Wichita Town Tamer Page 6

  ‘The two of them are still married.’

  The theatre owner was flabbergasted. ‘What? That can’t be true. You’re lying. She would have told me.’ He made to grab hold of Meek.

  But the wily saloon boss side-stepped. A small pocket pistol, an American Arms .32, appeared in his hand. ‘Stay back, Perry. This little beauty is loaded,’ he warned his snarling associate. ‘Now simmer down and listen up good before we both do something we’ll regret.’ He waited until Blaine had recovered his composure. ‘One of the other croupiers passed me the word. Candy confided her suspicions to Riva Speedwell.’ Meek assumed a look of commiseration. ‘Looks like Tilly has been playing you for a sucker, pard. I’m sorry.’

  Blaine’s anger soon coalesced into a burning urge to even the score. Thin pinpricks of black hate glowed beneath the bushy eyebrows. He snatched up the glass of whisky and tossed it back before he poured out another that went the same way. ‘Its about time that skunk learned that he ain’t running this town. We are. And I’m gonna make sure that message is delivered in the only way he understands.’

  ‘How do you intend doing that, Perry?’ Meek said, pocketing his gun now that the danger to his continued good health had passed. ‘The guy has more lives than a cat. And he proved it yet again down on Kingman.’

  ‘Remember when I mentioned that I could have the answer to our problem with Bonner?’ Meek frowned but gave a perfunctory nod. ‘Well I know just the guy who would like nothing more than to put the critter’s lights out permanently.’

  The person to whom Perry Blaine had referred was at that very moment idly playing patience in a Denver saloon. Originally known as Lobo Solitario due to his preference for working alone, the nickname had been shortened to Lobo for convenience.

  He was the product of a liaison between a Mescalero squaw and a Mexican trader. Pancho Valdez sold guns to the warring Apaches for the purpose of driving the hated white-eyes from their lands. The shifty gun runner disappeared soon after the birth, taking the child with him. The brief coupling had given young Miguel a distinctive swarthy appearance. Later in adulthood it had been accompanied by the traditional drooping moustache favoured by Mexican bandidos.

  Early in life the half breed had learned the hard way that no faction willingly accepted such a disparate inheritance. Young Miguel had proved to be an adept partner to his father’s nefarious activities. But Pancho made a poor parent. A heavy-handed manner found him paying the ultimate price. One too many beatings suffered by him and his younger brother eventually pushed Miguel over the edge. The die was cast. Destiny had spoken. He had made his first killing by the age of fifteen. A life on the run was inevitable.

  Accepted neither by red man nor white, Miguel and Chico drifted north unable to settle in one place for long. They tried their hands at farming. But scratching a precarious living on a dirt farm did not sit well with the Valdez brothers. Surely there had to be easier ways of earning a crust. The two boys had robbed stores before graduating to stagecoaches in Arizona.

  They had been forced to part company after one failed robbery when Miguel was caught and thrown into jail. The enterprising bandido had escaped two days later by climbing up a chimney inside his cell.

  He had drifted further north up into Nevada where the Comstock Lode had turned Virginia City into the territory’s mining metropolis. The area offered easy pickings for an enterprising dude. His first chance came when a ruthless land grabber hired him to ‘persuade’ gold prospectors to abandon their claims. It proved to be a successful undertaking and a new career was born.

  Other jobs quickly followed. And they were many and varied. So long as they paid well, the gunman had no qualms regarding their purpose. Inside or outside the law, it made no difference to the ruthless predator who had earned his nickname by a dogged persistence in stalking his prey. In actuality he favoured illicit work which was much more lucrative.

  Most jobs involved the removal of business rivals. Others were in the protection racket. Acting as bodyguard to the well-connected was particularly favoured being high-status and especially profitable. Thus was born the infamous name of Lobo.

  Business was rather slack at the moment in the Long Tom, which was not to the wolfman’s liking. He much preferred to be active and that meant keeping his gun hand well exercised.

  Neither of the two Valdez boys had set eyes on each other for over five years, although recently Miguel had received an apologetic letter from Chico that had been resting in a Nevada post office for upwards of six months before he claimed it. Apparently his brother had gravitated into the business of bounty hunting.

