Texas Killers (3 page)

“My
aide-de-camp,
Major the Baron von Goeringwald,” Rudolph went on.

“Baron,” Mark greeted.

“Mr. Counter,” the Baron acknowledged, stiffening to a brace and clicking his heels in the Teutonic fashion without offering his hand.

“And Captain von Farlenheim,” Rudolph concluded, omitting the slender blond's title of “First Taster” as he did not wish to waste time explaining its meaning. “Whose uncle I believe you know?”

The blond giant had acted in the accepted formal manner while responding to the first two introductions, even to the extent of employing von Goeringwald's title, “Baron” as it took precedence over his military rank under the circumstances. However, despite his obvious knowledge of etiquette, there was a brief and yet noticeable pause before he addressed the third member of the Crown Prince's retinue. He had already recognized a certain family resemblance when watching the barge approaching, but it was not until they were face to face that he realized how very close was the likeness to another man with the same surname he had met recently at the residence of the uncle to whom the Crown Prince had referred.

“My apologies for staring, Captain,” Mark said, after a moment. “But I couldn't help noticing how closely you feature Alex von Farlenheim. We met
at your uncle's place in Brownsville. Are you all brothers?”

“Cousins!”
the “First Taster” snapped, his normally excellent English given a harsh Germanic timbre as he made the correction, and his bearing implied that he wished he could disclaim all relationship. “Not
brothers
.”

“Come now, Fritz,” Rudolph put in, employing their native language. “You can't help the facial resemblance and everybody now knows it was Alex who was responsible.”

“Whatever Your Highness says!” von Farlenheim answered, also in Bosgravnian and with no obvious sign of unbending. Reverting to English, he addressed the blond giant, “I trust my aunt and uncle were in good health when you last saw them?”

“Why sure,” Mark confirmed, having no idea of what had passed between the royal visitor and the captain. “They send their respects and hope you'll be able to visit with them before you go back home.”

“What is your official capacity, Mr. Counter?” Liebenfrau cut in, before von Farlenheim could reply, his accent more heavily Teutonic than that of the other three. “Are you in the United States' Army?”

“No, Colonel,” Mark answered. “I served as a
lieutenant under General Bushrod Sheldon during the war, but that was in the Confederate States' Army.”

“Are you a law enforcement officer of some kind?” Liebenfrau suggested.

“Just a cowhand,” Mark drawled, without explaining that he had worn a peace officer's badge on occasion.

“I'm not sure that I understand,” Liebenfrau declared. “Why have
you
been sent to act as our escort?”

“Seems like Governor Howard figured General Hardin's men could guard His Highness better than either the Yankee Army or peace officers,” the blond giant replied. “He asked for us, anyways. And I've been sent along to make a start at doing it.”

“What arrangements have been made?” the colonel barked. “What force do you have at your disposal?”

“There are three of us—” Mark began, glancing at the approaching launch.

“Only
three—?
” von Goeringwald snorted indignantly, bringing the Texan's attention to him, but the words died away as Liebenfrau directed a prohibitive glance at him.

“That'll be enough, way we're handling it,” Mark stated.

“And what way is that?” the Personal Attendant inquired.

“There's a wagon waiting on the Coast Road, back of the trees there, to take whatever baggage you've got along with you,” Mark explained, wondering what had been out of the ordinary about the second boat. He had noticed something in his interrupted glance, but could not decide what it had been. “We've got some clothes that are a whole heap less conspicuous than your uniforms and you-all can change into them while we're loading up.”

“Change?” Liebenfrau repeated. “Into what?”

“Cowhand clothes something like mine,” Mark answered.

“
Cowhand
clothes?” von Goeringwald snapped. “Do you mean that you expect His Highness to make his first public appearance in your country wearing the dress of a commoner?”

