The Floating Outfit 20: The Bad Bunch, page 9
"You'd know, Cisco. There's not a move made in this town you don't know about. Was there?"
"If there was, I didn't hear of it."
Watching Castro's face, the Kid once more felt the other spoke truthfully. A man with sufficient skill to kill Amesley in such a manner would be hard to find. If such a man came from Brownsville, Castro was sure to know him. Which meant that the Bad Bunch had along a mighty skilled hand with a fighting knife; and one whose name was not yet known—or not suspected—as a member of the mysterious gang.
"Name me some names," the Kid ordered.
"The two best are Ortiz and Diego, but they—."
"Go on," encouraged the Kid and made a gesture with his Colt.
"On Tuesday night neither were in Brownsville," Castro continued, knowing better than try the Kid's patience too far. "I sent—they went into Mexico on business last week and have not returned yet."
"Any more?"
"Look, Cabrito, I know how Amesley died. I also know how he could use that sword-stick he carried. Whoever killed him was good, very good. In fact I don't believe either Ortiz or Diego even would have been good enough. Yet they, with apologies to you, are the best I know."
"You tried to learn his name, the bastard who killed Beau Amesley?"
"Of course."
That figured. Always in the market for superior talent, being an agent for the hiring of professional killers among his other sins, Castro could be expected to make inquiries. Yet the Kid felt sure Castro spoke the truth when mentioning the matter. No man of Castro's reputation cared to admit failure and he could not hold down a bitter note as he said the two words. Despite his organization for gathering information, he had failed to learn the identity of the Bad Bunch or locate the expert knife-handler who ended Amesley's life.
"You didn't get his name then?" said the Kid, more as a statement than in a question.
"No!" spat Castro.
"You've not helped me much at all," the Kid said. "Reckon I'll be going, Cisco. I'll use the back way." "There's no door—."
A cold, mocking gleam flickered in the Kid's eyes and his lips drew back with the mocking grin of a coup-hunting Comanche dog-soldier. "You wouldn't be trying to rile me, now would you, Cisco?"
Perhaps the only good thing one could credit to Castro was his courage. He might be as morally evil as humanly possible, yet cowardice could not be claimed among his vices. For all that he felt an icy hand run over him as he watched the Kid's expression. At that moment Castro stood very close to death and he knew it. He also realised that the Kid remembered the lay-out of the building and so did not continue with the bluff.
"Use the door in my room," Castro offered.
"Come and open it for me," suggested the Kid. Obediently, for the Kid left him no choice of being otherwise, Castro left his seat and led the way into his private quarters. While the office did not offer a rear exit, the second room did. Unlocking and opening the door, Castro stood aside to let the Kid leave.
"Happen you learn anything, Cisco," the Kid said. "Send me word."
"I will remember," Castro replied. "Hasta la vista, Cabrito."
"You don't mean that, I'll bet," grinned the Kid and faded off into the darkness.
Fury twisted Castro's face as he slammed the door and locked it. If the Kid had not passed his information to Juarez, it seemed unlikely he would do so now. Certainly not as a means of blind revenge. Yet only two people alive knew that Castro betrayed and sold Juarez's brother to the French during the struggle to obtain Mexican freedom from foreign rule, every one else involved having died mysteriously. Two, in Castro's opinion, was one too many. It mattered little where the Kid learned the guilty secret. Castro could never rest easy with the young Texan possessing such knowledge.
Which brought up a tricky point; who could remove the Kid's menace to Castro's well-being? Not a regular member of the cantina owner's staff. Knowing the close ties which bound the floating outfit and the loyalty of the remainder of the OD Connected crew, Castro did not intend to bring them down on his head. So he must cover his tracks and use men with no direct connection to his band.
With that thought in mind, Castro returned to the barroom and looked about him in search of likely candidates. He gave no thought to the dead bodyguard, beyond annoyance at the mess on his fine carpeting, and located the men he needed. There would be time after dispatching the men to have the body removed. Crossing the room, Castro signalled to the required men and they obediently left the room. A short time later, Castro followed them.
