For a moment Billy Wycliffe stood glaring at the lookout as if he could not believe his ears. Nobody up around San Saba would have dared to go against the wishes of a Wycliffe. What Billy failed to recognize, but his uncle saw all too clearly, was that they had passed out of their sphere of influence. While they could claim to be real big fish in their own small pond, the same did not apply in Austin. Not only did the blond giant dress well and handle a gun like a master, but he had been in some mighty important company. Any man on such amiable terms with Shanghai Pierce, to say nothing of the other dignitaries at the bar, could not be shoved around like some small town cow-nurse.
That fact alone weighed heavily, but Wycliffe had another point to take into consideration. Jake Jacobs might not have a high-class range of wares to peddle, but he supplied top-grade information on a number of subjects if the price be right. What the peddler passed on to Wycliffe made the burly man decline to become involved in trouble; especially against so obviously capable a man as the blond giant. Jacobs’ information called for the services of all the men Wycliffe could lay hands on. He stood a good chance of losing, permanently or temporarily, at least a portion of his help should they push the matter further.
‘You hear the man, boy?’ he growled at Billy. ‘Now just tell the gents that you’re sorry for the mistake.’
‘Like—’ Billy started to say.
A big hand clamped hold of his shirt front, bunching it up and shaking him like a terrier with a rat. Looking at his uncle’s face, Billy felt scared.
‘You do it, boy!’ ordered Wycliffe. ‘You hear me now!’
Set back on his feet, Billy glared his hatred at Mark and Bragg. For all that, he spat out. ‘All right, so I made a mistake.’
‘Now get the hell out of here,’ Wycliffe ordered. ‘And take Cousin Evan with you.’
Muttering under his breath, Billy helped the moaning Shever up. With his cousin’s arm around his neck, feet dragging along, Wycliffe started for the door. Wycliffe stepped to Sandel’s side and hoisted him on to his feet. Snarling a curse, he slapped the beanpole’s hands away from the Coopers and shoved him after his two cousins.
‘Damned fool kids these days,’ Wycliffe said, watching the trio leave. ‘I don’t know what the hell they’re coming to. No hard feelings, gents?’
‘There's none on my part,’ Bragg assured him.
‘Or mine,’ Wycliffe declared.
‘You’d maybe best watch them, mister, ‘Mark put in. ‘They could get hurt if they come fussing around me again.’
‘I’ll see they don’t,’ Wycliffe promised and nodded to the glass Mark held. ‘You’ve got a mighty steady hand, friend, never spilled a drop.’
Which was the truth. All through the hectic few seconds of his intervention Mark neither dropped nor spilled any of Bragg’s drink. Twirling away his Colt, he corrected the lapse by tossing the contents of the glass down his own throat.
‘I did now,’ he said. ‘You’ll watch them three, mister?’
‘We’re just now pulling out and won’t be back,’ Wycliffe replied. ‘No hard feelings on either side I hope, gents.,
With that he turned and walked out of the room. Some of the crowd looked disappointed that the affair ended so tamely. Others showed their relief at not being too close to a gun battle where stray bullets might start flying. Naturally such an event could not pass without discussion and comment.
‘That’s the first time I’ve seen the Wycliffes back off,’ said one of the players at the chuck-a-luck table. ‘They don’t go that easy most times.’
‘Most times they’re not up against one of Ole Devil’s floating outfit,’ the man handling the dice cage replied.
‘Is he Dusty Fog?’ inquired another player.
‘Nope. Mark Counter.’
‘Man. If Dusty Fog’s faster than him, that’s real rapid.’
‘You expecting a war, Shanghai?’ asked Mark, returning to the bar for a replacement drink.
With a grin, Pierce slid his Colt back into leather. ‘It’s not every day you see Churn Wycliffe sing low that ways. Not that I blame him, mind.’
Which, coming from a man who made more than one allegedly tough Kansas trail town marshal hunt for his hole, was quite a tribute to Mark’s ability and toughness. The general feeling in the place seemed to be that Mark acted in the best possible manner and showed considerable tolerance in not taking more severe measures against the trio. So the house manager raised no objections to the blond giant’s continued presence; although he told the bouncers to make sure that none of the departed Wycliffes’ returned. While a gunfight brought publicity and an increase in trade, it could also come a mite expensive to the fittings and furnishings.
