The Floating Outfit 14 Page 9

  Dressed in the same clothing she wore when they last saw her, Belle walked across the room. She read disapproval on Mark’s face and hurried to explain her conduct.

  ‘I had to come back, Mark. I know who killed Sailor Sam—and why.’

  ‘So that’s why you risked your fool neck,’ Mark growled.

  ‘Why else?’ smiled the girl. ‘You took a big chance for me, both here and in Elkhorn.’

  ‘It was a pleasure both times,’ Mark assured her. ‘Only I don’t—’

  A knock at the door chopped his words off. Swiftly Belle darted across the room and disappeared into the wardrobe, closing the door behind her. Bragg resumed his seat and adopted an attitude of studious innocence. Walking to the door, Mark unlocked and opened it. He found the doctor and desk clerk standing outside.

  ‘Your friend was hurt, Mr. Counter,’ said the latter. ‘So I asked the doctor if he would come up and examine him—at the hotel’s expense of course.’

  For a moment Mark hesitated, then decided that having witnesses to the fact that apparently only he and Bragg were in the room might be advantageous. So he thanked the clerk for showing such consideration and allowed the doctor to enter. Despite being eager to hear what Belle had to say about the murder of Sailor Sam, Mark forced himself to stand and wait while the examination of Bragg’s head took place. After what seemed a long time, although it was not, the doctor straightened up and grinned.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he told Bragg. ‘It raised one hell of a knob, but hasn’t done any damage or broke the skin. Those leather-wrapped billies don’t cut as a rule.’

  ‘How about the feller I shot?’ asked Mark.

  ‘He’ll live, but won’t be getting around for a spell. Should think himself lucky for all that. I don’t reckon you picked that particular spot to hit him.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Mark admitted and glanced at his bullet-holed Stetson. ‘I just pulled and cut loose to stop him improving his aim. Thanks, doctor. If this worthless ole goat—’

  ‘He means me,’ Bragg put in.

  ‘Who else?’ demanded Mark. ‘If this worthless ole goat lives—’

  ‘You mean you reckon you can kill a cowhand by whomping him on the head?’ grinned the doctor. ‘That’s not what he works with. I wonder how much the hotel’ll go for?’

  After the doctor left, Belle came once more from the wardrobe. She walked to the bed and sat on its edge, crossing one shapely trouser-clad leg over the other and looking at the expectant faces of the men.

  ‘I got clear of the hotel with no trouble and went to hide out with friends in town,’ she explained. ‘Figured on staying with them until things quietened down a mite. Only when I heard about Sam, I decided to help you.’

  ‘How?’ asked Mark.

  ‘You remember that I said somebody had sold me to the Pink-eyes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And that I thought I knew who it might be?’

  ‘Yep,’ agreed Mark.

  ‘Well, I had my friends get the feller and fetch him to see me. They had masks on and blindfolded him so that he doesn’t know where he is. I questioned him about the killing—’

  ‘Who is he?’ growled Bragg.

  ‘That’s not why I came here,’ the girl answered. ‘He bought his life by telling me everything about Sailor Sam—and it was plenty.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Firstly, Sam was killed by mistake; which makes it a damned sight worse. Churn Wycliffe’s bunch were waiting for a trader who ought to have come into town along that trail. Their descriptions tallied, so Wycliffe thought Sam was the man he wanted.’

  ‘Was this feller there when it happened?’ demanded Bragg.

  ‘No. He told me about the Wycliffes waiting for the wagon and described the driver. So I guessed what had happened.’

  ‘It was Billy Wycliffe who shot Sam,’ Mark told Belle. ‘We read that from the sign out there. Where are they now?’

  ‘I don’t know, nor does the man who told me about it,’ Belle admitted. ‘But I may be able to help you find them. You know Runcorne of the Lone Rider Saloon?’

  ‘Not to speak to, but I’ve heard about him and’ve seen his place.’

  ‘Well he’s been trading whisky, guns and other stuff to the Kaddo Indians for silver. Not silver money, but mined bars of it. I think it comes from some deserted and lost Spanish diggings the Kaddos found.’

  ‘This feller told you about it?’ Mark inquired.