“Well now, seeing's we don't have them over here, I can't say's I've ever seen a ‘commoner,'” the blond giant drawled, although he knew what the term implied. “So I wouldn't know how one would dress. I've got cowhand clothes in various sizes to help get you-all into the Blaby mansion without attracting too much attention.”

“It isn't right, or fitting, that His Highness should enter the first town he visits in the United States
in such a manner!” von Goeringwald protested. “He must make his entrance with all the ceremony befitting one of his rank.”

“Even if doing so could set him up to be killed?” Mark challenged.

“There is no danger of
that,
” the Baron declared, slapping his gauntlet-encased hand against the revolver which he carried on the right side of his weapon belt. “We of His Highness's entourage can protect him, even if
you
are unable to do so.”

“Against a man with a rifle that can kill at close to a mile and who can shoot well enough to do it?” Mark said dryly, not bothering to comment upon the unsuitability of the Bosgravnians' high riding holsters—each with its flap secured by a metal pin attached to the body of the rig—if a rapid extraction of the revolvers should become necessary. “Because there's a
hombre
in Corpus Christie who has one, is good enough and has been paid to kill His Highness.”

“You
know
he's there?” growled Liebenfrau, silencing the
aide-de-camp
with a glare. “Then why hasn't something been done to apprehend him?”

“All we know for sure is that he's around and that he's been hired to do the killing,” Mark replied, in a more polite tone than he had employed when speaking to the Baron. “We don't
know exactly where he is, but that's being worked on. Which's why we're playing things this way.”
⁴

“Then, for all you know, he may not be in the town,” Liebenfrau pointed out. “He could even have followed you
here
.”

“He didn't, we made sure of that,” Mark declared with complete confidence. “Only the Governor and us boys from the OD Connected know what's doing. He'll be hid away somewhere in town, waiting to cut loose when His Highness comes off the boat.”

“Then why do we have to change clothing?” von Goeringwald demanded.

“We won't make it to Corpus Christie
before
he finds put he's been tricked,” Mark explained, his voice hardening. “Which, unless he's been found and hawg-tied first, means he'll come looking for you-all, Your Highness. Not one of you'll pass, even at a distance, as being from Texas in those uniforms.”

“We're in
your
hands, Mr. Counter,” Rudolph put in firmly and a smile flickered on his handsome
face. “So we will do as you wish. In fact, I for one will be most interested to see how Colonel Liebenfrau will look dressed as a—
cowhand—
wasn't it you said?”

“That's what folks down here in Texas mostly call us, unless it's something worse,” Mark replied, appreciating how the Crown Prince's words had made his task easier. “Which it most time is and's usually deserv—”

“I hope that the lady's presence won't make too much difference to your arrangements,” Rudolph said, noticing that the blond giant was looking at the launch and guessing why he had stopped speaking. “She and her maid are accompanying us.”

“Not too much,” Mark admitted, realizing that he had caught a glimpse of the two women during his earlier interrupted glance at the boat, “They'll have to ride in a chuck wagon, not a coach.”

“That won't worry Freddie,” the Crown Prince declared.

“Freddie?”
Mark repeated.

“Lady Winifred Besgrove-Woodstole,” Rudolph elaborated and noticed the blond giant stiffen momentarily. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Mark answered. “It's just that I wasn't expecting a lady to be with you.”

While that was true, it had not caused the Texan's reaction. He was wondering what Dusty Fog would make of the latest development.

Even as the thought was entering Mark's head, his ranch's segundo and good friend was for the second time in less than an hour facing a situation fraught with peril.

H
AVING DELIVERED THE PUSH THAT WAS PUTTING
Dusty Fog's life in jeopardy, Benjamin Digbry demonstrated one of the reasons why he had been appointed town marshal of Corpus Christie. For all his lack of more desirable qualities, he was a reasonably competent gun handler. Flashing swiftly across, his right hand disappeared briefly beneath the left flap of his jacket and emerged holding the Colt Model of 1871 House Pistol. Its three inches-long barrel and the four-shot cylinder in the form of a cloverleaf made it a compact and easily concealed weapon, factors which had done much to enhance his local reputation as being very fast on the draw.