Mark had intended to leave after buying Bragg the drink, but changed his mind. Not a man to back away from any trouble forced on him, he did not go out of his way looking for it. If Churn Wycliffe wanted to take his nephews out of town and so avoid further friction, Mark had no desire to prevent him from doing it. To walk outside while they gathered their horses could be interpreted as an open challenge.
‘You figure they’ll leave, Shanghai?’ he asked.
‘If Churn says for them to, they will,’ the rancher stated. ‘Those three, and all the clan’re real scared of him. What’re you fixing to do now?’
‘Have another drink and go,’ Mark replied. ‘Way Tule’s stacking up the chips, it’ll be a fair piece afore he’s ready to leave. So I’ll be on my way.’
‘There wouldn’t be a gal around, would there?’ grinned one of the party.
‘Would you believe me if I said “no”?’ Mark asked.
‘Oh, sure,’ grinned the man in a tone which meant he would not. ‘We all believe you, now don’t we, boys?’
‘As much as we believe that all Banker Snodgrass’s interested in’s that red-headed gal’s paintings,’ grinned the second rancher.
‘Is that what he told you?’ inquired the South Texas lawyer. ‘The last one was his niece from Boston.’
‘Not this one,’ said the man who started the conversation on its present line. ‘Or if she is, she’s the first Boston gal I ever heard that sounded like a Georgia peach-blossom.’
‘She must be real rich, way Snodgrass took to her,’ grinned the rancher.
‘Likely she won’t stay that way when he’s through,’ put in the youngest member of the group.
‘There’s times you talk too much,’ warned the lawyer. ‘Saying things like that out loud could wind you up getting called out with a gun, or hauled into a legal court.’
‘She sure is a real good-looking gal though,’ Pierce commented, watching Mark all through the conversation.
‘Real good-looking,’ the blond giant said in a non-committal tone. ‘Well, I reckon I’ll be pulling out.’
‘Not me,’ Pierce drawled. ‘Who’s for a few hands of poker?’
‘Did somebody say poker?’ called Bragg from the faro table ‘Cash me in, friend, I hear sweet music.’
If there was little chance of getting the foreman away from the faro table, Mark knew none at all would separate him from the kind of poker game Pierce meant to start. Still, Mark declined to play.
‘I reckon I'll go to bed,’ he said. ‘You wanting to use my room, Tule?’
‘At the Houston?' yelped Bragg. ‘That’s not my kind of range. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.’
Walking from the saloon, Mark put aside all thoughts of the red-headed girl and Banker Snodgrass. Maybe Wycliffe told the truth; but if he did not and planned to avenge the insult on his family, walking the streets day-dreaming would be a good way to wind up lying in the dirt and looking like a horse tromped you.
Mark’s caution proved unnecessary, which did not mean he regretted showing it. From the lack of incidents he concluded that Wycliffe had carried out his promise to lead the trio out of town. Entering the imposing Houston Hotel, Mark went to the reception desk and rang the bell for the night clerk. Unlike the smaller hotels of the range country, one could not reach over and take a room key from the rack. So Mark leaned on the desk and waited. His eyes went to a large book lying closed by the inkwell. Following the growing trend in the East, and to show that Austin had risen above the status of a rough, uncurried range town, the Houston maintained a register of its guests; something likely to be regarded as showing an unnecessary inquisitiveness in most places west of the Mississippi River.
Two men entered the building and walked across to the desk. Turning the register, one of them flipped it open. Although no snob, Mark did not regard the pair as being potential Houston guests. One of them stood almost Mark’s height, although without a corresponding heft, wore a derby hat, town suit, shirt, tie and boots. His face bore a tough, mocking sneer as if he felt that he did Texas a favor by being there. Studying the man, Mark noticed that the right side jacket pocket sagged as if carrying a heavy weight. Not a gun, for the bulge made was the wrong shape and he carried a light caliber Colt butt forward at his left side.
Something in the second man’s attitude attracted Mark’s attention. Tall, lean, dressed in range clothes, his mustached, tanned face was not that of a city dweller. Hanging in a fast-draw holster, an Army Colt showed signs of much use. The man looked Mark over from head to foot, with particular emphasis to his features. In a way it reminded the blond giant of a rancher examining a stud horse or bull and estimating its marketable value.