Despite having made such an easy and peaceful exit from the cantina, the Kid remained vigilant as he passed through the streets. Nor did he relax to any great extent when beyond the Mexican quarter and heading towards the sheriff's home. Walking along, he listened to the night noises and cursed the ever-present sounds of the town. Out on the open range a man might safely rely upon his ears, but not so in a big town with its clamour of continuous din.
Strolling through a section given over to business premises connected with the port, and deserted at that time, the Kid directed his feet towards the sheriff's home where he could change before joining his friends.
Almost too late his ears caught the unmistakable hiss of a well-thrown knife as it rushed through the air in his direction from an alley across the street. No white man could have escaped injury, but the kid moved with all the speed of a Pehane brave-heart. For all that, as he dropped towards the ground with his right hand fanning to the hilt of his knife, he felt the wind of his enemy's missile as it brushed by the back of his shirt. A yell, like a man in mortal pain, broke from the Kid and masked without drowning out entirely the thud as the knife sank into the wall beyond him.
To the watching pair of men it both looked and sounded as if the first's knife struck home. So they rushed forward without exercising any great caution, wanting to lay hands on the loot promised by Castro. Ahead of his pard, the knife's thrower bent forward and reached out a hand towards the shape which lay on its back before him. Suddenly the victim's left hand shot up, gripped the man's wrist and heaved hard. Taken by surprise and off balance, the man shot forward, tripped over the Kid's body and fell straight on to the bowie knife as it lashed to meet him. With a surging heave, the Kid tore open the man's belly. Spewing out entrails, the would-be killer continued forward, smashed into the near-by wall and went down.
Seeing his partner's fate, the second man skidded to a turn and tried to escape. The Kid rolled over on the ground, stabbing out his free hand to catch the man's ankle and heave. As the other crashed down, the Kid lunged forward and rammed a knee into the centre of his back. Digging fingers into the man's lank, greasy hair, the Kid dragged his head back and placed the bowie's blade in position to cut his throat.
"Who are you?" growled the Kid.
"Juan Moreno, senor," whined the man, noting the faultless border-Spanish spoken by his captor.
"You're not one of Castro's regular bunch," growled the Kid. "Did he tell you my name?"
"Only that you had much money, which he said we could keep half of if we found and killed you."
"Go back and tell him that you failed. I thought he hadn't told you my name. A pelado* like you wouldn't dare go up against el Cabrito if you knew."
"You are el Cabrito?" gasped the man.
"That's me," agreed the Kid, moving back and letting the man rise. "I didn't reckon you knew. It'd've riled me if you had. I wouldn't want to think Castro rated me so low he reckoned only two, and a pair like you, could take me. Vamos, pronto!"
Being well aware of the reputation built by the Kid during his smuggling years, the man raised no objections and scuttled away like a rabbit hunting cover. Nor did he stop until he reached Castro's place with word of the Kid's escape. For that he received a knife in the belly from a furious, and scared, cantina owner.
Looking down at the body, Castro knew his time in Texas had come to an end. Maybe the treacherous attack would bring the Kid back with reinforcements; or he might even pass on his knowledge to Juarez. In either case Castro's life expectancy could be mighty limited. Flight was the answer, but he must decide correctly where to go. Should Juarez learn the truth, Mexico, or anywhere near it, would be a mighty unhealthy location. Turning over various possibilities, Castro decided that Cuba offered a man of his talents the greatest opportunities, being well removed from Mexico, inadequately policed and ruled, and offering a land where his native tongue was spoken. He concluded there had best be no delay in arranging his passage and sent a trusted man to learn if any boat in the harbour headed for Cuba in the next few days.
Unaware of the service he had rendered to Brownsville, the Kid continued his interrupted walk towards the sheriff's house. He realised that he possessed only negative information. But that could often prove of use.
Chapter nine - the power of ole devil's name
"Come in, Captain Fog," Hoffenstall greeted, standing behind his Negro maid and beaming at the small Texan.