Closing his right thumb and forefinger around the Remington Double Derringer's “bird-head” butt, the man who was currently calling himself “George Luncher” began to pluck the twin superposed barrels from the U-shaped grip of the spring-operated wrist holster's carrying rod. While doing so, he was relieved to notice that the peace officer was also drawing a weapon. He was aware of the limitations as well as the advantages of the way in which he was armed. Less than five inches in overall length and flat, the Double Derringer was an even better concealment device than the Colt House Pistol. However, the qualities which created this also gave it a very limited potential for accuracy at any but the shortest range.

Considering that he was beyond the distance at which the Remington was effective, “Luncher” felt that Digbry's help was most desirable. The small Texan might not be the hired killer “
Rapido
Clint,” but that did nothing to render him harmless. From previous visits and during his present sojourn in the Lone Star State, “Luncher” had heard too much about the capabilities of Captain Dusty Fog—and his antagonist could be none other—to underestimate the extent of his peril. Before he could be sure of making a hit, he would need to move closer. Such a respite might give the
other sufficient time to recover from the marshal's push and defend himself.

Drawing back the Remington's hammer to fully cocked, “Luncher” began to advance. He was so confident of having Digbry's support that the full implications of what he was seeing did not strike him at first. Being aware of just how much authority his organization wielded in and around New York, he could not believe that a man he regarded as a dull witted country yokel would dare to double cross him. So it was with a sense of disbelief that he became aware of something alarming.

The peace officer's weapon was
not
being turned in the direction of the small Texan.

Ever an opportunist, Digbry offset a lack of intelligence with an abundance of low cunning. He had appreciated the ramifications of the situation as soon as he had seen how “Luncher” reacted to finding him with Dusty Fog. When he was asked for details regarding “
Rapido
Clint's” past activities and reputation, he had been informed of the Easterner's desire to obtain the “hired killer's” service. Rather than admit to a complete lack of prior knowledge, he had made up enough “facts” to convince “Luncher” not only that “Clint” would be worth hiring but that they were old acquaintances. So he had anticipated that his own
dishonest activities might be exposed to the man he now knew was Dusty Fog.

With that factor foremost in his thoughts, the marshal had reached a hurried decision upon what type of action was in his best interests. Knowing the kind of people who were the small Texan's kinsmen and friends precluded any thought of loyalty to “Luncher.” The last thing he wanted was for one member of the OD Connected's floating outfit in particular investigating an incident in which Dusty Fog had been killed or even injured.

There was only one other alternative!

Shock twisted at the Easterner's face as he watched Digbry's Colt swinging into alignment on him. Flame and white smoke from the ignited black powder gushed awesomely from the muzzle. Reeling back a couple of steps as the .41 caliber bullet struck him in the left shoulder, he neither fell nor dropped his own weapon. Even as he was about to do the latter, hoping that the possibility of his surrender would make Digbry turn on the small Texan, he was too late to save his life.

Acting as any trained gun-fighter would under the circumstances, the marshal cocked the Colt and took a more careful aim. Turning loose another bullet, he sent it into “Luncher's” head. Watching the Double Derringer flying from a life
less hand as its owner pitched over backward, he knew that his secret was safe.

“Are you all right, Cap'n Fog?” Digbry asked, trying to sound solicitous, as he turned and went to where the small Texan was sprawling on the ground.

“What the hell happened?” Dusty demanded, rolling into a sitting position and looking from “Luncher's” body to the approaching peace officer.

“I recognized him from what one of my informers told me,” Digbry answered, deciding there was more recrimination than gratitude in the small Texan's tone. He had already thought up what he considered to be an acceptable excuse for his actions. “He's a hired killer from New York. Here, let me help you up. I'm right sorry I had to push you so hard, but I knew you weren't likely to know who and what he was. I got told he'd been brought in after somebody and thought it might be you.”

