‘Howdy, Simmy,’ Waco greeted, strolling along the sidewalk to where the mayor was unlocking his front door in a decidedly furtive manner.
Lampart looked anything but his usual, neat, immaculate self. Unable to slip away before the general brawl had entrapped him, he had been compelled to fight back until he had dropped to the ground and feigned unconsciousness. By the time he had finally escaped, leaving the battle still raging, he had lost his hat, jacket and cravat. His torn shirt looked as if it had been walked on—and had. It had been his hope to reach his home without anybody seeing him, for he knew there would be those who wanted to know why he had done nothing to end the conflict. Although the street was clear, that blasted blond youngster had come through the alley and surprised him.
‘How did you get here?’ the mayor demanded ungraciously.
‘Same’s you. I got out soon’s I could.’
‘So it seems,’ Lampart growled, glaring at Waco’s unmarked features and all too aware of his own injuries. ‘What do you want?’
‘Some money out of our box.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘Sure. Happen you don’t mind the chance of the saloon getting damaged.’
‘Huh?’ grunted the mayor.
‘I sure’s hell don’t aim to stay away from it,’ Waco explained. ‘And there could be them’s reckons Red ’n’ me’s to blame for that ruckus at the hollow. So I conclude buying drinks good ’n’ regular ought to change their minds. Talked to your lady down there, and she claims I’ve got a right smart notion.’
‘My wife’s at the saloon?’
‘Why sure. Taking on like she owns it.’
That figured to anybody who knew Giselle, the mayor mused. From what she had been saying when she had heard about the gunfight, his wife had expected her half-sister to be killed. So she had not waited to hear the result before going to assert her control of the saloon. One thing was for sure. No matter who ran the Honest Man, its profits—and losses—descended on Lampart. What young ‘Caxton’ said was true, too. After a night without a drink being sold—although many were consumed—due to that blonde bitch’s boastful stupidity, Lampart had no desire to incur further losses.
‘Come in and get what you need,’ the mayor ordered, wanting to get off the street as quickly as he could.
With which sentiment Waco heartily concurred. Nobody had seen him meet the mayor. Even Red was unaware that he had, having gone to her room to change ready for their departure. That made the blond youngster’s task just that much safer.
‘I allus got the notion Ma Goldberg and that fancy young wife of the jeweler’s didn’t cotton to each other,’ Waco commented cheerily as Lampart took him inside and locked the front door. ‘They sure was whomping each other all ways when I lit out.’
‘She always blamed Melissa for Goldberg getting caught out,’ the mayor answered, opening up his office. ‘I should have one of the Regulators here—’
‘You’ve got one,’ Waco pointed out. ‘Me. You made me one after we’d got rid of ole Basmanov’s bunch for you.’
‘Of course,’ Lampart grunted and waved his hand towards the boxes. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Gracias,’ the youngster drawled, walking by the desk. Scooping the Colt from it, he turned and threw down on the mayor. ‘Only I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You’ve done what?’ Lampart spat, staring at the Peacemaker as it lined on his chest.
‘Changed my mind,’ Waco repeated, thumb-cocking the revolver. ‘So, if you’ll open up that drawer with the “magnetic” battery in it, I’ll touch off your ammunition supply and head for home.’
‘Home? With a price on your head!’
‘Shuckens, that’s not worrying me one lil bit.’
‘Do you reckon that the Army will forget what you’ve done just because you’ve got rid of my ammunition?’ Lampart sneered.
‘Just what have I done?’ Waco countered.
‘Helped to kill a colonel, sergeant and six men,’ the mayor reminded him.
‘You shouldn’t believe all you read in the newspapers, Mr. Mayor,’ the blond youngster drawled. ‘Those fellers’re no closer to heaven—or hell, I’d say in Paddy Magoon’s case—than down to the OD Connected.’
‘The—?’ Lampart gulped.
‘The OD Connected. That’s our spread. Me, the Ysabel Kid—and Dusty Fog’s.’
‘Dusty Fog?’ croaked Lampart.
‘Yes sir, Mr. Mayor,’ Waco confirmed. ‘My “Brother Ed’s” Dusty Fog. Now open that drawer, or I’ll do it myself.’
‘Can you?’ Lampart challenged.
‘I can give it a whirl. This room’s pretty thick-walled. I could burst the desk open without making enough noise to be heard outside of ’em.’
‘You’ve a point,’ Lampart admitted sullenly, hanging his head in dejected fashion. He walked around and sat behind his desk. Without looking at Waco, he opened the required drawer with his left hand. ‘Here you are.’
For all his beaten aspect, Lampart was grinning inwardly. In addition to having been a successful stage illusionist, he was also a skilled maker of magical tricks and gadgets. Being aware of the type of people with whom he would be dealing, he had put his inventive genius to work in Hell. Not only had he fitted a secret door to the cellar which held his wealth, but he had equipped the desk with a protective mechanism. The latter had already proved its worth.
On their last night alive, Glover and Eel had not meant to return to Hell. So their use as a future source of revenue had ended. They had not attempted to draw their guns until he had shouted the unnecessary warning—and by that time it was too late. In fact, he had even been compelled to pull out Eel’s weapon to make his story ring true. Fortunately, Cowper had been close enough to the building to hear the shots. Rushing in to investigate, holding his gun, naturally, he had died at ‘Ed Caxton’s’ hand.
