CHAPTER TEN
Following Dusty Fog’s orders, as they’d done without question ever since they threw in their lot with him, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid rode from the side gate of the Fort which led them on to the winding track to Shacktown.
‘What do you make of it,
amigo
?’ asked the Kid.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Mark. ‘All I know is that Dusty’s tolerable eager for us to find Mrs. Kallan and stop her leaving Shacktown with any rushers.
‘Gay gal, that Mrs. Kallan. Danced a couple of times with her that night of the ball. Made me real hot under the collar.’
Neither spoke again for a time. Dusty’s orders had been brief and to the point, leaving much to be explained, not that Mark and the Kid asked for explanation when Dusty gave his orders. He’d told them to head for Shacktown, find Noreen Kallan and prevent her leaving, or if she’d left try and find out who with and where she’d gone. With Mark and the Kid that was all they needed, why they had to find and hold the woman did not matter, for their boss had given the orders.
The few people on Shacktown’s streets paid little attention to Mark and the Kid, for they’d been around enough no longer to be a novelty. The two Texans could see no sign of Noreen on the streets but they rode clear through the town and back to make sure.
‘Try in the stores,’ suggested Mark.
Swinging from their horses the two Texans headed for the first store but its owner disclaimed all knowledge of Noreen Kallan. He looked a worried man and was, for he no longer made a profit and spent most of his time wondering how soon he might be allowed to pull up stakes and go east with a safe escort.
The stores gave no clue as to where Noreen might be and the Texans did not even consider the brothel. Noreen might have her faults but she would never enter such a place, not so near to the Fort certainly. She might have gone into the saloon though and so Mark and the Kid headed towards it.
The Shacktown saloon did not have the charm of Dog Kelly’s place in Dodge City, nor did it have size or grandeur of many another prosperous house of entertainment. Rather it had been rapidly thrown up of rough logs, given the minimum of furnishings and opened to haul in as much money as possible for the enrichment of its owner. Even on the brightest of days Bruno Lewis found need of the lamps which always burned. There were no roulette, chuckaluck or faro tables, the sole gambling devices being the decks of cards which could be obtained from the bartender. His supply of liquid refreshment did not cater for those with an educated thirst that sought rare brandy, champagne or other exotic drinks. Instead a man drank raw whisky, cheap gin or beer. There were some half a dozen painted, flashily dressed girls, but given first choice at the remuda a man would not take any of them if there were others present, as the others would most likely be better looking and younger.
None of this worried Bruno Lewis, who understood the laws of supply and demand. Sure in Dodge, or even Yankton, the standards of his place would have seen him catering for the bagline bum trade. The point was that Shacktown was neither Dodge nor Yankton and his saloon offered the only such service in a hundred miles. So he did not need the frills and decorations to bring in his customers. They had the choice of either drinking at the Shacktown saloon, or doing without.
On this day when Mark and the Kid came through the batwing doors of the saloon only about half a dozen lethargic rushers lounged around a table idly playing poker and drinking. The other occupants of the room were the bartender, two of Lewis’s gunmen, Cato was not present, and a couple of dumpy-middle-aged women known as girls by courtesy only. All glanced towards the door but-none showed either interest or worry at the sight of the two Texans.
‘She’s not here,’ drawled the Kid unnecessarily, for Mark could also see that.
‘Could be in Lewis’s office,’ Mark replied, glancing towards a door at the right, a door marked private and beyond which Bruno Lewis was reported to conduct his private affairs as mayor of Shacktown.
‘Reckon we ought to look?’
Mark shook his head, knowing the Kid full capable of walking across and kicking the door open to find out what lay beyond it. Instead Mark headed for the card game and stood behind the players.
‘Looking for something, cowboy?’ asked one of the two gunmen slouching forward from the bar.
‘Likely,’ answered Mark. ‘Any of you gents see a woman from up the Fort come into town?’
‘Which woman, there’s a tolerable few?’
Looking over his shoulder at the sneering gunman Mark held down his first intention, which was to pick the man up and throw him through the nearest window. That would achieve nothing and Dusty wanted results fast. So he described Noreen and saw a flicker of interest on the face of one of the rushers. Before he could follow it up the gunman spoke again.
‘You should try at the sutler’s,’ he said, and gave a nasty snigger. ‘Hear her and Madlarn are real frien—’
Mark came around fast, lashing up his left hand in a backhanded slap which sprawled the man to the floor. With a snarled curse the gunman sent his hand towards his gun and froze.
Steel rasped on leather as the seven-and-a-half-inch-barrelled Cavalry Colt left Mark’s holster and the ivory butt settled in his right hand, hammer coming back under his thumb even as he drew. He lined the gun down on the scared-looking man and ended any moves he might have thought to make.