“Looks like you-all've saved my life in that case,” Dusty drawled, coming to his feet without offering to accept the assistance of the marshal's outstretched hand. “I'll not forget this.
Gracias
.”

There was a self-satisfied smirk on Digbry's face as he returned the Colt to its holster and watched the man he had “saved” walking toward the body of his victim. He was delighted by the way in
which the situation had turned out. Not only had he averted any betrayal by the Easterner of their illicit connections, the manner in which this was accomplished appeared to have earned him Dusty Fog's approbation.

The marshal would not have felt so smug if he had realized that the small Texan was far from being fooled and anything except grateful. Having guessed at the motive behind the killing, Dusty also doubted whether he would be able to prove it had been a deliberate and premeditated murder. For all that, he was determined to find some way in which he could at least cause his “rescuer” to be removed from public office.

Turning aside his thoughts of dealing with the corrupt peace officer until a more opportune moment, Dusty knelt by “Luncher's” body. He wanted to try and verify his supposition with regards to what had brought the Easterner to the vicinity of the Edgehurst Warehouse. Before leaving the Portside Hotel in response to the message which he had suspected was leading him into Beguinage's trap, he had taken the precaution of informing the desk-clerk of his destination.
¹
Although he had primarily meant for the information to be available in case any of Governor Howard's staff came looking for him, it had been given to “Luncher.”

Which raised an interesting point!

Why had the go-between for the criminal organization and one faction of the Crown Prince's enemies visited the hotel?

Having considered the point and reached a conclusion, Dusty started to search the body. His examination produced no clue as to the identity of “Luncher's” employers, nor where he was staying in Corpus Christie, but it confirmed the small Texan's theory of his reason for coming to the warehouse.

“Whooee, Cap'n Fog!” Digbry ejaculated, staring avariciously at the contents of the wallet taken by the small Texan from the inside pocket of the corpse's jacket. “He's toting a fair sized wad of money.”

“There's four hundred dollars here, marshal,” Dusty answered, having counted and replaced the bills he had extracted. “It's the rest of the advance payment I asked for as ‘
Rapido
Clint.'”

“Looks like he was going to—” the peace officer began, stopping as he realized that the comment he was in the process of making would expose too much of his association with “Luncher.” “How'd you reckon he got hold of it, Cap'n?”

“Maybe he killed the
hombre
I've been dealing with,” Dusty suggested dryly.

“Yeah,” Digbry agreed, so pleased with the thought that he had avoided arousing suspicion he failed to notice the irony in the small Texan's tone. “Sure, Cap'n. That must be what's happened.”

Paying no attention to the marshal's comment, Dusty considered the implications suggested by finding the money. Clearly “Luncher's” principals had accepted “
Rapido
Clint's” terms, but there might have been an even more urgent reason for him to be sought out than merely to confirm the deal. Perhaps the faction who had hired the Easterner had learned, or guessed, that the arrangements for the arrival of the Crown Prince had been changed. In which case, they could be wanting the assassination to take place earlier than was originally intended.

Because of Crown Prince Rudolph's popularity among his subjects, to whom he had promised sweeping reforms in Bosgravnia's laws, the two factions who were plotting against him had each originally required that his death was to be made to appear accidental. However, as Oscar Schindler's presence in the warehouse had suggested, the radical and anarchist contingent—having no desire to see their cause weakened by a
beneficient régime—were now willing to let it be known he was murdered and hoped to lay the blame on the aristocrats. So it was possible that the latter coterie, who had no desire to see their power and authority diminished by the proposed reforms, might be contemplating a double bluff by asking for an obvious assassination which could be blamed upon their opponents.