Except that the big Texan was not ‘Ed Caxton’, if the blond youngster was telling the truth. He was Dusty Fog and he had come with his two companions to destroy Hell.
Which raised the question of why Fog had sent the young blond to handle the dangerous task of blowing up the Kweharehnuh’s reserve ammunition supply.
Most likely the blond had asked to do so, as a means of winning acclaim and, probably, higher financial rewards. Judging the Rio Hondo gun wizard by his own standards, Lampart decided that Dusty Fog would be only too pleased to let another man take the risk. Whatever had happened, the blond was going to pay for the rash, impetuous offer with his life.
Still keeping his head bowed, so that no hint of his true feelings would flash a warning to his victim, Lampart rubbed his left foot against the inner support leg of his desk. A click sounded and a section of the desk’s top hinged up close to his left hand. Out of the hole exposed by the section rose a block of wood. On top of the block rested the ivory-handled Webley Bulldog which had taken Basmanov’s, Glover’s and Eel’s lives. Scooping up the weapon, he lifted his eyes to Waco’s face and a mocking smile twisted at his lips.
Ever since organizing the escape of so many badly wanted criminals, Lampart had felt a growing sense of his own brilliance. He had brought Hell into being, arranging for it to become the lucrative proposition which it now was. With each achievement, he had grown more certain that no lesser man could equal his superlative genius, or defeat him in a match of wits.
Fog and his companions might think they were clever, but Lampart would teach them differently. There was no need for haste, not even in dealing with that impetuous young fool who stood before him. He wanted to see the other’s expression on pulling the Peacemaker’s trigger when only a dull, dry click rewarded the gesture. The appearance of the Bulldog would have been a severe shock, but the failure of the Colt would be even worse.
So Lampart moved in an almost leisurely manner—and paid the penalty.
Instead of trying to fire the useless Peacemaker, Waco had drawn his left hand Army Colt as soon as the section of the desk began to move. Flame ripped from the eight-inch barrel as the Webley was lifted from its resting place. Hit in the head, Lampart slammed back. Tipping over under his weight, the chair deposited him on the floor. The Webley slid unfired from his lifeless left hand.
‘Dusty was right,’ the youngster breathed, placing the Peacemaker on the desk and darting to the window which overlooked the street. ‘Knowing about that old plow handle did help to save my life.’
Even before Dusty had touched the revolver and found it was too cold to have been fired, he had suspected that some other weapon was responsible for Glover’s and Eel’s deaths. The shots had been fired too quickly for a single action even being fanned. Which meant that the mayor had another firearm. It was not on his person, so it must have been concealed in the desk. Confirmation for the suspicion had come from the examination of the bodies. If Glover had been pointing his revolver at Lampart, his forefinger would have been in the trigger guard. A man with the outlaw’s experience, however, would have known better than to place his finger on the trigger until the barrel had left the holster and was pointing away from him. 24
Having heard Dusty’s warning, Waco had turned his own thoughts to the matter and come up with further conclusions. One clue had come from Dusty’s description of Lampart’s ambidextrous card manipulation. Considering that, the youngster had decided the mayor had used his left hand when firing the hide-away gun. The cocked Peacemaker would be there to distract his victim. Carried a stage further, Waco had decided it was unlikely that the Colt would fire. It would be too easily available to an enemy—as his own actions had proved—for a hombre as smart and, tricky as the mayor to chance having it capable of being turned on him with live ammunition in the cylinders.
So Waco had never intended trying to defend himself with the borrowed Colt. Instead, he had gambled on his own ambidextrous ability and had won.
Looking along the street, the youngster decided that the shot had not been heard. He returned his Colt to its holster as he went to the desk. Taking hold of Lampart’s body, he dragged it to a corner so that it could not be seen from either window. With that done, he went to examine the contents of the open drawer. A sigh of relief burst unbidden from his lips. The ‘magnetic’ battery was there, coupled up and ready for operation. It was one of the portable variety designed to supply an electric current for use with a mobile telegraph station. Bent had one just like it at his place in the Indian Nations and, ever curious about unusual things, Waco had learned how it was worked.
On Waco throwing the activating switch, there was a deep roaring bellow from behind the house. The adobe shack disintegrated in a sheet of flame and billowing black smoke. Even in the mayor’s office, Waco could feel the blast and concussion of the explosion shake the house. Glass shattered as windows broke and he heard shouts of alarm rising. Darting from the office, he locked its door and pocketed the key. Then he sprinted through the living quarters. Giselle had followed Dusty’s orders to the letter—trust ole Lon to see to that. Going out he found the key in place in the rear door. He turned, removed and pocketed it. Then, as the first of the people attracted by the commotion appeared, he began to shake at the door.
‘What happened, Matt?’ demanded an outlaw whose face carried marks from the battle at the hollow.
‘I’m damned if I know,’ the youngster replied. ‘That blasted bullet-shack just son-of-a-bitching went up.’
