The Fortune Hunters (3 page)

* * *

Chicago had already proceeded well on the way of removing the traces of its great fire of 1871. The main railroad depot could equal anything the eastern cities had to offer, both in grandeur and amenities.

While not being a naïve country-boy getting his first sight of a big city. Dusty still felt relieved to see the big, craggy shape of Detective Lieutenant Ed Ballinger coming through the crowd of people: passengers from the fast mail train, people coming to meet friends or relatives, railroad officials and just folk who had nothing more important to do than come and see what the trains brought in.

‘Howdy, Dusty,’ Ballinger greeted, holding out a powerful hand. ‘Good to see you again.’

‘And you,’ Dusty replied, giving as good as he got in the firm handshake.

‘Come on. I’ve a hack waiting to take us to the Stockman’s Hotel. I booked you in there. My place is being painted out and I’m living, if you could call it that, at the headquarters station house.’

They made a contrasting pair as they walked side by side from the railroad depot and on to a busy street. The big city detective in his curly brimmed derby hat, grey suit of the latest eastern cut, white shirt and stiff collar and the black tie; and the small Texan in range clothes, with a buckskin coat, and carrying a warbag in his right hand.

‘What’s your interest in Abe Cohen?’ Ballinger asked as they sat in the carriage on their way to the hotel.

‘He’s got a kid—’

‘He’s got a dozen or more of ‘em. Hires them out as shoeshine boys, flower girls, things like that. They pick pockets and steal anything that’s not nailed down. Only we can’t bring it back to Cohen. All he does is hires the kids out to work, which’s fairly honest.’

‘Where do we find him?’ Dusty inquired.

‘In the Bad-lands. I’ll take you after we’ve fed and got you settled in,’ Balhinger replied. ‘How’s Mark, Lon, Waco and all the folks back to Rio Hondo?’

‘Fit as fleas and twice as lively,’ grinned Dusty. ‘Mark wanted to come with me, but I said you’d most likely got enough vices without him introducing you to any more.’

An answering grin creased Ballinger’s rugged face. There had been a time when he regarded all westerners as dull-witted yokels fit only to be rooked by quick-thinking city slickers. Then he went to Texas after a gang of Chicago crooks and his path crossed that of the Rio Hondo County bunch. During a hectic month-long visit, Ballinger saw much to change his opinion of westerners in general and this small, soft-spoken insignificant Texan in particular.

‘It’s a pity Mark didn’t come,’ Ballinger remarked. ‘In more ways than one. That’s a mean area we’re going into.’

‘I’m dressed,’ Dusty replied quietly.

Looking down, Ballinger could see no sign of Dusty’s gunbelt and Colts. Yet he knew the range term Dusty used did not mean that he was wearing all his clothes.

‘You’d best remember the Chief of Police don’t go for gun fight around his town,’ Ballinger warned. ‘We’re civilised here—or so they tell me.’

The Stockman’s Hotel was one of the better places in the stockyards area of town and catered for visiting ranchers, cattle buyers and other people with an interest in Texas’ main industry. Consequently the desk clerk had some knowledge of famous Western names. So he did not conceal his surprise too well when a small, insignificant cowhand announced himself to be Captain Dusty Fog. However, the clerk knew Ballinger and so did not argue. Giving Dusty a room key, the clerk called a bell hop forward to carry the warbag and show Dusty to his room.

‘That’s one of the new model Colts, isn’t it?’ Ballinger asked as he sat on the edge of the bed and watched Dusty remove his jacket.

‘Sure. Civilian Model, four and three-quarter inch barrel. I bought a brace just over a year back, when they first came on he market. They’re the guns I used down in Mexico.’
²

While Dusty washed and shaved, Ballinger examined the bone handled Colt the small Texan had carried in his waistband. Although the detective felt curious about Dusty’s interest n Abe Cohen, he asked no questions, for he knew Dusty would explain everything in his own time.