Unfortunately, “Luncher's” killing had prevented Dusty from satisfying his curiosity. Nor, if his suspicions regarding their identity was correct, would the Easterner's principals be fooled into thinking he was “
Rapido
Clint.” Digbry's actions had closed the gate upon the means by which he had hoped to expose members belonging to one faction of the royal visitor's enemies.

Nothing of the small Texan's feelings showed as he returned the money to the wallet and stood up. He was hard pressed to hide his revulsion where the corrupt peace officer was concerned, but forced himself to do so. There was still work for him to do and Digbry could help him. Although the anarchists had failed with Schindler and the aristocrats no longer could call upon the services of their go-between with the New York criminal organization, neither faction would allow the setbacks to make them give up. So the threats to the
Crown Prince's life were still far from over. However, he considered that his task would be far less difficult with Europe's “premier assassin” lying dead in the warehouse.

Thinking of Beguinage in conjunction with his earlier speculations, Dusty recollected a subject which had intrigued him in Brownsville. The assassin had killed one adherent of each faction and warned off others, which suggested he was not in the employ of either group. It seemed that there might be yet a third party with designs upon the life of the royal visitor.

“You-all'd best hold on to this
four hundred
dollars,” the small Texan stated, holding out the wallet and laying great emphasis upon the sum of money it contained. Indicating the body, he went on, “Do you know where this jasper's staying in town?”

“No,” Digbry replied truthfully, although he was more concerned with trying to think of a way in which he might be able to convert at least a proportion of the wallet's contents to lining his own pockets. “That informer of mine just said's he'd seen him around the waterfront.”

“Maybe your informer's found out where he's bedded down by now?” Dusty suggested, so helpfully that he might have believed such a person existed. “How about us going and asking if he has?”

“Yeah, we could do th—” the marshal commenced. Then he produced a reasonably well simulated look and gesture of annoyance, going on, “Blast it, we can't though. He left on that boat's sailed this morning.”

“Now isn't
that
too bad,” Dusty consoled, making his pretence at resignation sound equally genuine. Nodding at the alley from which “Luncher” had come, he continued, “The shooting'll bring folks and it's best you and I aren't seen together just now. I'll drift along and sort of nose around for a spell to see if I can find anything about this yahoo. Say what you like about this, but don't mention who I really am.”

“Sure thing, Cap'n Fog,” Digbry assented, doubting whether the other would be any more successful than he had been in learning where the Easterner had been staying. “I'll tend to things here. When'll I be seeing you again?”

“At the Blaby mansion for the reception, unless something turns up before then,” Dusty suggested, although the words came in the form of an order. “You-all can give the Governor that four hundred dollars and we'll tell him all we've learned.”

 

“Freddie, I would like to present you to the gentleman who is responsible for our safe delivery to
Corpus Christie, Mr. Mark Counter,” Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia introduced. “Mr. Counter, the Right Honorable Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrove-Woodstole.”

“My pleasure, ma'am,” the blond giant said, taking the hand that was extended and hoping his skill as a poker player would be sufficient to prevent his feelings from showing.

Having a keen eye for members of the opposite sex, Mark had decided that the first of the two young women to land from the U.S.S.
Nantucket
's thirty-six-foot launch was an exceptionally fine specimen. However, hearing her full name was adding to the puzzlement which he had experienced when the royal visitor had first spoken of her.

Five feet seven in height, the young woman to whom Mark had been introduced was a honey blonde in her late twenties. She had a regal beauty which enhanced the patrician distinction of her features. Sensibly dressed in a brown tailored two-piece costume, her hair was drawn up into a large bun and held in place by a net at the back of her neck. The jacket was severely, almost masculinely, cut with no lace trimming. In spite of having an attached collar, the neck of her white shirt-blouse was decorously open. Showing from beneath the
hem of the long, flared skirt were brown shoes which would be suitable for walking or riding on horseback. The attire neither concealed nor sought to show off a magnificent figure. Her whole bearing was suggestive of birth and breeding, implying self-confidence that was far from overbearing or snobbish.