  And he also had abandoned his Mexican name in favour one more suited to his newfound calling – one that suited his hair colour, unusual for a Mexican, and the creek beside which he was camping at the time . . . Browny Jagus!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gun for Hire

  As its name indicated, the Long Tom was populated primarily by gold prospectors hoping to sell their hard-earned paydirt, or grab a stake in the latest strike up in the hills west of Denver. Grainy photographs of the lucky few graced the tobacco-stained walls. Most of the miners were only able to scrape a meagre living from their claims. It soon became clear that only the larger enterprises were scooping the big takes. But such is the insatiable lure of the yellow peril that a constant procession of new hopefuls arrived in the town on a daily basis.

  The saloon had become Lobo’s base since pulling off his last job over the border in the South Dakota county of Shannon. An old friend of the gunslinger’s had needed help to get rid of a thorn in his side. A particularly meddlesome Indian agent had been giving Murdo Belvedere grief over tainted meat sold to the Oglala Sioux on the Pine Ridge reservation.

  Lobo smiled at the recollection as he poured himself another shot of tequila.

  On the day in question he had tailed the agent, one Phineas Witten, who had left the town of Porcupine with the intention of challenging Belvedere at his trading post on the edge of the Badlands. Both men arrived at the post within a few minutes of each other. When Lobo entered the rough-hewn log cabin, Witten was berating his buddy for buying old meat discarded by various butchers in Shannon county, and then selling it on as prime beef to the Indians.

  ‘Howdie there, Lobo, old buddy,’ enthused Belvedere when the gunslinger entered the cabin. ‘Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. How you been doing?’

  ‘Better than you it seems,’ replied the wily critter, throwing a disparaging glower towards the only other occupant. ‘This fella giving you grief?’

  ‘He claims the meat I’m selling to Crazy Dog and his people is unfit for human consumption. Did you ever hear such a downright lie?’ The unscrupulous trader squared his shoulders in vexation at the slur on his reputation. ‘I’m telling you straight, Mr Witten, my goods are fit for white folks’ dining tables, let alone redskins. Ain’t that the goldarned truth, Lobo?’

  ‘I’ll vouch for that, Murdo,’ the gunman said in support of his associate. ‘And to prove it, I’ll eat one of those steaks along with this guy to show there’s nothing wrong with them. You up for that, Witten? I’ve known this man a long time and he’s straight as a Sunday school teacher. There’s no way I’m gonna poison myself by eating bad meat.’

  Both men looked to Phineas Witten for his reaction to the challenge. The agent rubbed his stubble-coated jaw uncertain of his ground. He only had the word of Crazy Dog that the meat was inedible. Could the Oglala chief be trying to undermine his authority? If this guy was prepared to eat it, how could he refuse?

  ‘OK, I agree to the proposal,’ he finally agreed after due consideration. ‘But only if Belvedere allows me to choose my own cut.’

  ‘I have no problem with that,’ the trader quickly concurred. ‘And to show I ain’t holding no grudges, I won’t charge either of you. All my goods are legit.’

  ‘Make sure you give us both an extra helping of fried potatoes and green beans,’ Lobo added, ‘seeing as it’s on the house. Reckon you�
�re going to be eating humble pie for dessert, fella. I can vouch for Murdo.’

  ‘I trust that you are right, sir,’ replied the somewhat bewildered agent.

  The trader went into the kitchen to give the order to his cook. The squaw was a member of the Kiowa tribe who were sworn enemies of the Sioux. Her boss gave a sly wink. She knew exactly what to do. Extra seasoning to hide the taste of the bad stuff.

  Fifteen minutes later the food was placed on the table in front of the two diners by Wind that Talks. ‘This sure looks good,’ Lobo waxed lyrical palming his knife and fork. ‘Makes a guy slaver just looking at it. And some tinned corn as well. Much obliged, Wind.’ The Indian girl coloured. She was unused to praise.

  He was about to dig in with gusto when Witten stayed his hand. ‘I seem to recall having the option to choose my own meal.’ He leaned across to exchange plates with his fellow diner. ‘You have no objections, I take it, Mr Lobo?’

  The gunman shrugged. ‘None whatsoever, sir,’ he replied with a wide grin. ‘It was no idle boast that Murdo here is honest as the day is long.’