‘Say it again!’ challenged Mark.
The second gunman saw the start of the trouble and thrust himself away from the bar, hand fanning towards his hip. Then he stood very still. The Ysabel Kid did not hesitate. He moved faster than a cougar leaping on a deer and with the same deadly effect. The bowie knife left its sheath, its blade lining on the man’s stomach as the Kid went into a knife-fighter’s crouch. The man’s hand halted in mid-grab for he could see he faced a master with the knife and that the Ysabel Kid could get to him, send the knife ripping home, long before he could clear leather with his gun. Nor did he doubt the Kid would do just that given less than half a chance.
‘Any of you seen her?’ asked Mark, his Colt still in his hand.
At that moment Bruno Lewis stepped from the door of his office, attracted by the noise. He stood just in the bar-room and for a moment fear crossed his face, brought about by recognizing Mark and the Kid. He could have cursed, for at this time more than any other he did not dare risk trouble with the army. True the two Texans were not army but they were known to be close friends of Captain Fog.
‘What’s the trouble, Rick?’ he asked, coming towards the man Mark felled.
‘They’re looking for Nor—Mrs. Kallan, boss,’ answered the gunman, getting to his feet and rubbing the blood from his mouth.
A look of relief crossed Lewis’s face for he’d been thinking they might be looking for somebody entirely different. Recently, since the rusher trade slackened, Lewis had gone into a line of business he’d been preparing for ever since his arrival. The profits had not been quite what he expected and yet they might be satisfactory provided everything went all right. Things definitely would not go all right if the army learned of his activities.
‘Why’re you looking for her?’ Lewis asked.
‘That’s our business,’ Mark answered.
By this time Lewis had walked to the card table and looked at the players. ‘Any of you boys seen her?’ he asked.
His question came less from a desire to be helpful than eagerness to have the two Texans out of his place.
‘I saw her a piece back, Bruno,’ answered the rusher who’d shown interest before. ‘She’d walked through town like she was looking for somebody. Stopped to talk to Frank Cochrane and his bunch.’
‘Where at’s this here Cochrane gent?’ asked the Kid, sheathing his knife and moving back to join Mark, although he neither relaxed nor took his eyes off the second gunman.
‘Was camped down the trail a piece.’
‘Was?’ snapped Mark.
‘Yeah. After she’d talked with them for a time they got their horses and pulled out.’
‘Did she go with them?’
‘Sure,’ replied the rusher. ‘She went with them.’
‘Which way did they go?’ Mark inquired. ‘Towards the Belle Pourche?’
The rusher grinned slightly. ‘Now I can’t exactly re—’ The long-barrelled Colt pinwheeled on Mark’s finger and slapped back into leather. He threw the table aside, scattering the players, cards and chips. His two hands clamped on the front of the startled rusher’s shirt even as he started to thrust baók his chair and rise. Mark hauled the man to his feet, lifted him clear from the ground and shook him savagely.
‘That help your memory?’ he asked.
‘Let me go!’ yelped the man. He was no weakling but felt like a baby in the big blond Texan’s hands. ‘Sure they headed out in the direction of the river.’
Slamming the man back to his feet, Mark turned and walked towards the door. The Kid did not take such chances but backed away. To the watching men he no longer looked young and innocent. Instead his red hazel eyes were cold, hard and deadly and his face had the hard, savage mask of a Comanche Dog Soldier.
‘We’re going out of here, Mr. Lewis,’ drawled the Kid. ‘And we aren’t looking for any fuss at all. Call off your dogs.’
‘I don’t know what you mean, Kid,’ answered Lewis mildly. ‘We don’t aim to cause you any fuss at all.’
‘Now that’s what I call being real sensible,’ purred the Kid in a voice two shades more savage than a silver-tip grizzly’s growl.
Mark and the Kid passed through the batwing doors and for a full five seconds, until they heard the sound of saddle leather creak and horses walking away, not one man in the room moved.
‘Rick, Beau, come with me!’
Lewis snarled the words over his shoulder as he headed for his office. The two gunmen followed him and at the door he turned to tell the bartender to give drinks all round. Then Lewis entered his office, the gunmen followed and he slammed the door behind him.
‘What happened?’ he snarled, looking them over.
‘Those Texans come in asking about Noreen Kallan,’ replied the man called Rick, speaking with difficulty, for his mouth appeared to be badly swollen. ‘So I made a joke about her and Madlarn and the big one hit me.’
‘He didn’t hit you hard enough,’ snarled Lewis bitterly. ‘You stupid fools, don’t you know what Cato’s doing right now?’