After a meal in the hotel’s dining-room, during which Dusty explained the reason for his visit, the two men left the building. Hailing a passing carriage, Ballinger told its driver where they wanted to go.

‘That’s a bad neighbourhood,’ the driver objected.

‘So they tell me,’ Ballinger replied, taking out the wallet which contained his detective lieutenant’s badge, and showing it to the man. ‘Does that make you feel any better?’

‘Naw!’ grunted the man. ‘But I’ll take you.’

‘You can stop out front of Henderson’s if you like,’ Ballinger growled. ‘We’ll go the rest of the way on foot.’

The driver looked slightly relieved at the suggestion.

‘That’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I never heard of anybody getting robbed or killed in front of Henderson’s—in plain daylight.’

‘I thought you said this’s a nice, quiet, civilised little town,’ Dusty remarked to Ballinger as he climbed into the carriage.

‘Sure it is. Why up in Streeterville you’d think you was in fashionable New York, it’s that genteel—trouble is we’re not headed for Streeterville.’

Passing the stockyards, the carriage took its passengers through the sprawling area known as the Bad-lands. Here the great fire had wreaked its most terrible havoc, already new houses had been built. The new houses, even so soon, were fast taking on the look and smells of the old slums which the fire removed.

Ragged children stopped their playing to stare at the carriage as it went by, keeping a watchful eye on the driver’s whip. Dirty, untidy men and women stood silently scowling at it, wondering who might be inside. Four big, burly policemen, patrolling in the smallest safe number for that area, gave the carriage a hard, watchful, suspicious study. No honest man in the Bad-lands could afford to ride around in a carriage and visiting dudes meant trouble for the patrolmen when they visited the saloons and drinking houses of the area..

At last the carriage came to a halt on a street which appeared to be lined with saloons, gin-palaces and other places of entertainment, so in consequence looked in far better condition than most of the surrounding district.

‘Stay here and wait for us,’ Ballinger told the driver as he sprang from the carriage.

‘H—here?’ gulped the man, throwing a nervous look around.

‘That’s what I said. We’ll not be more than fifteen minutes.’

‘B—but——!’

‘Just a minute,’ Ballinger grinned, knowing the cause of the man’s worry. He crossed the sidewalk to the doors of the big, garish looking saloon and yelled, ‘Henderson!’

A burly, red faced man wearing a loud check suit and a revolting clash of colour in vest, shirt and neckwear, came to the saloon’s door. His surly face twisted into what charitably might have been described as a welcoming smile as he looked at Ballinger.

‘Yerse, Mr. Ballinger?’ he said in a grating Cockney accent. ‘What can I do fer yer?’

‘I’m leaving this feller out here. See he’s kept safe.’

‘That I will. He’ll be as safe as if he was me own.’

The driver looked much relieved as his two passengers walked along the street away from him. In the Bad-lands, Henderson’s name carried much weight and no man under his protection need be afraid—at least not in plain daylight and before Henderson’s front door.

‘Where now?’ Dusty asked as they walked along the street.

‘Down here,’ Ballinger replied, swinging into a narrow street with rows of three-storey houses flanking it. ‘This’s the one here. Cohen owns the place, lives up on the top floor. If we’re real lucky we’ll get up there before anybody recognises me and warns him.’

Inside the building a foul stench hit Dusty’s nostrils, the smell of unwashed bodies, urine and excreta, the aroma of a slum.

‘Lord!’ he said. ‘What a way to live.’

‘Yeah,’ Ballinger replied. ‘And Cohen’s probably got more money than a lot of folks living in big mansions up in Streeterville. Let’s go.’

They went up the stairs which felt slick and greasy with filth underfoot. Just as they reached the second floor, a small, rat-aced man stepped from a room. He stared at Ballinger, his mouth dropped open in surprise, and he turned to dash towards the stairs leading up to the third storey.