‘Where’s Lampart?’ the jeweler demanded, looking around. ‘I’ve warned him that this might happen, keeping that blasted fuse wired up.’
‘Door’s locked,’ Waco replied. ‘Sombody’d best go around the front.’
Men dashed to do so, returning with the news—which did not surprise Waco—that there was no sign of the mayor or his wife.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Waco yelled. ‘I’m not waiting around to find out where he is. When the Kweharehnuh hear there’s no bullets coming to ’em, they’re going to get mean. Comes that happening, I figure to be long gone.’
With that, he pushed through the crowd and headed for the livery barn. Red was waiting, dressed in Levi’s pants, a blouse and dainty hat.
‘What hap—?’ the girl began.
‘Don’t talk, mount up and ride,’ Waco interrupted, indicating the horses which stood saddled and ready. ‘We’ve got some miles to cover afore we catch up with the others.’
Three days later, the united party made camp a few miles north of the Swisher Creek’s junction with the Prairie-dog Fork of the Red River. They had come that far without difficulty, other than that suffered by Belle and Emma. Although each claimed that she had held herself in check all through the second fight, both now had two blackened eyes and so many additional bruises that they could not ride their horses.
On being questioned about the explosion, Waco had told the truth without revealing his companions’ true identity. He had said that he considered his actions were for the best. Destroying the ammunition would cause even the outlaws whose boxes had been looted to be more concerned with fleeing from the Palo Duro than in pursuing their party. Giselle had taken the news of her widowhood calmly, declaring that she was relieved to know that she need never worry about Simmy tracking her down.
Waco’s summation had proved correct, for nobody had come after them. They had seen one group of Kweharehnuh warriors, who had ridden by without stopping. Indicating a distant column of smoke, the Kid had guessed that it rose from the Antelopes’ village and was calling the various parties of braves in for a conference about the destruction of their ammunition.
A couple of the town’s guides had approached the party. On hearing what had happened in Hell and discovering that their presence was unwelcome, they had ridden away. When last seen, they had been heading east as fast as their horses would carry them.
After supper, while Waco was hoorawing the Kid for having forgotten the excuse which it had been arranged that Giselle would use to prevent her husband suspecting she had left town, Dusty asked Belle and Emma to join him for a stroll. They were in safe country at last and the time had come for certain matters to be settled. Once out of earshot of the others, the blonde raised the very subject which Dusty had meant to introduce.
‘When do we share out the loot, Ed?’ Emma asked.
‘That’s what I asked you both out here to talk about,’ Dusty admitted.
‘What’s to talk about?’ Emma demanded. ‘We just sit around the fire and go, “One for you”. “One for you”. “One for you”, until it’s all split up even.’
‘Not quite,’ Dusty objected. ‘You stop going “one for you” when you, Belle and Giselle have fifty thousand apiece and the girls and Hubert have ten thousand each.’
‘There’s well over half a million in the pot, Ed,’ Emma said coldly. ‘I’d say you and your boys’re taking a kind of selfish split.’
‘Not when you consider we’ve got to share it with all the banks it came from,’ Dusty countered.
‘B-Banks—’ Emma spluttered and swung to the lady outlaw. ‘Do you know what the hell he’s talking about?’
‘Yes,’ Belle replied. ‘I think I do. He’s giving us a reward for helping him finish off a chore.’
‘Now I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ Emma groaned. ‘Unless you’re in cahoots—’
‘You might say we are,’ Belle smiled. ‘And before you start something we’ll both of us regret, I reckon I should introduce you to this feller you’ve been fighting me for.’
‘Intro—!’ Emma yelped. ‘I know who he i—’
‘Miss Nene, meet Captain Dusty Fog,’ Belle interrupted.
‘Is—’ the blonde finished, then her mouth trailed open and she stared at the big Texan. ‘D-Did she say Dusty Fog?’
‘That’s what she said,’ Dusty confirmed.
‘Then you’re not Ed—You’ve been using me!’
‘No more than you were willing to use me,’ Dusty pointed out, studying the play of emotions on the blonde’s face. ‘I was sent by the Governor to close Hell down and, with you folks’ help, I’ve done it. Now this’s my deal. You-all take the cut I’ve just offered and go with Belle. She’ll see you safe through the Indian Nations to Kansas. And you’ve got my word that I’ll not say a thing about you being part of the town.’
‘It’s a good offer, Emma,’ Belle remarked. ‘And seeing that we’ve no other choice, I reckon we’d best take it.’
‘You’re not Ed Caxton!’ the, blonde breathed, eyes fixed on Dusty and showing no sign that she had heard the lady outlaw. ‘You’re—I’ve slept with Dusty Fog!’
‘Stop your bragging just because you’ve done something I haven’t,’ Belle suggested with a smile.
‘You mean that you and E—D—nothing happened last night?’ Emma gasped, showing she had heard Belle’s last comment.
‘Dusty slept on the floor like a perfect gentleman,’ Belle declared. ‘How about it, Emma, do we take Dusty’s offer? If not, I took a lot of lumps for nothing.’
‘I reckon fifty thousand dollars ought to make up for them,’ Emma replied. ‘You’re calling the play, Captain Fog.’