  ‘He told me,’ Belle agreed. ‘And he makes most of his living by picking up information. It seems that he sold the news to Wycliffe who planned to learn where the silver came from by forcing the trader to talk.’

  ‘So that’s why they took Sam off the trail,’ Mark said. ‘Only he jumped the whole damned bunch of them and Billy shot him.’

  ‘I bet Churn nearly killed Billy for doing it,’ Belle replied.

  ‘When I get hold of Billy, he’ll wish he had,’ Mark promised. ‘You wouldn’t like to tell me who the man is who told you all this, Belle?’

  ‘No. Like I said, he bought his life with the information.’

  ‘I could guess, but I won’t,’ the blond giant drawled, thinking of the meeting between Wycliffe and the peddler that he witnessed at the Bigfoot Saloon. ‘Only I don’t see why he told you all this.’

  ‘Not because he suspects about you and me,’ Belle assured him. ‘He wanted to buy his life, figuring I might aim to kill him for selling me out to the Pink-eyes. His idea was that I and my “gang” went after Wycliffe’s bunch, then took the silver from them after they found it.’

  A faint smile flickered across Belle’s face at the thought. Her ‘gang’ had only two other members; an elderly man of somber, if commanding appearance and a mild-natured young feller with considerable skill at opening locked safe doors. Neither of the men who brought the informer to her had been involved in the robbery and Belle had nothing that might by any but the widest stretch of the imagination be called a gang. However the informer knew nothing of that; believing, like many other people, that Belle commanded a large, well-organized gang willing to carry out her orders.

  ‘Then Wycliffe’s likely to be watching the trail,’ Mark said, guessing at Belle’s thoughts.

  ‘Unless he’s already met the trader and learned what he needs to know,’ the girl agreed. ‘If he has, he’ll be headed for the place.’

  ‘Your feller didn’t say where that’d be?’ asked Bragg.

  ‘He swears he doesn’t know and I think he’s scared enough not to lie,’ Belle replied. ‘If he had known, Wycliffe wouldn’t’ve needed to grab off the trader and ask about it.’

  ‘That figures,’ Mark went on. ‘But I’d like to know where to go in case Wycliffe’s already met the feller and learned how to find the silver.’

  ‘You could try asking Runcorne,’ Belle suggested. ‘He knows.’

  ‘Reckon he’d tell us?’ asked Bragg.

  ‘If we ask him real polite,’ Mark answered and looked at the girl. ‘What do you aim to do about this talkative jasper now, Belle?’

  ‘Turn him clear and steer well clear of him in the future. And if he’s one ounce of good sense, he’ll do the same with me.’

  ‘You maybe better find some way to tell him to ride a wide circle around me from now on,’ Mark said. ‘I’d as soon not see him again, seeing as how he helped get Sam killed.’

  ‘I don’t think you need worry about that,’ the girl replied. ‘And don’t look worried, I’m not planning to kill him. But one day somebody will, the way he tries to run with the fox and hunt with the hounds.’

  Belle wondered how Mark came to tie the peddler Jacobs in with Wycliffe, for he had not mentioned seeing the men talking in the Bigfoot Saloon. Less than a year later her prediction came true. After selling information to Murat about the leader of a gang of cow thieves, Jacobs made the mistake of falling into the person he sold’s hands and paid the penalty. viii

  ‘Let’s go see Runcorne, Tule,’ Mark ord
ered. ‘What’re you going to do, Belle, wait here for me?’

  ’I think not,’ she smiled. ‘Maybe Shafto’ll start putting things together when he hears why his men came after you. So I’d better be away from here before he puts a watch on the place.’

  ‘It’d likely be best, ‘Mark admitted. ‘I’ll see you around.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to Sam.’

  ‘So’ll the Wycliffes be when we catch up to ’em,’ promised Bragg.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ the girl said as the men prepared to leave the room. ‘Runcorne keeps the silver and a stock of trade goods hidden in the wine barrels in his saloon’s cellar. The feller told me that and suggested we raided them.’

  ‘We’ll mind it,’ Mark said and put his hands on her shoulders. Gently he kissed her and then went on, ‘You ride careful, Belle honey. Or have you decided to take up that feller’s offer?’

