In spite of the number of people wishing to find them, the Bad Bunch continued to strike and disappear unchecked. Now it was a bank in North-East Texas, next a bullion-loaded stagecoach, or a rancher returning from Kansas would be found dead and the proceeds of his herd’s sale gone. No matter what kind of crime they committed, the Bad Bunch never left a clue.

  And then the Bad Bunch made its first serious mistake. One of ignorance maybe, unavoidable possibly; but it brought them directly to the attention of Ole Devil Hardin.

  When the Army of Arkansas disbanded, the Texas Light Cavalry split up and its members scattered over the Lone Star State. One of them was Major Beauregard Amesley. Before the War he owned and ran a successful salle d’armes in New Orleans. A wound in the early fighting left him with a limp incompatible with the smooth handling of a dueling sword and, anyway, the impoverished South found little need for the expensive services of a fencing master. So Major Amesley might have found himself in dire straits had Ole Devil Hardin not lent a helping hand.

  As the war clouds gathered in 1860, Ole Devil gave much thought to the matter. He decided that his loyalties must lie with the South; not because he owned slaves, he did not—slavery was only one issue, though much used as a propaganda medium by the North—but through his firm belief that any sovereign state should have the right to secede from the Union if its interests clashed with the Federal Government. Recalling that the Federal Government had failed to honor its side of the bargain by which Texas had been brought into the Union—on matters like supplying troops for defense against Indians, Comancheros or other outlaws, to give but one example—Ole Devil elected to serve the Confederate States.

  For all that Ole Devil was a realist. All too well he knew that the North possessed industry and economic power which would be a major factor in the War. Sure the South had good fighting men; true Dixie supplied a high proportion of the U.S. Army’s officers, who would return to their home States in the event of secession; but in the end the side controlling the economic situation stood the best chance. So Ole Devil made his plans. Half of his considerable fortune went to the Southern States and the remainder he banked in England. So when the War ended, Ole Devil still had money. Out in California, a gold mine supplied more. Its owner owed his success to Ole Devil’s support and financial backing and honored his debt even though he wore Union blue during the War.

  So Ole Devil found himself in a position to help his friends. He loaned Amesley sufficient money to start a small cutlery business, which the Major made pay by producing good knives and other items of need in post-war Texas. Recently Amesley had developed a profitable side-line, instructing the families of the newly-rich in Texas in the correct way to behave when in good society.

  Strolling through the business section of Brownsville, his home since settling in Texas, Amesley saw a dying red glow in the waterfront district and judged that the fire must be coming under control. He wondered what had been on fire; a warehouse, from the location of the glow.

  At first he thought the faint flicker of light across the street might be no more than a reflection of the distant fire. Then he realized that such could not be the case. The matter called for investigation, as the flicker showed inside the 1st Mercantile Bank’s walls and nobody should be there at that hour of the night.

  In view of the State’s prevailing lawlessness, a more prudent man might have gone for help instead of crossing the street towards the bank. Amesley did not follow the prudent course. For one thing he could not be sure he saw the light and his position in town might suffer if he raised a false alarm. Also he guessed that the town’s peace officers had enough on their hands at that moment. In addition to the fire, two U.S. Navy ironclads had arrived on a visit and put ashore reveling sailors who needed supervision. That threw more than sufficient work on the town’s small police force without Amesley adding needlessly to it.

  While crossing the street, Amesley twisted at his walking stick’s handle and drew it up to make sure the sword blade concealed in the shaft moved freely. He acted in a casual manner, trying to give the impression that his change of direction had been a whim rather than caused by suspicion. Again he saw the flicker of light and guessed it showed through the glass panel in the door of the manager’s office.

  Although brave, Amesley was no fighting-fool. He knew the limitations his lame leg placed upon him. To barge in upon the men in the office would be both stupid and suicidal. He might be a maître d'armes of some ability, but the sword had never been forged that could defeat a revolver across the width of a room. If he hoped to prevent a robbery, he must collect help.