Another man once looked at Mark in such a manner. Remembering the circumstances, an uneasy feeling crept over him. Before he could decide what action to take, Mark saw the night clerk appear from a door behind the desk. Indignation showed on the clerk’s face as he stepped hurriedly forward, spun the register back to its original position and closed it with a bang.
‘Was there something?’ he demanded with studied politeness.
‘We want a room,’ the city man replied.
‘Sorry. We’ve no vacancies.’
‘Maybe this’ll ch—’ the city man began, reaching into his jacket’s inside pocket.
‘Let it ride, Quigg,’ growled the other man, darting a glance in Mark’s direction. ‘There’s other places we can try.’
For a moment Quigg seemed inclined to dispute the point, then followed the other’s gaze. ‘Sure, Burbage, there’s other places. Let’s go find one.’
‘You want your key, Mr. Counter?’ the clerk asked after the two men left.
‘Why sure,’ Mark agreed. ‘Any messages?’
‘None, sir. Do you want a call in the morning?’
‘Not unless a telegraph message comes. Good night.’
‘Good night, sir.’
Taking his key, Mark crossed to the stairs. Before going up, he glanced at the door and saw the two men standing outside. Neither looked back, or showed any sign of entering the building, so Mark walked upstairs and along the corridor of the first floor. Reaching room number twelve, he slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
Instantly Mark felt something to be wrong. The room was in darkness and usually a place like the Houston left a lamp lit for its guests’ benefit. Stepping forward cautiously, Mark caught a sweet aroma which most certainly had not been present when he left earlier.
The door closed of its own volition—or did it? From behind it came a soft rustling sound. While almost sure what was happening, Mark took no chances and turned towards the sound with his right hand dropping gunwards. Then two arms went around his neck, a firm, yet undoubtedly feminine body pressed against him and warm lips crushed on to his mouth, kissing hard and passionately. Certain that he did not need to fear his visitor, Mark put his arms to a better use than drawing weapons and kissed back.
Freed at last from his unseen caller’s grasp, he asked, ‘Is it all right for me to light the lamp?’
‘Go to it,’ replied a gentle, cultured female voice.
For the first time Mark realized that more than normal night darkness caused the pitch-black condition of the room. The Houston ensured its guests’ privacy by fitting thick drapes to the windows. However, the management allowed each guest to decide whether to make use of the facility. Although Mark had not drawn them before he left, they appeared to be pulled together now. Taking a match from his pocket, Mark rasped it on the seat of his pants. He found the lamp and applied the flame to its wick. Not until the lamp’s light bathed the room did he offer to turn around and face his visitor.
Like all the Houston’s first floor rooms, number twelve offered more luxury than usual in Texas hotels. Facing the rear of the building, the room had a large, comfortable bed, dressing-table with drawers, washstand that sported a clean white towel, and a large wardrobe.
In the center of the room stood the beautiful red-headed girl who had drawn his attention on Hood Street that afternoon. A warm, inviting smile added charm to her features as she came towards him with arms outstretched. Once more she pressed her mouth against his. Never averse to such treatment at the hands of a beautiful girl, Mark gave her an adequate reply.
‘They told me this was the safest place in Austin,’ he remarked on releasing her and moving her back to arms’ length.
‘The lock’s an ordinary lever and fitted for a master key,’ she replied. ‘I could have opened it with a bobby-pin.’
‘I just bet you could. Say, Belle honey, I thought you’d got too high-toned to speak to old friends back there on Hood Street.’
‘You put me in one hell of a spot, Mark,’ she answered in her attractive Southern drawl. ‘If that feller had stepped in a couple of seconds later I’d’ve already started getting you some help.’
‘Would that’ve been bad?’ Mark asked.
‘Not for you, maybe,’ the girl admitted. ‘But it would for me. Snodgrass thinks I’m a shy, unassuming lil Georgia gal with money to invest and he might’ve changed his mind if he heard me cussing like a trail hand hauling cows out of a mud-hole.’
‘So you’re working on Snodgrass,’ Mark said a touch coldly.
‘Nobody else but.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he can afford it and I figure he’s asked to be trimmed for a fair piece now.’
‘Damn it all, Belle!’ Mark began.