Springing forward Ballinger shot out his left hand to catch the man by the collar and haul him backwards. The detective’s other hand went into his jacket pocket and came out with a short, leather-wrapped, lead-loaded police billie. Even as the man tried to yell a warning, Ballinger’s right hand lifted and he brought the billie down. He struck only once, with the skill of long practice, and the crook collapsed in a limp heap to the floor.

‘Let’s move!’ Ballinger snapped, bounding over the man’s still body and heading upstairs with Dusty on his heels.

On reaching the third floor, which was no cleaner than the rest of the house, Ballinger led the way towards a door. From behind it came a flat ‘splat’ and a high pitched scream, the cry of a child, or girl, in pain.

‘We’ll have to bust it in!’ Ballinger growled. ‘It’d take more than one man though.’

‘What’re we waiting for?’ Dusty answered.

Abe Cohen was handing out a disciplinary lesson to one of his workers. Always a man who demanded results, he did not take kindly to failure, especially repeated failure. With his door locked, he thought himself safe from interference, so gripped the pretty, if dirty, black haired girl by the arm with one hand, the other lashing his thick belt across the back he had exposed by ripping open her flimsy ragged dress. Half-a-dozen other ragged boys and girls in the middle teens stood around the room, flattened back against the walls and watching the thrashing in silence.

‘I’ll teach you to come back empty handed!’ he bellowed, swinging up the belt again.

Then the door burst open. The door he had prided himself on as being strong enough to prevent such unauthorised entry. Swinging around, Cohen opened his mouth to snarl out something. Releasing the girl’s wrist, he let her fall in a sobbing heap to the floor.

On bursting into the room, Dusty and Ballinger took in the scene before them. Ballinger felt rage welling up in him. Yet was bound by certain rules, for there were defenders of the right of the people who would be only too willing to jump on him should he hand Cohen the thrashing the man so richly deserved.

Dusty had, been a lawman, but he held no official post in Chicago. For all he cared, the defenders of the rights of the people could go climb their thumbs. He saw something which made his temper rise, and he was just the man to do something about correcting matters.

‘You lousy, stinking skunk!’

The words left Dusty’s mouth as he shot forward. His right fist drove out, the knuckles exploding on Cohen’s mouth, snapping the man’s head back and staggering him away from the girl. She crawled weakly across the room. Vicious weals left by the belt showed across her back. Glancing at the girl, Dusty saw the marks which proved to be unfortunate—for Cohen.

‘Why, you short runt!’ Cohen gasped, spitting blood. ‘I’ll tear you apart.’

‘Keep out of it, Ed!’ Dusty barked.

Leaping forward, Cohen lashed his hand around. The belt coiled up and behind Cohen then slashed forward across Dusty’s back. The small Texan felt the bite through his jacket, shirt and undershirt, so could guess how the girl must have suffered. Even as Cohen drew back his hand for another blow, Dusty sprang in. Two punches then a knee smashed into the bigger man’s stomach. Cohen gave a squawk and staggered back, his hands dropping to his sides. Jumping forward, Dusty stamped on the belt buckle and pinned it to the floor. He ripped a punch to Cohen’s jaw and sent the man backwards, causing him to lose his hold on the belt. Cohen swung a blow which caught Dusty at the side of the head and knocked the small Texan staggering.

Stabbing down his right hand, Cohen brought a knife from his pocket, jerking open the blade. He had everything in his favour, or so it seemed, height, weight, heavy muscles and a knowledge of roughhouse fighting, yet he still pulled the knife.

‘Leave him!’ Dusty roared at Ballinger before the detective could move.

Snarling like an animal, Cohen came forward. The knife licked out towards Dusty’s body in a vicious upwards slash.

‘Yeeah!’ Dusty yelled, jerking off his hat and throwing the heavy Stetson full into Cohen’s snarling face.

His sudden move distracted Cohen and in almost the same movement Dusty showed some of the Oriental fighting science called
Karate
which he had learned from Ole Devil Hardin’s Japanese servant.

