Wanted! Belle Starr! Page 8

  “Given my ‘druthers’, I’d sooner pat a diamondback rattler on its head after it’s been stick-teased for the fighting pit afore I’d lock horns with them. Not less’n I’d made sure I’d got me a real good edge, anyways.”

  “Edge?”

  “One way to do it’d be to make good ’n’ sure I could get up real close without ’em knowing’s how I was figuring to take them.”

  “How?”

  “Just about the only way’d be to take out Winnie at the shack, then lay for the ‘Gold-Brick’ when she comes back. Trouble’d be figuring on how to do it.”

  “But you’d be willing to do it, if you was told a way?”

  “Not for less’n a thousand simoleons,” the Oklahoman claimed, his expression warning he would accept no lesser amount.

  “Don’t bother,” Icke snorted, being unable to raise anything close to the sum quoted. However, he felt the required ‘edge’ he was going to suggest would work just as well for himself. Furthermore, the same objection to hiring the man in front of him applied in an even greater measure than it did where Forey and Potter were concerned, considering the amount of money he was trying to retrieve. “I’ll give you fifty dollars just to show me the shack and do the rest myself.”

  “Make it a hundred and you’ve got a deal,” the Oklahoman countered. “Only, afore you start figuring on doing some hoss-trading to get a lower price, leave us not forget time’s a-passing and, once they get together again, you’d not have a hope in hell of taking them out.”

  “A hundred it is!” the receiver assented sullenly. “Wait here and I’ll go fetch it for you!”

  Chapter Thirteen – Just Like You Said, Belle

  “Right there’s where the O’Toole gals’re hiding out, ‘Mr. Wilson’,” announced the Indian-dark Oklahoman, pointing to the small wooden shack in the poorer district of Mulrooney through which he had guided David Icke. Surrounded by a rickety picket fence, it was a short distance away from its neighbors. Only a faint glimmer of light, caused by a slight gap in the drapes drawn across the front window, suggested it might be occupied. “You mind what I’ve been telling you about them?”

  “I’ll remember everything you said,” the receiver promised, but did not mention his intention to have the Oklahoman hunted down and killed by Stephen Forey and Lee Potter no matter whether he had been sold genuine or false information.

  Having gone upstairs at the Railroad House Hotel, ostensibly to collect the payment for the news he had been given, Icke had been relieved to find the second floor passage was deserted. This had allowed him to collect the woman’s long, hooded black cloak from the room in which he had been drugged and robbed by ‘Darlene-Mae Abernathy,’ or unless his informant was lying for some reason the confidence trickster, ‘Gold-Brick Annie O’Toole.’ Taking the garment to his accommodation, he had continued his preparations for retrieving his stolen property. Laying aside his own cloak and hat, he had extracted the one hundred dollar bill from the hollow heel of his left Hersome gaiter boot. With the price of the information acquired, he had armed himself so as to make use of it.

  Despite his frequent comments regarding the prohibition of private ownership, when addressing radical-liberal political meetings, the receiver never went anywhere without carrying at least one firearm on his person. Concluding the Remington Double Derringer in the carefully concealed holster slot on the left side of his vest would not be suitable for his current needs, he had taken the twin barreled, ten gauge, British-made Greener converted into a whip it gun from where it was hidden amongst the clothes in one of his trunks. Loading the short and very deadly weapon, he wrapped it in the cloak brought from the other room and put half a dozen more buckshot shells in the right side pocket of his jacket. xiii

  Rejoining the Oklahoman in the bar, carrying the cut down shotgun and black cloak, the receiver had been compelled to change the one hundred dollar bill for notes of smaller denominations before payment was acceptable and the guidance commenced. With this done, they had left the hotel. While making their way through the semi-darkness beyond the better illuminated area of the town, the Indian-dark man had warned there was no way he could hope to arrive outside the hiding place selected by the O’Toole sisters without his presence being detected, due to certain precautions they had taken. If it was not for these, the Oklahoman had claimed, the task would be simple. Knowing her younger sister’s penchant for the ‘pleasures of the flesh’, Winnie relied upon the precautions sounding a warning and left the front door unfastened so as to avoid being disturbed when Annie returned. Asked how he knew so much, he had admitted to having been on very close terms with the less attractive sister until discarded by her after a quarrel. Pleased to have received such an interesting and helpful piece of information, Icke had concluded that the methods he intended to employ would remove the need for an unseen and unheard arrival.