‘Don’t you go all high-toned on me, Mark Counter!’ she snapped back. ‘I’m a thief, but I’ve been one ever since you met me and never pretended to be anything else but one to you.’
‘A nice gal like you doesn't have to be one,’ he growled.
‘No,’ the girl agreed. ‘I could go back home and marry off to some rancher. Grow old before my time raising kids and watching him sweat out his guts to make a decent spread from a strip of beat-up range. See every red cent he makes go into the bank to pay off interest on a mortgage and then, just when it looks like he’s going to make it, have the bank foreclose and run him off.’
‘That’s what happened to your folks, huh?’ Mark said gently.
‘Sure. Pa struggled to keep the place going through the War. Sold cattle to the Army—only they paid him in Confederate money. Then after it ended—well, you saw what happened.’
‘I was luckier than most, pappy kept his money in gold not paper.’
‘So did my pa, what he had, put it into a real safe place too. A bank. Only the bank failed. The new feller who took it on sounded real helpful, lending us and our neighbors’ money to keep going. Only he stopped being helpful before we could pay him back.’
‘The law didn’t help?’
‘What law? Davis’ lousy State Police? It was them who ran us off our spread. I swore I’d make that banker sweat and did.’
‘His name’s not Snodgrass,’ Mark pointed out.
‘They’re so alike you’d think the same father spawned them,’ Belle snorted. ‘I’m no saint, Mark. And I’m not the James boys making out that I rob the rich to give to the poor. But I’ve never yet robbed a man who didn’t ask for it.’
Coming to a halt with her heated tirade, the girl stared half-defiantly at the blond giant. Looking back, a smile played on Mark’s lips, but he felt a little sad too. Ever since their meeting the previous year he had felt a strong attraction for the beautiful lady outlaw, Belle Starr. vii A spirited, gay girl, she had a zest for life which set her apart from any other woman he had ever met. The only one who came close being Calamity Jane, and Mark regarded her in a very different manner. Where he thought of Calamity almost in the light of a tomboy sister, he regarded Belle as a woman—and what a woman.
‘It’s your life,’ he told the girl.
‘Thanks for not preaching at me,’ she replied. ‘There’s no sound so sweet to me as the screech of a banker when he’s been plucked. I tell you, Mark, there’s nothing I like better than making one screech.’
‘Nothing?’ Mark repeated.
‘In the way of business, I mean,’ Belle answered and looked pointedly across the room. ‘You never did finish teaching me to play poker.’
For the first time, following the direction of the girl’s gaze, Mark noticed a boxed deck of cards lying on the bed’s covers. Crossing the room, he sat on one side of the bed. After unbuckling his gunbelt and placing it on the dressing-table, he took up the cards. Thumbing open the box, he slid out the pasteboards and then raised his eyes to Belle’s smiling face as she sat at the other side.
‘Come to think of it,’ he said. ‘I never did at that. The first thing we have to do is shuffle the deck.’
‘Is it?’ asked the girl innocently.
‘Sure is.’
‘But it might take all night for us to—finish the game.’
‘Darned if I’d’ve thought of that,’ Mark grinned. ‘Only according to Hoyle—’
‘A feller I know says that Hoyle never played poker in his whole life,’ Belle objected. ‘Anyway, what right’s some limey got to tell us red-blooded Americans how we should play cards?’
‘You’ve convinced me,’ Mark grinned and dealt out two hands.
‘I’ll open with a pair of shoes,’ Belle remarked, without picking up her cards.
Half an hour later, after an instructive period of betting and raising, the lesson had ended. Darkness once more filled the room.
‘Why’d you rescue that lobby-lizzie on Hood Street?’ asked Belle’s voice. ‘You could’ve got hurt and then I’d never have learned how to play poker.’
‘It seemed like a good idea at the time,’ Mark replied.
‘She looked like she’d’ve liked nothing better than walk off on your arm.’
‘I was a mite disappointed when she didn’t,’ grinned Mark.
‘What’d she got that I haven’t?’ demanded Belle.
‘Nothing.’ admitted Mark. ‘And a whole heap less of it.’
‘Flattery will get you a long way, young man,’ purred the lady outlaw. ‘As long as you don’t spend all night talking about it.’
‘I always figured to be a man of action, not words,’ Mark told her.
‘Then act,’ Belle replied.