  Just as Amesley reached the bank’s sidewalk, he heard a soft footfall. Tensing slightly, he looked in the direction of the sound and his hands gripped the sword-stick ready to slip free the blade.

  Sheriff Tim Farron, senior law enforcement officer of Cameron County, sank exhaustedly into the chair behind his desk after spending a night watching over drunken sailors and organizing the defense against a serious warehouse fire which, if unchecked, might have destroyed half the thriving sea-port city. There had been puzzling elements about that fire which he intended to investigate as soon as possible. It might have been caused by accident, but he did not rule out the chance of arson.

  ‘Tim!’ yelled the sheriff’s first deputy, bursting into the office. ‘I just found Beau Amesley lying on the sidewalk outside the 1st Mercantile Bank.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’ Farron growled.

  ‘Bleeding,’ replied the deputy. ‘He’s been stabbed bad and left to die.’

  Thrusting back his chair, Farron rose and headed for the front door. Followed by the elderly deputy, he made his way through the streets. At that early hour they had the section to themselves and, on arrival at the bank, found only the oldster’s partner standing by the body. Farron looked at the bank, then down towards the still shape of an old friend. Dropping to his knees by the body, he made a careful study of it.

  ‘Whoever killed him stood in front,’ Farron stated, after searching the body, his voice hard and cold. ‘Wallet’s still here and filled. Where’s his stick?’

  ‘On the road there,’ the younger deputy replied. ‘I left everything like I found it.’

  ‘Then how the—?’ Farron began, but stopped and forced himself to regard the matter as a peace officer investigating a murder, not in the light of his long friendship with Amesley. His eyes went to the front of the bank. ‘Is everything all right in there?’

  ‘We looked through the window and the front’s all right,’ answered the elderly deputy. ‘Trouble being, the vault’s in the manager’s office.’

  ‘Cover Beau’s face, Stet,’ Farron said. ‘Dick, you head for Banker Hoffenstall’s house and ask him to come down here right away.’

  ‘Sure, Tim,’ replied the younger deputy. ‘You think—?’

  ‘I’m wanting to know, not just think about it,’ growled Farron.

  Watching his partner turn and hurry away, Stet gave a low grunt. ‘What’s on your mind, Tim?’

  ‘I’m uneasy is all,’ Farron replied.

  Yet there was more to it than that. A shrewd capable lawman, Farron kept in touch with other peace officers in the State. In the exchange of professional gossip had been references to a certain gang’s methods or working. Farron recalled reading of similar patterns of events to those which happened in Brownsville that night. Each time there had also been a robbery of some size.

  Not that Farron wasted time in idle speculation while awaiting his deputy’s return with the banker. He searched the immediate area for some clue which might lead him to Amesley’s murderer, but found nothing. Nor did he find any sign of illegal entry either at the bank’s main entrance or any of its other doors and windows. A feeling of helplessness filled Farron as he returned to the street. There seemed to be so little he could do to find his friend’s killer—no tracks to read, no witnesses to question

  Once more the nagging thought returned, only more complete and clear. The pattern of the situation began to take again that definite shape. There were a number of puzzling aspects to the affair; not the least of which to Farron’s way of thinking being, how Amesley’s killer managed to approach the Major with a knife in hand. The old wound might slow Amesley’s walking speed down and render him unable to indulge in fencing, but he stood firm enough on his feet. Given a level surface, like the street or sidewalk, on which to stand, Amesley should have been able to defend himself.

  If the wound had been in the back, Farron could have understood it. But the striker stood in plain sight of the victim. Having considerable knowledge of knife wounds, gained during his period of office in a border town, Farron knew how and where the murderer stood to strike. From that position the knife must have been in Amesley’s sight.

  At that moment Dick returned with a hurrying, worried-looking Hoffenstall loping at his side. The banker looked like a prosperous undertaker, had evidently dressed in a hurry, but showed no sign of annoyance at having his sleep disturbed.

  ‘Is he—’ Hoffenstall began.

  ‘Sure is,’ Stet replied.

  ‘Then who—?’