  “I’ll give you something else for your money, being a generous son-of-a-bitch,” the Oklahoman offered. “Should you catch Winnie on her lonesome, which’s likely to happen, what I recall she said about the way the ‘Gold-Brick’ carries on when she goes a-courting with some good looking young jasper, you can likely take ’em one at a time and come through it alive. Was I you though, for all you’ll be wanting to put Winnie down without gunplay if you can, I’d have that sawed-off scattergun ready to use was you able to bust in on her. Don’t take chances, or it’ll be you and not her’s winds up dead.”

  “How do you know—?” Icke began, but was unable to prevent himself from glancing at the bundle he was carrying.

  “Mister,” the Oklahoman drawled, having come to a halt on indicating he had brought the receiver to their destination. “You might get away with toting the scatter like you’re doing it now back east, but it shows real plain to anybody’s‘s been raised west of the Big Muddy. Which I don’t blame you one lil mite for having it. Fact being, I wouldn’t want to go up against them two good ole gals, not even one at a time, any other way myself. Well, I reckon I’ve earned my money and it’s time for me to be on my way.”

  “Aren’t you going to wait until I’ve made sure they’re there?”

  “Nope!”

  “No?”

  “Mister,” the Oklahoman drawled, his manner warning he would not change his mind. “I know they’re there and reckon whatever comes off’s between you and them. Which being, I’m going about my own doings and leaving you to your’n!”

  While the final part of the conversation was taking place, never being willing to part with money unnecessarily, Icke was tempted to fell his guide the moment their separation was commenced. Then he concluded that such a course might prove to be most ill-advised. Struck from behind, the way in which the attack was to be carried out, the hat worn by the Oklahoman would offer some protection for his head. Unless he was rendered hors de combat by the first blow, the shack was not more than thirty yards away and the commotion which would almost certainly ensue might be heard inside. The same would also apply if the assault was successful. Furthermore, should his intentions be discovered, the receiver felt sure a painful retribution would be forthcoming immediately and his intended victim had weapons far more readily accessible than his own. Having taken the contingencies into account, therefore, he put the idea from his thoughts.

  Even if Icke had elected to go ahead with his proposed attack, he would not have had the chance. Clearly having anticipated something of the kind, or possessing a natural disinclination to be trusting, the Oklahoman stepped backwards until well beyond reaching distance as he was making his final declaration. Then, nodding in farewell, he swung around and strode rapidly away in the direction from which they had come.

  Putting aside thoughts of trying to regain possession of the money paid for the information, the receiver told himself that he must have his bodyguard find and kill its donor. Although he had been seen to be on good terms with the beautiful blonde at the hotel, nobody else could connect him directly with the double murder he was hoping to commit. And, i
f the man had tricked him, he would want to have him killed as punishment.

  While reaching his conclusions, Icke was unrolling the cloak from around the whip gun. Donning the garment he found, much to his satisfaction, that it was sufficiently voluminous to cover him from head to foot and completely hide his masculine attire. Then, although he was hoping to use it as a club rather than a firearm against at least Winnie O’Toole, he cocked both hammers before concealing the weapon by drawing the cloak around it.

  On stepping forward, the receiver discovered that his informant had not lied where one point was concerned. Passing through the gate in the rickety picket fence, although there was no tree anywhere in the immediate vicinity, he found the ground was coated with dried leaves which made a noticeable crackling sound as he took a step on to them. The Oklahoman had claimed that refusing to help gather and spread them was the cause of the quarrel with the less attractive sister.

