Wanted! Belle Starr! (13 page)

Looking at the pair, to find out whether
they were wearing badges indicating they were peace officers, the
young man was not particularly interested in them. He concluded
they were nothing more than cowhands killing time before making for
a saloon or some other form of entertainment. Tall and lean, tanned
by long hours of exposure to the elements, they had the appearance
he had seen depicted in paintings of range country activities. Nor
did the low tied holsters in which they carried their Colt
Peacemakers strike him as out of the ordinary, as all the cowhands
illustrated had been armed in a similar fashion.

Before Crayne and the men converged, a woman
emerged from the alley he was approaching and, peering as if
short-sighted, bumped into him.

About five foot eight in height, of an
indeterminate age, the woman was unlikely to arouse passion unless
a man had been long deprived of feminine company. Even then, this
effect was only likely to be produced if there was no other member
of her sex present. A ‘spoon bonnet’, which resembled and was much
the same off-yellow color as a well weather canopy for a Conestoga
wagon, was devoid of the simple decorations usually employed to
brighten such drab headgear and completely concealed her hair. Her
somber and severe cheap black travelling costume was just as
effective in preventing any indication of the contours inside it,
other than suggesting they might be more bulky than curvaceous.
Whatever good looks nature might have endowed were spoiled by a
pair of large, horn rimmed spectacles, sallow features with a
somewhat bulbous nose and prominent ‘buck’ teeth. She was grasping
a furled umbrella in her right hand and an equally bulky and
shapeless black reticule was held in the left in spite of its
carrying strap being around her wrist.

“
Excuse me, young man!”
the woman apologized, her voice a harsh and far from femininely
enticing croak.

“
That’s all right, ma’am,”
Crayne replied, stepping by.

Even as he was resuming the briefly
interrupted quest for revenge, the young man realized something was
wrong. He had not been carrying the short barreled, but still
fairly heavy, revolver on his person for long enough to have grown
so accustomed he no longer noticed its weight and bulk. Therefore,
on passing the woman, he became aware that it was no longer in his
waistband.

Obviously, during the
momentary contact caused by the collision, the woman had stolen the
weapon!

“
Just look at this lousy
Pat-Lander, Steve!”

“
Yeah, Lee. Seems the
hairy bastard wants to have the whole god-damned sidewalk to
his-self!”

Hearing the comments made in harsh Mid-West
accents, as he was on the point of turning and demanding the return
of the purloined revolver, Geoffrey Crayne realized that he must be
the ‘lousy Pat-Lander’ to whom the approaching men were referring
with obvious hostility. Although under different circumstances, he
might have considered the words a tribute to his ability at
adopting a convincing disguise, at that moment, what he deduced
from their context was a cause for some consternation. He
concluded, as he was studying the demeanor of the speakers, that
unless he was mistaken, they were intent upon provoking trouble.
There was a truculence about them which was even more open than he
had seen when confronted by a bunch of Yale students when he and
some of his fraternity brothers were celebrating one evening in New
York City.

However, the young man’s instincts warned
him that the situation might prove vastly more serious than
comparatively friendly rough-and-tumble with members of what he
regarded as a lesser university!

Nor was Crayne wrong!

To experienced Western eyes, Stephen Forey
and Lee Potter were clearly ‘on the prod’ and looking for
trouble!

No coward, neither was the Bostonian the
kind to deliberately seek trouble. Furthermore, although the term
‘bastard’ rankled, he was less annoyed by the other remarks as he
was neither Irish nor hairy. An added inducement to forbearance was
that he was disinclined to let himself be turned aside from his
quest for vengeance by what was nothing more than a triviality. He
realized that to become involved in an unnecessary street brawl
would do nothing to help him catch up with David Icke. In fact, if
he should lose his false beard in a fight, his identity might be
betrayed to the man he was after. Should that prove the case, being
smart enough to guess what he was intending, the author would take
flight and be even more difficult to approach in the future. With
the latter contingency in mind, he decided he would not allow
himself to be provoked by the two men.