  ‘I told him my mammy didn’t raise any idiot children.’

  ‘She raised a mighty smart one,’ complimented Bragg.

  ‘Only half-smart, pulling a fool game like this tonight,’ Mark replied.

  ‘You helped me out twice,’ she pointed out. ‘I like to repay my debts.’

  ‘Maybe you’d best stay here, Tule,’ Mark said. ‘That was a nasty crack you got on your pumpkin head.’

  ‘I’m over it now,’ snorted the foreman. ‘And anyways, you’ll likely need somebody to watch your back at Runcorne’s place.’

  ‘Loco as a fool-hen,’ grinned Mark. ‘And afore you say it, that figures working for pappy.’

  ‘It’s getting so a feller can’t speak around here,’ sniffed Bragg. ‘Let’s go put some custom Mr. Runcorne’s way. It couldn’t happen to a nicer son-of-a-bitch from what I’ve heard about him.’

  While walking through the streets towards the Lone Rider Saloon, Mark and Bragg discussed Belle’s information. They also thought up a scheme by which they could gain entrance to the saloon’s cellar. If Belle’s informant spoke the truth, neither man expected Runcorne to permit an inspection of his underground storeroom. However, given one little piece of Texas luck, Mark reckoned they could get into the cellar and learn enough to put its owner in a talkative mood.

  Although the Lone Rider was as big as the Bigfoot, it catered for a different class of trade. While the Bigfoot drew most of its custom from the higher income bracket, the Lone Rider attracted men of lesser means. So its furnishing and fittings looked cheaply garish, like a dancehall girl’s imitation diamonds. Not that the clientele objected, for the place offered them everything they asked for in the way of entertainment and at a lower rate than the more elegant Bigfoot.

  Looking around the room on making his entrance, Mark noticed a number of cowhands present. Any man with Mark’s practical experience of workers in the major industry of Texas could read the signs. So he guessed that the three groups of cowhands each consisted of a different ranch’s crew. While the conversation of the previous night at the Bigfoot made no mention of trouble between the local spreads, something certain to be discussed if it existed, Mark felt his scheme would work. Loyalty to the brand he worked for made a cowhand touchy on the subject. He believed his outfit to be the best and was willing to rear back and prove it should any doubts be raised. If necessary Mark intended to make use of that loyalty as an aid to checking on the truth of Belle Starr’s story.

  In addition to the brawny bouncers hovering at strategic points about the room, the waiters also seemed to be selected for muscular development rather than ability at serving drinks. Such men would be able to prevent even the blond giant from gaining unpermitted entrance to the cellar unless diverted.

  Which raised another point, locating the cellar’s door. Standing just inside the building, as if waiting for somebody or searching the crowd for friends, Mark and Bragg studied the room. A wide staircase led up to a balcony and the saloon’s upper floor. That did not interest either man, for what they wanted was a cellar. In addition to the main entrance, customers could come in through smaller doors at the left or right. Again Mark and Bragg ignored the sight, concentrating on three possibilities; none of which struck them as being attractively situated for their purpose.

  The three doors studied by Mark were in the wall behind the big bar. Of the three Mark liked the central one least of all. No matter how well his diversion worked, there would be no chance of getting behind the bar undetected. Not that the other two doors offered much greater chances, being set one at each end of the bar.

  Even as Mark watched, the door behind the bar opened and a bartender went in. He left the door open, allowing Mark an uninterrupted view of the room beyond. It seemed to be an ordinary small store, shelves holding bottles around the walls.

  ‘That’s not it, unless there’s a trapdoor in the floor,’ Mark told Bragg.

  ‘From the way those two jaspers went through the door at the left of the bar, I’d say that wasn’t it either,’ Bragg answered.

  Mark had also noticed a townsman and cowhand pass through the door Bragg mentioned and concluded that it led to a men’s room at the rear of the building. So only one possibility remained. And then Mark remembered that most saloon owners had an office on the premises and mostly on the ground floor.

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ he asked a passing waiter.

  Reluctantly the man came to a halt. He eyed the blond giant, first taking in the expensive clothing. Any idea that Mark might be no more than a rich, soft-living dandy affecting cowhand dress died swiftly. Not only did those well-used matched Colts hang just right but under the costly clothes lay muscles equal, if not superior to those of any man in the room. So the waiter held down his angry comment about having work to do and no time to answer fool questions.