  Accepting there was no way in which he could reach the building undetected, Icke walked towards it without attempting to hide. He was gambling that such a method of approach would persuade the occupant that whoever was coming had no evil intentions and did not need to worry about being overheard. As he reached the front porch without having been challenged, or seeing anything to suggest the slightest interest was being taken in him, he decided this must have been the case.

  Stepping on to the porch, the receiver was startled by a creak from the sun-warped plank upon which his forward foot descended. For a moment, the glint of light at the window widened just a trifle. Although he glanced in that direction, it reverted to its original width too quickly for him to ascertain whether this was by accident or he had been subjected to observation by an occupant of the building. Deciding against taking the chance that it was the former contingency, he pulled the hood further around his face and darted forward. Thrusting his shoulder against the door, he found that once again the Oklahoman had spoken the truth. It swung open and, starting to bring the whip it gun from beneath the cloak, without allowing his features to be displayed, he crossed the threshold swiftly.

  Icke discovered, just an instant too late, that he made a terrible mistake!

  The room into which the receiver had burst was occupied, but not by the woman he had been assured would be alone!

  Instead, Icke was confronted by an armed man and, from the corner of his eye, saw a second standing by the window!

  What was more, both were known to the receiver!

  Before Icke could disclose his identity, or do anything else to clarify the situation, the matter was taken from his hands in no uncertain fashion.

  Having been told that Geoffrey Crayne was using the shack as a hiding place, but had left wearing a cloak, Forey and Potter had concluded he was searching for their employer. Satisfied that ‘Mr. Wilson’ could not be reached inside the Railroad House Hotel and had no intention of leaving it that night, they had elected to await the return of the young Bostonian instead of trying to locate and, perhaps, scare him off. Alerted by the crackling of the leaves and creak from the porch, Forey had peeked through the drapes. Seeing a figure dressed as had been described by their part-Indian informant, he had warned his companion to make ready.

  Under the circumstances, the way selected by Icke to enter the shack could hardly have been more ill advised!

  Seeing the cloaked and unrecognizable figure burst through the door, holding a weapon offering such deadly potential at close quarters, neither of the bodyguards waited to discover who he might be. Even as the receiver was trying to halt his impetuous entrance, too amazed at discovering the identity of the occupants to do anything which might have averted what was coming, the pair he had hired opened fire with their revolvers as swiftly as they could operate the single action mechanisms.

  Caught in the body by three heavy caliber bullets, Icke was sent spinning across the room to sprawl lifeless and face down in a corner. As he went, the whip it gun flew unheeded from his grasp. On landing, the jolt caused one of its hammers to snap forward. There was a thunderous double crash, but the nine buckshot balls erupting through the cut down barrel did nothing more than puncture a pattern of holes through the ceiling.

  “Do you reckon it’s him, Stevie?” Potter inquired, lowering his smoking revolver.

  “Who the hell else could it be?” Forey answered, starting to walk across the room. “That god-damned half-breed, Sammy Crane, told us he was hiding out here, and how he was dressed when he went out. So let’s make sure he’s cashed in, then get the hell away from here.”

  “Maybe he’s carrying money,” Potter supplemented, hurrying from the window to ensure he received his fair share if this proved to be the case. “It won’t do any harm to look if he is.”

  “Good God in heaven!” Forey ejaculated, turning the body over so that the features were revealed. His agitation was aroused less by the discovery of the victim’s identity than through thoughts of how the man who had found them the job might regard their error. “What the hell’s he doing here?”

  “I dunno,” Potter admitted, also staring at the lifeless features of the employer he had known only as ‘Mr. Wilson’. “But we’d best light a shuck the hell from here and wonder about it later.”

  Leaving the shack, still holding their revolvers, the pair saw three men running towards them. Noticing the badges worn by the newcomers and the way they were armed, Potter, snarling a profanity, did not wait to be challenged. Raising his weapon, he fired and, equally perturbed by the sight, Forey duplicated his action. Neither achieved the success they had had in the building. Missing their intended marks proved to be a mistake as bad as that made by their late employer when inadvertently bursting in on them.