Leaning his body to one side, Dusty raised a leg and swung it in a circular motion so that the edge of his foot smashed against Cohen’s knife-wrist. The blow came so unexpectedly, and with such power, that Cohen thought his wrist was broken. The knife clattered to the floor and Cohen twisted desperately away from Dusty. Twice more, almost too fast to follow, Dusty kicked, smashing the ball of his foot into Cohen’s side. He sent the burly man reeling across the room and caused some of the watching youngsters to jump hurriedly aside.

Cohen felt as if his ribs had been caved in. The
keriwaza
kicking techniques of karate were very effective and deadly when performed by a master like Dusty. In fact Dusty refrained from using his full strength when delivering the kicks for he had no wish to kill the man.

Once again Cohen flung himself into the attack, relying on his extra weight to smash Dusty down; which was a hawg-stupid way to go about handling Dusty Fog if Cohen had but known. Dusty did not try to avoid the rush. Instead he moved to meet it, left hand catching Cohen’s right arm just behind the elbow, left foot moving into place to allow him to pivot so his hips rammed into the other man. At the same moment Dusty brought his right arm twisting around and under Cohen’s trapped limb and gripping his own left wrist for added leverage. Bending his legs and inclining his body forward, Dusty catapulted Cohen straight over his shoulder.

To the watchers it seemed that Cohen had taken wings, for the man sailed up into the air and landed with a crash on the table in the centre of the room. It crumpled under the man’s weight, legs collapsing and drawer bursting open. On the whole, even though a Colt Cloverleaf revolver lay inside, Cohen would have preferred the drawer to stay closed while Detective Lieutenant Ballinger was present. Inside the drawer lay a pile of wallets, watches, purses and other items gathered in by his youthful employees during their morning’s work.

Ballinger saw the contents of the drawer and sprang across the room to slam the door and lean his back against it to prevent a mass departure by the youngsters. Seeing that they were trapped, the youngsters settled back to watch their employer get something they had long hoped he would receive.

Knowing that Ballinger had spotted the loot, Cohen rolled on to his stomach and grabbed for the gun. Dusty sprang forward fast. It was no time to think of fair fighting, for he was not sure how efficient Cohen might be with the revolver.

Down smashed Dusty’s right boot heel, grinding on to the back of Cohen’s hand and crushing it on the hard butt of the Cloverleaf. Cohen screeched in pain, his fingers opening and his torso rearing upwards in agony. Round lashed Dusty’s left foot, exploding under the man’s jaw and almost lifting him erect. Limp as an unstuffed rag-doll, Cohen collapsed to the floor.

Dusty might have left it at that, but he chanced to see the girl crouching against the wall and sobbing, the weals of the belt showing on her bare shoulder. Bending, Dusty grabbed Cohen by the back of his dirty vest. With a heave, Dusty fetched the man upwards, almost tipping the vest and shirt from his back and bringing him to his feet. Dusty released his hold and threw his right fist with all his strength behind it. Fist met jaw with a click like two enormous billiard balls colliding. The blow brought a wince of sympathy from Ballinger. It shot Cohen across the room to land him in a limp heap beside the girl he had been beating.

Mutters of delight and amazement came from the youngsters as they stared bug-eyed first at Cohen’s sprawled out body, then to where Dusty picked up his hat and set it at the correct ‘jack-deuce’ angle over his off-eye.

‘Which of you’s Francine Thackery?’ he asked.

‘She is, mister,’ one of the boys replied, pointing to the girl Cohen had been flogging.

A frightened, dirty and tear-stained face lifted to Dusty’s as the girl huddled back against the wall.

‘What do you want with me, mister?’ she asked. ‘I never stole anything. That’s why he was thrashing me.’

‘Easy now,’ Dusty answered gently, holding out his hand to her. ‘You’re coming out of here with me.’

‘Wh—where to?’

‘Your grandfather’s ranch in Texas.’

‘It’s a lie!’ the girl gasped. ‘My grandfather wouldn’t lift a hand to help me. Pappy always said he was the meanest man alive.’

‘He’s dead.’