  ‘You want to see him?’ he inquired with what passed for politeness.

  ‘Likely,’ Mark replied.

  ‘That’s his office at the right of the bar. Just go up and knock. If he’s in, he’ll maybe see you.’

  ‘Do you-all have snake-fights here, feller?’ asked Bragg.

  ‘Huh?’ grunted the waiter, scowling at Bragg.

  Once again belligerence became tinted with caution. While not as imposing a physical specimen as his companion, Bragg did not strike the waiter as easy meat or even a man to be pushed around. There was a leathery toughness about the foreman which hinted that anybody pushing him would be pushed back, even harder.

  ‘Snake-fights, friend, that’s having two snakes fighting each other in a pit. They have ’em in plenty places down south.’

  ‘Sure do,' Mark agreed. ‘In the cellar of the Casa Moreno at San Antonio.’ He looked at the waiter. ‘You hold ’em in your cellar, friend?’

  Surprise showed on the waiter’s face and he darted a glance in the direction of the stairs. ‘Naw. We don’t have ’em.’

  'Let’s go someplace where they do then,’ Mark said to Bragg.

  ‘I’ll just have me a drink here first,’ the foreman replied and the waiter walked away before an order could be given. ‘What do you reckon, boy?’

  Looking towards the stairs, Mark saw a door let into the wall beneath them. He had seen it before, but overlooked it as a possibility. From the waiter’s involuntary action, Mark concluded that more than a simple broom closet lay behind the door under the stairs.

  ‘I reckon we’ve found it,’ Mark replied. ‘Go do your part.’

  While Bragg headed for the bar, Mark walked across the room and halted near the cellar door. He ignored the interested glances of a couple of girls and leaned by the door, apparently waiting for his companion to bring a drink.

  Like Mark, Bragg knew cowhands. So the foreman saw his task would be much easier than he expected as he approached the bar. At that hour of the night any cowhand in town could be relied upon to be carrying a fair amount of Old Scalp Lifter and in the state of intoxication where one felt on top of the world and ready to prove it against anybody.

  Joining a bunch of the c
owhands, Bragg offered to set up drinks. He soon learned they belonged to the Bench M, the finest dad-blasted cow outfit ever sired.

  ‘Well then,’ Bragg said, lifting his glass. 'Here’s to the Bench M, the best spread in Texas.’

  ‘In the United States!’ corrected one of the cowhands.

  ‘In the whole danged wide world!’ declared another.

  Along the bar, one of a second group of cowhands let out a laugh, staring pointedly at the Bench M crew.

  ‘Sounds like somebody don’t believe you,’ Bragg remarked.

  ‘Don’t it though,’ agreed the spokesman for the Bench M. ‘Anyways, them Bradded A bunch wouldn’t know a good cow outfit if it rode all over ’em.’

  Thrusting himself from his place at the bar, the Bradded A contingent advanced towards Bragg’s party. ‘What’d you say?’ he demanded.

  ‘You heard me, your ears’re big enough.’

  ‘Well you just take it back right now!’

  ‘Make me!’

  Before the bartender could signal to the bouncers, the Bradded A’s leader threw a punch at the spokesman for the Bench M. Next minute both parties charged at each other with fists flying. Cursing bouncers and waiters began to converge on the spot. Just as Bragg and Mark anticipated, the employees of the saloon were heartily disliked by most of the customers. So the third group of cowhands pitched in to prevent interference with the fight. In a very short time a full-scale battle began to rage. Screaming girls fled from the room and one of them started to blow on a whistle. The short, blocky shape of Runcorne appeared at his office’s door and started to howl curses at the fighters, interspersed with orders that his men most probably could not hear.

  Nimbly slipping around the edge of the fight, Bragg joined Mark at the cellar door. Already Mark had tried the door and found it locked, which they both expected. However, everybody else either watched or took part in the fight. Mark had created his diversion. Everything now depended on whether he could force an entrance and gain admittance to the cellar.

  ‘We won’t have long,’ the foreman stated. ‘You’d best go to it.’