  Each one of the approaching trio was a trained and competent peace officer, supplementing a holstered revolver with a double barreled shotgun. Given such provocation, they retaliated swiftly. Their main armament boomed, the red flare of multiple muzzle blasts momentarily lighting the area. The discharged loads flew far more lethally than had those of the whip it gun belonging to Icke. Engulfed in the spraying cloud of .32 caliber buckshot balls, Forey was killed outright and Potter died of his wounds a few seconds later.

  ~*~

  After having left the receiver, the tall, lean and Indian-dark informant did not go far. Having passed only two buildings, he was confronted by three people. Two were men clad after the fashion of working cowhands. Although no longer a blonde, and now dressed more cheaply, in a style suited to the district, the other was the beautiful young woman he had claimed was the conjuneero, ‘Gold-Brick Annie O’Toole’. There was, however, no sign of the less attractive sister, ‘Winnie’, attributed to her.

  “Howdy, Blue,” greeted the female member of the trio, her voice still that of ‘Darlene-Mae Abernathy’ except that it had lost its querulous and naive quality. “Looks like you pulled off your end all right,”

  “He took the bait like a big ole bass snapping a frog offen a lily pad, Belle,” the Oklahoman asserted. “How’d your end of it go down, Sammy?”

  “Forey ’n’ Potter’re waiting for him in the shack,” replied the man to whom the question was directed. His speech and appearance indicated he too came from Oklahoma Territory and had an admixture of Indian blood. “What I told ’em, I reckon they won’t wait to do any talking when he busts in on ’em.”

  “They haven’t, I’d say!” declared the remaining cowhand, although his accent was that of a well educated Bostonian, as the sound of shooting came from the shack. “But there was a shotgun after the revolvers. Shall we go and see if he’s escaped?”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any need for that,” Belle Starr estimated. “Forey and Potter might not be what I’d call top grade stock at gunfighting, but they know enough to be able to put down anybody who was up as close as he’d be to them when they cut loose on him.”

  “Yet the shotgun was fired after the revolvers,” Geoffrey Crayne insisted, having no wish for the man he had such good reason to hate to survi
ve the trap which had been laid by his companions.

  “It was only the one barrel and neither of them have fired again, which they’d be too slick to be standing close enough for them both to be hit,” the lady outlaw answered, being much more experienced in such matters than the man she was addressing. “If we were betting, I’d put my money on him having squeezed off when their lead hit him and didn’t get either of them.”

  “And you’d win,” claimed the man who had brought Icke from the hotel. “There’s Forey ’n’ Potter coming out!”

  “And there’s some of the town’s law headed their way,” warned the second Oklahoman.

  “Which means it’s time we were moving!” Belle stated. “Come on, Boston. You can head back home now. We’ve both had our revenge on David Icke.” xiv

  Chapter Fourteen – The Means For Revenge

  Regardless of the considerable success he had attained while playing the rugged and far from gentle ‘Boston game’ which would, despite the emphasis being more on carrying than kicking, eventually develop into the highly organized professional and amateur sporting activity known as ‘American football’ xv introduced at Harvard University prior to his recent graduation, Geoffrey Crayne was not generally of a violent and vindictive nature. In fact, he had been noted for his geniality and amiable spirit when not engaged in such athletic contests or other events, to a degree which had caused his friends to declare nothing could arouse him to anger.

  For all that, Crayne had travelled from his home in the most wealthy district of Boston, Massachusetts, to the town of Mulrooney in Kansas, with the intention of killing a man in what would almost certainly amount to cold blood.

  Despite having been raised with a sound respect for law and order and the sanctity of human life, Crayne had elected to adopt such drastic action not without considerable soul searching because he had reluctantly arrived at the conclusion there was no other way in which any semblance of justice could be done.