  ‘We don’t know, Hans,’ Farron answered, knowing Hoffenstall well enough to dispense with formalities. ‘Done after midnight last night, or just afore it.’

  ‘And the bank?’ Hoffenstall asked.

  ‘There you’ve got us,’ admitted the sheriff. ‘There’s no sign of anybody busting in, but I figured we’d best have you down here and take a look.’

  ‘A wise decision, Tim,’ said Hoffenstall, nodding approvingly. ‘Poor Beau. Is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ Farron replied. ‘Let’s take a look inside.’

  ‘We can’t get in through the front door,’ Hoffenstall warned. ‘There are three locks on it, of which I only carry one key. My head teller and the clerk keep the others. That way no one person can enter.’

  ‘I’ll send for them,’ Farron growled.

  ‘I do have a key to my private office,’ the banker answered. ‘Come this way and we’ll go in.’

  Before entering, Farron examined the lock and found no signs of tampering. Hoffenstall led the way inside and touched the lamp on his desk.

  ‘It’s still warm!’ he gasped, jerking his hand away.

  ‘Light it up and let’s take a look,’ ordered the sheriff.

  At first the lamp’s light revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Then Hoffenstall reached the door of the big Chubb-safe and took out his key-ring. Before he selected the key, something made him try the door. A gasp of horror broke from him as it slid open.

  ‘It—it’s empty!’ he croaked.

  ‘Was there much in it?’ asked Farron.

  ‘Ten thousand dollars in cash and negotiable bonds, and seven thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry I was holding for McKie, the ships chandler. It’s all gone. Who could have done this?’

  ‘Offhand, I’d say there’s only one outfit who could have,’ Farron replied. ‘The Bad Bunch! Stet, go down to the Wells Fargo office and roust out their telegraph man. Send word to Ole Devil Hardin. Tell him that Beau Amesley’s been murdered. I reckon he’d want to know.’

  Six – A Mighty Unconventional Lady

  The rider who brought his horse on to the trail ahead of Belle Boyd swayed in his saddle as if he either suffered from some illness, or carried a fair load of Old Stump Blaster inside him. Even while Belle slowed her buggy and tried to decide which affected him, the man slid off his horse and landed limply on the ground. Bringing the buggy to a halt, Belle swung from its seat. She secured the horse to a nearby bush and glanced at the coat which lay alongside where she had sat. After another look at the man, she decided to leave the Dance Bros. Navy revolver in its holster and hidden by the jacket. Watching the man carefully, she approached him. As the girl walked up, the man gave a groan and rolled on to his back. Any doubts she might have felt died away as she saw the blood-saturated shirt and the bullet-hole in his right shoulder.

  Moving forward fast, Belle dropped to her knees by the man. He was young-looking, wore cowhand dress and his face was twisted in lines of pain. As the girl came to his side, he stared around and reached weakly towards the Colt holstered at his right thigh.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Belle told him, her voice a gentle Southern drawl which showed culture and breeding. ‘They—they’re after me!’ he gasped.

  ‘Who?’ she asked, studying the wound.

  ‘Us,’ answered a voice from the bushes alongside the trail.

  Twisting around, Belle found two men stepping into sight. Although not born or raised in Texas, she had spent enough time there to read certain signs. The newcomers might dress like cowhands, but she doubted if they earned their pay by working cattle. More likely the low hanging gun each man wore supplied him with his livelihood. They were tall, lean men, unshaven and hard-eyed; not the kind a lone girl would hope to meet on a trail far from human habitation.

  For their part, the two men saw a beautiful young woman, maybe five foot eight inches in height and with a willowy build, although far from being skinny. Her face had strength of character and intelligence which did not mar its beauty. A lady’s Stetson hat rode on hair so black it almost shone blue in the sun. Due to the warmth of the day, she wore no jacket. Her frilly bosomed grey blouse, open at the throat, showed off her rich figure and ended in the waistband of a black, plain skirt, while high-heeled riding boots graced her dainty feet.