A person better acquainted with the west
than Crayne would have read something vastly more sinister than an
attempt to start a fistfight in the behavior of Forey and Potter.
Halting so as to block the sidewalk, despite being about four foot
apart, each was holding his right hand with seeming negligence
close to the butt of his low tied revolver. It was the posture of a
frontier trained gun fighter at readiness to draw and throw
lead.

Wondering whether the two men were in league
with the woman who had purloined his revolver, Crayne decided
against putting the matter to the test. He would do all he could to
avoid trouble. On the point of doing so, he was given the biggest
surprise of his life.

“
Pathrick Moichael
O’Toole!” yelled a feminine voice with a strong Irish brogue.
“Don’t yez dast go picking no foight with them cowboys. Didn’t yez
bust up two of ’em just the day ago and wasn’t it meself’s had to
bail you out of jail?”

Hearing the words and seeing the woman who
had collided with the Easterner stalking past him, Forey and Potter
exchanged glances redolent of puzzlement!

The effect which the announcement had upon
the hard cases was nothing compared to the amazement aroused in
Crayne. Not only had the speaker stolen his revolver during their
brief moment of contact, but, although she was a complete stranger,
she now seemed to be mistaking him for a close acquaintance, or
even someone related to her. However, something else occurred to
him as she began to turn his way. There had been no trace of the
broad Irish accent in the few words she had addressed to him when
she had apologized for the collision.

After staring at the woman for a moment,
Forey and Potter again traded puzzled looks. Then the taller of
them gave a jerk with his head in her direction and, indicating
himself with a jerk of his left thumb, nodded towards the
Bostonian.

“
All right, you god-damned
peat bog biddy!” Potter growled, stepping forward in accordance
with the signals he had received and laying his left hand upon the
shoulder of the female intruder. “Get the h—!”

The words came to an end as the woman
exhibited resentment at being spoken to, and treated, in such a
fashion. Twisting her shoulder free and grasping the bulky umbrella
in both hands having dropped her reticule before moving forward she
pivoted with more grace than might have been expected of one with
her somewhat dumpy build. Thrusting as she turned, she rammed the
curved handle hard just above the waist band of the shorter hard
case. Giving a startled profanity, he stumbled backwards a few
steps.

Relying upon his companion to take care of
the intruder, Forey had walked past her alert for any movement on
the part of the Bostonian which would offer an excuse to pull and
use his gun. Concentrating upon his intended victim, although he
heard the pain filled exclamation from Potter, he was not granted
an opportunity to investigate.

Showing the same kind of speed as when
dealing with the shorter hard case, the woman swung around. Sending
her right hand to join the left lower on the umbrella, she reached
and hooked its handle into the back of Forey’s open necked shirt.
Having done so, she gave a swinging heave. Caught unawares and with
one foot off the ground in mid step, the strength with which he was
assailed caused him to be spun away from his intended victim.
Unable to stop himself, before he could even so much as utter a
sound in protest, he felt the handle removed and was propelled
across the sidewalk. Striking the hitching rail, he went over in a
half somersault to alight on his back in the street.

Watching in open mouthed astonishment,
everything happening so rapidly he could not catch up with the
event, Crayne found himself unable to respond despite seeing the
woman was being threatened by the shorter hard case. Face suffused
by rage, Potter was starting towards her with the obvious intention
of avenging the blow he had taken. Showing an awareness of the
possibility, she reacted to it in a swift and positive fashion.
Turning, with her hands moving apart on the umbrella, she employed
it as a soldier would a bayonet by jabbing with the steel ferrule
at the point already struck by the handle. The effect was even more
severe, but it was not the only suffering she inflicted.
Withdrawing the ferrule, she swung it upwards to catch him under
the chin. Back snapped his head and, as he blundered away from his
assailant, it struck the wall of the building at the other edge of
the sidewalk. Stunned by the impact, he crumpled limply to the
planks.

