’t reckon’s this’s the place to do it. We’d best go on up to my room.”

  “I would prefer somewhere more public,” the man stated, a wary glint coming to his eyes. “Just as a precaution, you understand.”

  “Why sure,” Dusty conceded, in an off-hand manner. “One thing I admire is a cautious hombre. Fact being, I’m a mite that way myself. So you’d best let go of that gun and bring your hands out empty.”

  “Wh—?” the man began.

  “Do it!” Dusty ordered and, despite his voice retaining its even tone, there was something subtly differing about his bearing. “I can draw, shoot and kill you before you can turn it into line.”

  Stiffening slightly, the man stared at the big Texan for a few seconds. Like the town marshal, he was so impressed by the strength of Dusty’s personality that he no longer thought in mere feet and inches where his challenger was concerned. Nor did he doubt that the other was confident of being able to carry out the statement. Slowly, hesitantly, he opened his fingers to release the butt of the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker in the right side pocket and brought his hands into view.

  “That’s better,” Dusty drawled, glancing around to make sure they were not attracting attention. “Would the bar over there be public enough for you?”

  “It will,” the man agreed, impressed by what had happened.

  For all that the desk clerk had noticed, the two might have merely met in an amicable fashion. Apart from glancing up as they made their way toward the bar room, he paid no attention to them.

  Following the man in, Dusty took the lead and picked a table which commanded a view of the street through the window. There were only a few customers and none close enough to overhear a conversation if it was carried out with circumspection. A waiter came over to take their order as they sat down.

  “All right now, mister, let’s get the deck dealt and see how the cards fall,” Dusty requested, after the drinks had been delivered and the waiter had returned to the counter. “First one up being, what do I call you?”

  “You mean my name?” the man asked, looking uneasy.

  “Happen you-all want to give it to me,” Dusty replied, his whole attitude implying disinterest. “If not, you can tie on any fancy brand you’ve a mind to for me to use.”

  “Call me—‘Gotz,’” the man offered.

  “Why sure, Mr.—‘Gotz,’” Dusty accepted cheerfully.

  “Second card’s come up. It’s why do you-all want to hire me.

  “To kill the tyrant—!” “Gotz” began, raising his voice slightly.

  “Don’t tell the whole damned room,” Dusty growled. “Anyways, that’s what your bunch brought in good old ‘Sharpshooter’ Schindler to do.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Mr. Cl—!” “Gotz” commenced.

  “Keep your voice down, damn you!” Dusty interrupted in a hiss charged with menace.

  “Schindler is dead, as you know!” the man pointed out, but in a much lower key than his previous pair of utterances. “I heard the marshal saying so at the warehouse. Did you kill both him and Beguinage?”

  “I would have, but Beguinage got to him first,” Dusty answered. Although he realized that his true identity had not been revealed as he had requested, he did not know what else Marshal Digbry might have said. So he decided against claiming responsibility for Schindler’s death. “You see, Mr. ‘Gotz,’ I’m like Beguinage. I don’t take to long-horns coming in and trying to graze my range, happen you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” the man admitted, as impressed as the Comtesse and von Farlenheim had been by the knowledge that the Texan had succeeded in killing Europe’s “premier assassin.”

  “Then my question still goes, ’cept I’ll put it another way,” Dusty continued. “Why’re you so all fired eager to pay me as much as I’m going to ask for killing the Crown Prince when all you ha
ve to do is sit back and let them hire me to do it? He’d be just as dead and it won’t cost you-all a thin dime.”

  “The difference, Mr. Clint,” “Gotz” said, employing a dramatic near whisper. “Is that we want you to kill the tyrant.”

  “And they don’t?” Dusty inquired, adopting a similar tone.

  “They have their own plan, intended to make it appear that we are responsible,” the man explained. “All they wanted from you was that you kept Beguinage occupied. Now he is dead, they have no further need for you.”

  “Seemed right eager to keep me on just now, though,” Dusty remarked. “And I’d told them about me burning Beguinage down.”

  “They’d hardly be likely to tell you the truth,” “Gotz” pointed out. “But I can assure you that they were only using you to act as a lure for him and never meant to let you earn the sum you asked for by killing the tyrant.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got somebody close to them, learning what they’re up to,” Dusty suggested and raised a prohibitive hand. “Don’t bother denying it. That’s your affair and I’d reckon you’d be loco if you hadn’t. So, seeing’s you know how much I was to get, let’s hear you raise the ante.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “How much higher’ll you-all pay?”

  “Higher?” “Gotz” repeated. “But I just told you that they didn’t intend to let you earn the sum—”

  “You also told me that you did,” Dusty reminded the man. “Which I’d not take any less for doing it. But, just to show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll not ask for any more. Take it or leave it, mister. Because that’s the only deal you’ll get from me. Bring on the four thousand dollars—”

  “Four thousand!” “Gotz” spat out indignantly. “They were only offering three thousand five hundred!”

  “Well I swan, so they were!” Dusty ejaculated, in tones of mock exasperation, having satisfied himself that the anarchists had a very close source of information to the aristocrats’ plans. “I must be getting old, forgetting a thing like that. Like I said, just to show my heart’s in the right place. I’ll take the chore for three thousand five hundred.”