  Both men then got stuck into their food. Nothing untoward occurred until five minutes after the meal was concluded and the Indian agent was enjoying a cigar. ‘Guess I was wrong about you, Belvedere,’ he apologized. ‘I must have got it all wrong. I’m sorry for doubting you. That skulking rat Crazy Dog is going to be in big trouble for trying to hoodwink me.’

  The words had barely left his lips when his face creased in pain. The blood drained from his face. Both hands grabbed at his stomach as he pitched over onto the floor. Groaning and retching he curled up into a ball desperately trying to stop the savage attack on his innards. His face turned green, eyes rolling up into his head.

  ‘Ugggh! Eeeeek!’ Croaking groans of agony issued from a gaping mouth.

  ‘Mr Witten doesn’t seem too well, Murdo,’ the gunman casually enunciated watching the frantic performance on the floor. ‘Do you think he might have eaten something that hasn’t agreed with him?’

  ‘Could be, Lobo. But I can’t for the life of me think what’s caused it.’ Both men shook their heads in mock commiseration. The ruse had gone exactly as planned.

  ‘Me neither. Surely not tainted meat,’ exclaimed the shocked gunslinger.

  ‘Reckon there’s only one cure for what’s ailing him,’ the trader announced.

  The two buddies aimed lurid grins down at the writhing form on the floor. Then they roughly hauled the agent to his feet and marched him outside over to a deep ravine. Before he knew what was happening Phineas Witten had taken to the air. A keening howl followed the duped Indian agent down into the angry depths of Bear-in-the-Lodge Creek.

  The two men shook hands. ‘Looks like there’s going to be a vacancy for a new Indian agent in Shannon county,’ Belvedere declared, a satisfied smirk cloaking his devious visage.

  ‘And I know the ideal guy for the job,’ Lobo said approvingly nodding towards a bottle of the best Scotch whisky reserved for special occasions. ‘Reckon this calls for a drink to celebrate your good fortune.’

  Murdo Belvedere had rewarded his sidekick’s assistance in the appropriate manner. But that dough was fast disappearing. He flipped another card over just as a little bald-headed dude sporting a green eyeshade pushed open the batwing doors of the saloon. Chickweed Parmalee eyed the bustling throng over his pince-nez spectacles before pushing through the crowd to where Lobo was seated.

  ‘A cable just arrived for you,’ the telegraph clerk said, handing over the scrawled message. ‘Not more than ten minutes ago. Reckon it sounded urgent.’

  Lobo remained silent while he read the brief message. ‘You did right, Chickweed,’ he responded, flipping a quarter into the air which the clerk deftly snatched. ‘I’ll be over soon for you to send the reply.’

  Again he read the cable teasing out the hidden meaning behind the innuendo. WELL PAID JOB AVAILABLE IN WICHITA, KANSAS, for an enterprising man with initiative. THE JOB INVOLVES REMOVAL OF VERMIN FROM THE TOWN. It was signed Perry Blaine, Waste Disposal Superintendent.

  The gunslinger couldn’t help laughing out loud. It emerged more as a rasping cackle. A group of nearby prospectors looked round. They quickly moved away. Lobo’s reputation was renowned throughout the mining camps of Colorado. Nobody wanted to antagonize the notorious hard case. Lone Wolf was an apt description that fitted the guy like a glove. And that laugh did not sound like the response to a joke. The space that opened around him reeked of anxiety.

  ‘Don’t worry, boys,’ the gunman exclaimed, allaying their fears. ‘This message has put me in a good mood.’

  A collective sigh of relief rippled through the massed ranks of sweaty miners as the tension evaporated. Men immediately resumed their discussion about the latest silver strike over in Buffalo Gulch. Lobo’s mind was taken up with the coded missive. It was clearly from some guy who needed his expertize to get rid of a rival. Again the hired gunman smiled at the ingenuity of the sender.

  Most requests for his kind of work came by word of mouth or letter. Sending cables was a risky business. Too many outsiders were able to read the contents. Coded messages were, therefore, essential to prevent unwelcome attention from lawdogs when the particular job in question was below the parapet. Mr Blaine was clearly one of this kind. But his choice of insinuation was more inventive than most.

  And it had certainly piqued Lobo’s curiosity. Removing a pencil from behind his ear, the gunman scrawled his reply on the back of the cablegram. JOB SOUNDS RIGHT FOR MY COMPANY TO TACKLE. EXPECT ARRIVAL IN WICHITA WITHIN THE NEXT WEEK. L. WOLFENDEN – PEST CONTROLLER.