‘Yeah,’ came the sullen reply. ‘We know.’
‘Then why in hell didn’t you just let them ask their questions and leave?’
‘I thought we’d throw a scare into them,’ Rick answered.
‘Scare them?’ scoffed Lewis. ‘That’s a laugh. If they’re half as scared as you pair looked they’d be scared all right. I don’t want the army fussing in here.’
‘They’re not army.’
‘They work for the army and they’re Dusty Fog’s pards.’ At that moment there was a knock at the door and a bartender entered. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and they heard horses on the street outside.
‘There’s a patrol coming through the town, boss. Got Captain Fog in command and them other two Texans have joined it.’
‘Thanks, Joe,’ replied Lewis, fighting to hide his fear and concern at the words. ‘Hope they enjoy the ride.’
When the door closed Lewis turned to his two men, saw the worry on each face and knew he had better stop it. He thought fast and came up with the right answer to the incident in the saloon and the patrol.
‘It looks like Noreen’s caught out,’ he said. ‘She must have learned where the patrols are and got Cochrane’s bunch to take her with them.’
‘Yeah, they was headed for the east, not the Belle Pourche,’ Rick agreed. ‘I heard them talking about it.’
‘What about Cato?’ asked the other gunman. ‘He’s over the river right now and they’re headed for it.’
‘I know that,’ snapped Lewis. ‘That stupid, man-crazy whore. Why the hell did she have to pick this time to get caught out?’
‘Want for me to go and see Madlarn?’ asked Rick.
‘No. That side of the game’s done now. Anyway, he’ll either be dead or running by now, or I don’t know him. We’ll just wait until Cato gets back with the gold for the goods, then we’ll close this place and head east. I don’t reckon it’s worthwhile staying on here any longer.’
Thinking of the goods Cato traded with the Sioux and what he took in payment for them the gunman was inclined to agree with his boss.
On leaving the saloon Mark and the Kid took their horses and rode back towards the Fort. They saw Dusty bringing the patrol towards them and halted their horses until he came.
The patrol rode in pairs, following Dusty was Corporal Dunbrowski, acting as the guidon carrier. That meant not only did he carry the company guidon but he also served as runner, delivering any messages from the captain to the rest of the command. Following Dunbrowski, riding stiff-backed and wooden-faced, Kallan sat his horse and his brooding eyes scanned the range ahead, hoping against hope to see his wife. Then came the twenty men, riding in pairs, each man with his carbine booted under his leg and his percussion-fired Army Colt in its holster. Not one of them knew why they’d been turned out in such a hurry. They did know one thing, that every one of them appeared to have been selected because he possessed a good horse, for the pick of the Fort’s remounts were being used on the patrol.
After allowing the patrol to ride by, scanning it for anything which might not meet with Captain Fog’s approval, Sergeant Paddy Magoon turned his big bay and rode fast along the line towards its head. Like the others he did not have an idea what they might be doing on the patrol but unlike the rest he did not care. That Captain Fog gave the order was enough for Paddy Magoon.
However, on reaching Dusty’s side Magoon could not resist saying, ‘Could the sergeant ask what we’re doing on patrol, Cap’n darlin’?’
Lowering his voice Dusty told the big Irishman what had happened, keeping nothing back. It said much for Magoon’s poker playing ability that he neither showed any surprise nor even glanced back at the silent and sombre form of Slasher Kallan who followed them.
‘The hell you say,’ growled Magoon. ‘We’ll have to try and bring her back afore she gets into real bad trouble.’
‘She’s done that already,’ answered Dusty grimly. ‘I can’t pass over her breaking into the office or taking the reports.’
‘It’ll mean her being sent back to the Regiment and likely the finish of Slasher, sir,’ Magoon pointed out.
‘That’s the hell of it.’
By now they were riding through the street of Shacktown and most of the people turned out to see them, although there was little or no waving, for the army was not especially well thought of at that time in Shacktown.
Throwing a glance at the two women who stood on the porch of the saloon Magoon could hardly restrain a shudder. It was the first time he’d seen them in the unflattering light of day.
‘Saints preserve us,’ he gasped. ‘Did you get a look at those two old biddies, Cap’n darlin’? They look even worse than I thought they would.’
At any other time Dusty might have found some comment on Magoon’s taste and morals but he did not feel in a cheerful mood. He was thinking of the outcome of this business. When he’d spoken about Kallan and his wife’s trouble on their return to the Fort he’d been speaking as he would if he’d held a commission in the army. Now he could see that he must not take any action. He could not keep up the pretence of being army over such a serious matter.
Without needing to be told what to do Mark and the Kid fell into line on either side of Dusty. ‘She left town with a bunch,’ Mark said.