"I reckon this's hardly the time to call and talk business, Mr. Hoffenstall," Dusty said, entering the house and handing his hat to the maid. "Trouble being that I only just pulled in and have to leave as soon as I'm sure Beau Amesley's company's in good hands."
"Of course. I understand. If you will come into my study—."
In view of the information gained at Mama Lola's house, Dusty once more revised his decision about visiting the banker. He wanted to strike before any word could reach Hoffenstall. Maybe Mama Lola, wishing to curry favour or clear herself of blame, would notify the banker of Dusty's visit and what the small Texan had learned. If that happened, Dusty was unlikely to gain any information from the banker.
Relying on the power of Ole Devil's name, Dusty told Mark and Farron of his intentions. Despite their acceptance of the Kid's plan, neither Dusty nor Mark felt happy about their amigo going alone to Castro's place. So Mark said he would wait at Farron's home in case the Kid needed help on returning from the Mexican quarter.
Taking Dusty into his study, Hoffenstall seated him in a comfortable chair and offered the customary courtesies. With a glass of imported brandy in one hand and expensive cigar glowing in the other, Dusty got down to business.
"I reckon you know that my uncle's a major share-holder in Beau's company?"
"I'd say partner, to be more accurate," Hoffenstall answered.
"Call it what you want. General Hardin sent me down to arrange for somebody to run things at this end. He can't get here and wants a good man in charge until Beau's affairs're straightened out."
"My bank's facilities are at your service, Captain Fog." "I heard that you had a robbery."
"Yes," admitted Hoffenstall. "But I assure you that the loss was not great and we are entirely sound."
"Sound financially, maybe," Dusty drawled. `But are you safe?"
"I don't follow you," Hoffenstall said, looking like he wanted to ask for his drink and cigar back.
"You know Tim Farron's my uncle, I reckon?" "Yes."
"Well, he told me about the hold-up. Seems like that bunch got into the bank and opened its safe without raising sweat, noise or fuss. I don't know what Uncle Tim thinks, but it looks an inside job to me."
"An inside job?" squawked Hoffenstall. "Do you realise what you're saying?"
"I'm only saying what you must've been thinking all along."
"And I assure you, Captain Fog, that I've never regarded there being any possibility of an inside job as you call it."
"Show me I'm wrong. Uncle Devil was mighty concerned about leaving Beau's money in a bank that gets robbed so easily."
"The bank itself did not get robbed. I doubt if any gang could have broken into our main vault with such ease." "You can convince me of that?"
"I can allow you to inspect the premises and make your own decision," Hoffenstall snorted. "Not tonight, but in the morning if you wish. In fact I could do it tonight if I send for two of my men."
With that Hoffenstall explained his security arrangements and Dusty listened carefully. At last the small Texan nodded.
"It all sounds safe enough," Dusty stated. "But the gang still got in."
"To my private office, that's all," corrected Hoffenstall. "Each night before we leave, I check every door and window is secure. Then we bolt the connecting door to my office from the bank's side. Leave by the front door and all three of us lock it. After that I go around to my office, enter, bolt the connecting door on my side and lock the other door on my way out. The vault has the latest in locks and its door is in plain view of the windows, with a lantern left burning so as to illuminate it."
"That's safe enough. But how about your office and safe?" "There you have me," Hoffenstall admitted, sounding worried.
"Maybe somebody made copies of the keys and sold them to the gang?"
"That's impossible. I'm the only one who has a key to my private office, or the safe, and I always carry the keys on my person."
"Always?"
"They never leave my possession. When I take a bath, they hang on a hook behind the bath room door in my sight. I change them with my clothes and lock them in a deed box which goes under my bed at night."
"And you take them everywhere you go?" Dusty said. "Hunting, fishing, like that?"
"Of course," agreed Hoffenstall. "As I've said, they never leave my possession no matter where I go."