  Lobo made good time across the rolling grassland of eastern Colorado and into Kansas. An endless sea of dull green as far as the eye could see. In stark contrast to the mountainous west it spurred him onward. A week of this and he was more than relieved to reach the burgeoning settlement on the banks of the Arkansas River. Open grassland here was covered by a sea of brown. Milling longhorns that were awaiting sale and delivery to the holding pens on the edge of the town.

  The haunting refrain of a locomotive whistle impinged on his thoughts as another line of empty trucks arrived from the east ready to fill up with prime beef on the hoof. Lobo couldn’t help but be impressed. This was his first visit to Kansas. He had heard tell of the booming cattle industry. But this was his first experience of how important it had become.

  There was clearly a lot of dough to be made in bergs like this. The hired gunman rode into the outskirts of the town wondering about who was going to be facing the sharp end of his six shooter. It had to be somebody of note for Perry Blaine to have summoned him all the way from Denver. His first task would be to seek out the guy and hear what he had to say, and more importantly, how much he was willing to pay.

  Fixing his plainsman hat straight, Lobo stuck a cheroot between his teeth. A vesta scratched across the saddle horn flared, revealing a granite-hewn face. Blue smoke dribbled lazily from the corner of the gunman’s mouth while he surveyed the bustling thoroughfare.

  The first saloon he encountered on Kingman Street was the Troubadour. Lobo guided the paint over to the hitching rail and tied up alongside a half- dozen range mustangs. The cowboys must be in town. Although they could have been attending a temperance convention, judging by the lack of noise. The gunman’s face wrinkled up into a bewildered frown.

  He had been expecting a far more raucous welcome. From what he had heard about these jaspers after a trail drive, all hell broke loose when they hit town. The place was more akin to a cemetery. No gunfire, or horses galloping up and down the street. That was in sharp contrast to the bustling huddle of buildings on the opposite bank of the Arkansas. He could hear the racket even from this side of the river. Something about Wichita didn’t feel right at all.

  The sooner he ran Blaine to ground the better. And who better to ask as to his whereabouts than a bartender. And so it proved. Within ten minutes of arriving in town, Lobo was ushered into the inner sanctum of Perry Blaine at the rea
r of the Crystal Chandelier. Another guy was with him. Both potential employers studied the newcomer closely before speaking.

  Cody Meek attempted to overawe the gunman with a lofty disdain that tried unsuccessfully to express his pre-eminence in the forthcoming events. Lobo held the gambler’s watery gaze with a jaundiced disregard. It was Meek who was forced to look away. Blaine’s attitude was much more relaxed. He needed this guy and wanted to keep him on side.

  It was he who stepped forward to greet their intended associate.

  ‘You made good time, Lobo,’ he said holding out a welcoming hand which Lobo ignored. Nothing had been agreed as yet. And until the right price was forthcoming, the gunman had no intention of succumbing to any flummery exuding from these smooth talking jaspers. The fixed smile pasted across the impresario’s oily face slipped. Momentarily nonplussed by the snub, it quickly returned as the loose hand disappeared into a pocket. ‘You must be plum tuckered out after such a long ride. I’ve fixed you up with a room at the National Hotel. I trust that will be satisfactory?’

  Lobo continued to ignore the unctuous remarks. Instead, he tossed aside his half-smoked cheroot and selected a fine Havana from the humidor on Blaine’s desk. After getting it going to his liking, the gunman helped himself to a shot of finest Scotch whisky before deigning to address his two potential employers. ‘I see you guys only keep the good stuff. You must be making a healthy living in this dump. So what kind of vermin is it that you want exterminating?’

  A shrewd operator, Blaine quickly surmised which way the conversation was heading. He likewise lit up a cigar offering the gun toter a studied appraisal. After all, it was they who were employing him and not the other way around. He wandered over to a drinks cabinet and poured himself a measure of French brandy. Sipping it with an expert deliberation he then laid out the proposition.

  ‘This town as you might have noticed already is rather quiet at the moment. Much too quiet as far as my colleague and I are concerned. Sure, we’re doing OK. But not nearly as well as we should be.’