Gently taking the girl’s arm, Dusty helped her to her feet. At his touch the girl’s fear died down and hope took its place. Only for a moment did the hope remain, then it died off again. She knew much about the evil power of the man on the floor. His house was filled with men who dare not allow him be arrested for he swore that he would turn State’s evidence on them if the law should ever take him.

‘Cohen’s men will never let you through,’ she warned.

Pushing himself away from the door, Ballinger walked to the room window and tried to raise the sash. It would not budge, so he wasted no more time. Picking up one of the chairs, he smashed it into the window, shattering glass and sash. Then he took out a police whistle and began to blow it lustily. Other whistles sounded and Ballinger knew he would soon have help on hand.

Seeing their chance, the youngsters all dashed for the door, tearing it open and fleeing. The sound of their departure brought men from other rooms, standing in the corridor until the shrilling of the police whistle brought their attention to Cohen’s room.

‘Stop the kids, Dusty!’ Ballinger yelled, hearing them making for the door.

‘Let ‘em go. You’ve got that feller with all the evidence against him,’ Dusty replied. ‘You keep blowing that whistle—’

His words ended as the first of the men came into sight, crowding towards the door of the room. They were big, surly, evil looking men wearing town clothes of various standards of value, and came with knives or clubs in their hands.

‘Keep back!’ Dusty snapped.

The men fell back, those in the lead hurriedly reversing direction. It was partly the magnetism of Dusty’s personality, and partly the bone handled Colt in his right hand which stopped the men. For the most part these town toughs tended to be knife or club wielders and only used guns as a last resort. So they had never seen a real frontier trained gun-fighting man in action and did not know just how fast and deadly one could be.

To the men it seemed that the gun just appeared in Dusty’s hand. Only he did not look small to them. In some way he seemed to have put on size and bulk until he made the tallest among them feel small.

Ballinger also held a gun, a short Webley Bulldog revolver with a kick like a mule and plenty of power. Yet, in some mysterious manner, he did not give out the same menace as exuded from the small Texan.

‘Right back, keep moving out!’ Dusty ordered, moving forward.

Before his advance the toughs fell back, across the corridor until they hit the other wall.

‘You’ll not get out of here alive, cowboy!’ yelled a man from the safety of the crowd’s rear.

‘Then six of you’ll go with me,’ Dusty answered calmly. ‘Who’s first taker, gents?’

Watching Dusty, Ballinger could not help but admire his quiet courage and dynamic personality. All too well the big detective knew he would have to cow and drive back that hard-case bunch with a gun in his hand. Yet Dusty did it.

‘Who’s up there?’ roared a robust Irish voice. ‘ ‘Tis the law asking.’

‘You boys had best head for the hills,’ Dusty said, gesturing with his gun. ‘There’s no way you can stop us now.’

‘He’s right!’ a man yelled. ‘It’s every man for himself!’

Dropping his club, the man turned and dashed along the corridor towards the end window. Panic was always infectious. Clubs and knives rained down as the other men scattered in their mad haste to escape before the law fell on them.

Heavy feet thumped on the stairs and a quartet of brawny policemen reached the third floor with their clubs in their hands. They came cautiously, for four would not be a large number to take on the gang Cohen kept around to protect his interests.

‘What the devil?’ asked the leading man, staring to where a couple of crooks struggled to crawl from the corridor window.

‘Let ‘em go, Reagan,’ Ballinger said, stepping from Cohen’s room. ‘We’ll gather them in later. Come in here, I’ve a present for you.’

‘Holy mother of God!’ the policeman gasped as he entered Cohen’s room. ‘Did yez do that to him, Lootenant?’

‘No, Cap’n Fog did. Let’s get help here. We’ve got Mr. Cohen where we want him and we’re going to take this joint apart. There’ll be a lot of folks buying trunks before we’ve done today.’

The burly policeman stood and stared at Ballinger. Clearly he did not understand the old western term Ballinger used. Out west when a new and efficient lawman came to a town, a number of undesirable people who had been residents for some time could be seen buying trunks ready to pack their belongings and leave. So the term came to be used when undesirables had to leave town in a hurry, whether they bought trunks to do so or not.