  The man on the ground tried to draw his revolver, but the effort proved too much for him. With a groan, he went limp and the girl knew she could count on no help from that source.

  ‘He’s been shot,’ she said, coming to her feet.

  ‘We know that,’ replied one of the men. ‘See, gal, me ’n’ Dean here, we done shot him.’

  ‘Now you gone and made her all suspicious, Shem,’ Dean drawled, eyeing Belle in a manner likely to give a well-reared young lady an attack of the vapors.

  Although Belle’s upbringing had been as good as money could buy, she failed to swoon, or show any sign of fear. The men moved towards her and she stepped clear of their victim. To Dean and Shem it looked as if she backed away from them and they exchanged leers. Slowly Belle brought her hands to the waistband of her skirt and she blessed the decision to wear that particular garment while travelling.

  If anybody had asked the two men what action Belle might take, they would never have guessed correctly. A tug on certain straps freed the skirt and it slid to the ground. Dean and Shem came to a halt as if they had run into a wall and their eyes bulged out like organ-stops at what they saw. Dropping the skirt, Belle revealed that she wore neither petticoats nor underskirt and went in for the latest, most daring kind of short-legged drawers. Suspender straps made black slashes over the creamy white of her thighs and the black stockings covered legs which many a stage actress might have envied.

  Neither of the men seemed able to think, which Belle counted on happening when she made the unexpected move. On other occasions when she pulled the trick, it worked equally well.

  While the men remained immobile, the same did not apply to Belle. Like a flash, she glided forward a pace and whipped up her right leg to send her toe driving into Shem’s groin. It was not the wild hack of a terrified girl, but the deadly attack of one well-versed in the ancient French fighting art of savate. Shapely the girl’s legs might be, but they packed powerful muscles as Shem discovered. A howl of pain burst from his lips and he doubled over, hands clutching at the injured area. Momentarily at least, Shem was out of the fight.

  ‘What the he—!’ Dean began and reached towards his gun.

  Swinging towards the second man, Belle shifted her weight to the rear foot, drew her left leg up and across in front of the right and raised her body until she balanced on the ball of the right foot. Around and up whipped the left leg as she leaned her body away from Dean, delivering a wicked slashing kick to the man’s face. Dean’s head snapped back and his hand missed the gun’s butt as he stumbled back.

  From landing the chassé croisé kick, Belle turned and flung herself towards the buggy. Effective as savate might be as a means of self-defense, the girl knew better than to rely on it in a stand-up fight with two men; especially when she carried a more efficient answer to their menace in the buggy. Surprise gave her the chance to close fingers on the ivory grips of her Dance and she aimed to do so if she could.

  Wild with rage and pain, Dean clawed out his revolver and fired. Taken in such a manner, he could not hope to achieve accuracy. For all that, the bullet hummed by Belle’s head and nicked the buggy horse’s ear in passing. A spirited animal, the horse reared in pain and swung around. In doing so, it collided with Belle and knocked the girl staggering. She knew that she could not halt herself and return to the buggy before Dean corrected his aim.

  Even as the thought struck the girl, she became aware of the drumming of rapidly approaching hooves. Then Dean’s body jerked as if struck by some unseen force and a hideous blood-spurting hole burst outwards through his left cheek. His gun barked again, almost drowning the sound of a distant rifle shot, but its bullet missed the girl and he crumpled over to fall down.

  During the War, and since, Belle had seen men meet violent deaths, which did not prevent her shuddering and moving her eyes hurriedly to avoid the grisly sight. Then the instinct for self-preservation caused her to act. Already Shem, holding his lower regions and showing the agony he felt, had started to draw his gun. Belle stopped staggering and flung herself towards the buggy once more. Reaching under her jacket, she gripped and brought into view the Dance. At the same time, she darted a glance at the approaching rider. Although she recognized a friend, she did not allow the knowledge to lull her into a sense of false security. Swinging to face Shem, she lined the Dance—a Confederate copy of the 1851 Navy Colt—and adopted the gun-fighter’s crouch with practiced ease.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ she warned.

 

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