Which meant, most likely, that he carried them when he went to see the girl at Mama Lola's. If so, and she should be working for the Bad Bunch, at least one person had the opportunity to obtain an impression of the keys, in wax or some other substance, from which duplicates might be accurately copied. Being a keen student of human nature, Dusty decided that he might learn more from Hoffenstall by not mentioning his findings at Mama Lola's place. So he turned the talk to the subject of handling Amesley's business.
"I reckon I'll stay over for a few days and see how things are," Dusty finally said. "It'll give me a chance to see the town."
Hoffenstall did not rise to the hint, or offer to show Dusty around. At least not directly.
"If you need accommodation—," the banker began.
"Uncle Tim's fixed us up at his place," Dusty replied.
"A group of local business and professional men get together for hunting, fishing, or a game of poker regularly," Hoffenstall said. "I'm one of them and I'd like to invite you along. Tomorrow morning we'll likely be doing some largemouth bass fishing, or go out and see if there are any tarpon moving in the river mouth."
"Thanks for the offer. I'll come along. Mind if I bring my amigos?"
"Feel free," answered Hoffenstall. "Come around about nine and I'll take you to meet the fellers."
Leaving the banker's home, Dusty returned to Farron's house where he found the sheriff and his friends waiting. The Kid told Dusty about his visit to the cantina and finished with:
"Castro didn't help us any."
"Did you reckon he would?" asked the sheriff.
"I got a mighty winning way with me," drawled the Kid. "Damn it all though, Tim. If Castro don't know who the Bad Bunch is, I'm certain sure nobody else does."
"Somebody must," Dusty stated. "Even if it's only the members of the gang."
"What're we going to do, Dusty?" asked Mark.
"Stay on here for a spell," Dusty replied. "I want to see what I can learn from Beau's friends."
Although Dusty, Mark and the Kid spent three more days in Brownsville, they succeeded only in clearing Amesley's friends of being implicated in his death. With the power of Ole Devil's name backing them, most doors around the town opened and the members of the Up Town Hunting, Fishing & Inside Straight Club made them welcome. Hard questioning brought about the certainty that Amesley died at a member of the bank-robbing gang's hands, for it eliminated every club member as a suspect. Even Hoffenstall came through clean. While the possibility that he arranged the robbery of his own bank had occurred to Dusty, investigation showed that Hoffenstall lost far more than he could have hoped to gain.
Making a more detailed interrogation of Mama Lola's staff added little to the sum total of knowledge. While her girls described their missing associate, they could add little more information. None had ever seen the girl showing especial interest in any one man, other than the banker; nor did she appear to have any friends, male or female, who might be members of, or messengers for, the Bad Bunch.
Satisfied that they could do and learn nothing more in Brownsville, Dusty gave the order to return to the Rio Hondo. If nothing else, Tim Farron had one thing to be thankful for. Castro's cantina stood empty and deserted, its owner having disappeared without a trace and the clientele scattered until they learned whether he spread around guilty secrets before leaving.
On the evening of their return, the trio followed the usual procedure and gathered in Ole Devil's study to tell the rancher of their activities. Seated around the comfortable, gun-decorated room, each member of the floating outfit went through his findings and gave his conclusions. Betty Hardin and Belle Boyd completed the group and listened with the same intent interest as shown by Ole Devil. At last the rancher nodded grimly.
"You handled things just right," he said.
"And it was the Bad Bunch who killed Beau?" asked Betty.
"Everything points that way," Dusty agreed. "What do you know about them, Belle?"
"Only of their reputation," Belle replied. "So far they haven't committed any crime that puts them under our jurisdiction."
At that time the U.S. Secret Service handled matters affecting the internal security of the nation—spying by foreign powers, or treason—and the various aspects of counterfeiting. They did little in the matter of general crime and many years would pass before the robbery of a bank ranked as a Federal crime. However Dusty did not doubt that the girl, or her organisation, possessed excellent sources of information. So did the Kid, if it came to a point, and he learned nothing from them.
"Do you think your outfit could learn who the Bad Bunch are?" asked Betty.
"I don't know," admitted Belle. "From what I've heard, there's brains, ability and organisation behind them."