Despite being partially winded by the fall,
Forey was sitting up. Mouthing breathless profanities, he reached
with his right hand and found only the empty top of his holster.
Looking around, he located the revolver which had fallen from it as
he was passing over the hitching rail. More eager to take revenge
upon the cause of his misfortunes than to settle accounts with the
Easterner, he made a grab. Just before his fingers could close
around the butt, he once more felt his collar seized by the crook
of the umbrella. On this occasion, however, the jerk it delivered
drove the base of his skull against the edge of the sidewalk and he
too was rendered unconscious.

“
What in god’s name is
going on?” Crayne asked, having stood transfixed by astonishment
over what he was witnessing. “I’ve never seen you before in my
life!”

“
I know you haven’t,” the
woman agreed and her voice had become that of a well educated
Southron. Strolling by, she retrieved the reticule she had dropped
in order to have the full use of both hands. Opening its neck, she
reached inside to produce the short barreled revolver placed there
after taking it from its owner. “Here, but if you’re carrying it
for what I think you may be, you’d best forget it.”

“
I don’t know wha—!” the
Bostonian began.

Reminded of what had brought him to
Mulrooney, the remarkable behavior of the woman having momentarily
driven it from his thoughts, Crayne looked around. He discovered
that David Icke had stopped and was watching what was happening.
Finding himself under scrutiny, the author turned and hurried
away.

“
Not for that!” the woman
stated, withdrawing the revolver as the young man turned and
reached towards it. “I don’t know what’s between you and him, but
he knows you’re after him. That’s why he led you here, so Forey and
Potter could stop you.”

“
Stop!” the young
Bostonian gasped, having noticed the particular emphasis placed
upon the word and realizing what it might have been used to imply.
Looking from one to the other of the men he had thought were
nothing more than chance met cowboys, then staring again at his
rescuer, he went on, “You mean they meant—?”

“
They for sure weren’t
just a couple of cowhands on the prod against Pat-Landers,” the
woman asserted with complete assurance, glancing around in a way
which reminded the young man of a wary wild creature surveying its
surroundings for potential danger. “Fact being, as soon as you’d
made anything like a move towards this cut down Peacemaker of yours
or even if you didn’t make one they’d have shot you down as dead as
Kelsey’s nuts.”

“
I—I don’t understand,”
Crayne croaked, staring at the speaker as if hardly able to accept
the evidence of his eyes, much less what she had just done and was
now saying.

“
If I give you your Colt
back,” the woman drawled, darting glances about her. “Will you give
me your word that you’ll come with me and wait until you’ve heard
me out before you try to commit murder with it?”

“
Murder!” the Bostonian
repeated, the full ugly implication of the word striking him as it
had failed to do previously.

“
Murder,” the woman
reiterated. “Could be I’ve called the play wrong, but I reckon
that’s what it would’ve come down to should you have been let catch
up with—!”

“
How did you know?” Crayne
croaked, his voice hoarse, staring at the revolver being held in
his direction.

“
That beard and wig look real
enough,” the woman explained, glancing to where her two victims
were beginning to stir and show signs of regaining consciousness.
“But I made them out as fakes as soon as I saw you and, going by
this pair of choice
pistoleros
having been told to lay for and make wolf bait of you, so
did Buckton.”

“
Buckton?”

“
Hell, yes. Likely you’d
know the son-of-a-bitch as ‘David Icke’.”

“
I do, but I still don’t
understand—!”

“
You will soon enough,”
the woman promised, making a gesture with the Colt. “Well, do I
have your word that you’ll come along and hear me out if you take
this?”

“
Why should I give you my
word about anything!” Crayne challenged, despite a growing belief
that he was not talking to an ordinary person and concluding she
was unlike any other member of her sex he had met. Looking to where
he had last seen the man he was intending to kill, he found only an
area devoid of all human life. “Oh damn it. He’s gone—!”