Apart from not understanding the term, the policeman eyed Dusty with frank disbelief. It did not seem likely such a small man could have felled Cohen single-handed.

Dusty did not bother to try to convince the policeman, having enough on his hands explaining to a very frightened Francine that her troubles were over and, after he had her cleaned up and fed, he would take her to Texas far beyond the reach of Cohen and his kind.

‘Come on, honey,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you out of here.’

‘But what about Cohen’s men?’ she gasped. ‘They might be waiting on the street.’

‘Likely they’ll let us by.’

Although Dusty spoke in a quiet, gentle tone, there was nothing gentle in his eyes. Remembering how Cohen’s men, who she thought to be so tough and brutal, had backed away before the small Texan’s menace, Frankie knew he spoke the truth.

Four more policemen arrived and Ballinger told off two of them to go with Dusty to Henderson’s place.

‘There’s a hack stood outside. Go with Cap’n Fog in it. He’ll drop you off at your station house. Let him go on to the Stockman’s Hotel, and you tell your captain to load every paddy-wagon with every man he can spare and send them down here as quick as they can.’

The two policemen thought they were being sent to guard the small cowhand and the girl, keep them safe through the danger area. It would have surprised them to know Ballinger was sending them along with Dusty so that he could protect them.

On leaving the building, the two policemen exchanged glances as they saw the sullen-faced crowd across the street. Taking a firmer grip on their night-sticks, they started forward.

‘Keep close to us, mister,’ the bigger policeman said.

Neither attached any significance to the way Dusty changed the scared girl from his left to his right arm, holding her arm firmly yet gently; nor in the way Dusty opened the front of his coat. All the policemen knew was that the crowd had not made a single move to stop them.

‘That’s him!’ a man, who had climbed down a drainpipe and crossed from Cohen’s told the people around him. ‘He may look small, but he’s got two sawed-off shotguns under his coat and he can get them out quicker than you can blink an eye. And don’t laugh. Bully Claggert’s headed for the railroad depot he’s so scared.’

‘Keep clear of them while they’ve got that cowboy with them!’ another man told those closest to him, having made good his escape from Cohen’s. ‘That’s Wild Bill Hickok, the famous western killer. He’s got two revolvers under his coat and the way he looked when he pulled them on us, he was just hoping for a chance to throw lead.’

Dusty would not have been pleased to know who the man claimed him to be.

‘They’ve got Cohen,’ yet a third deserter from the house across the street informed his cronies. ‘I’m pulling out while I can.’

Like flames leaping across dried grass, the words passed among the crowd. Fear of the consequences of Cohen’s arrest filled everybody with anything dishonest on their consciences—almost every member of the crowd in fact—and sent them scurrying to their homes to gather portable belongings and make hurried departures for other hide-outs.

‘I can’t believe I’m free and won’t never have to go back there again,’ Francine breathed as she sat in the coach with Dusty.

They had dropped the policemen off and were now on their way to the Stockman’s Hotel.

‘How’d he get hold of you in the first place?’ Dusty asked.

‘Pappy owed him some money. So he said I should get work to help pay it off. Cohen sent me out as a flower girl. It wasn’t until Pappy died last month that Cohen started to tell me to steal. He taught me to pick pockets and said I had to bring home something each day if I wanted to eat.’

‘And did you?’

‘Y—yes— When I was hungry. I might have tried to run away, but one of the other girls tried. They caught her, some of Cohen’s men, and brought her back. Cohen made the rest of us watch what happened to her. I wake up at nights screaming when I dream about what they did to her. And I didn’t dare escape.’

‘It’s over now,’ Dusty told her quietly. ‘Cohen’s going to jail, and if I know the sort of folks he works with, they’ll tell the police everything when they get caught. Yourtroubles are over, Francine. Or will be when I get you to Texas.’