remember back when you was working in the Bon Ton in Dodge, and you set an old feller up with a meal?’ asked the Kid.
Screwing her face in a puzzled frown, Joan thought back to all the times she had bought needy folks meals. At first she could not think of any old man while she worked for the Bon Ton, in fact she had not been long in the Bon Ton’s employment, having a rooted objection to sleeping with the customers, picking pockets and rolling drunks even if the place did have the patronage and support of the Earp brothers.
‘Sure!’ she said, slapping her brow. ‘Some old bag-line bum—’
‘His name was Emo Thackery,’ the Kid put in.
‘Oh sure,’ Joan answered. ‘And you’re Dusty Fog.’
‘No, ma’am. I’m some better looking than Dusty. ‘Sides which he’s gone to Chicago after Thackery’s niece. I’m the Ysabel Kid and this’s Waco.’
‘You’re serious!’ she gasped.
‘No, ma’am. The Ysabel Kid, like I told you. And Elmo Thackery’s done left you a share of his fortune. All you have to do is go to Casa Thackery with us and see a lawyer.’
‘Nice feller, Elmo Thackery,’ Waco carried on after the Kid stopped speaking. ‘Or so somebody said, leastways, somebody somewhere must have said so.’
Joan barely heard a word Waco said. She turned a dazed, unbelieving face to the Kid and asked, ‘You mean that old feller I bought a meal for was Elmo Thackery, the richest man in Texas?’
‘Why sure, though I wouldn’t say he was the richest. I ride for Ole Devil Hardin myself.’
Ignoring the cowhand belief that his boss must be the best man alive, no matter what aspect was being discussed, Joan shook her head as if to clear it.
‘And he’s left me some money?’ she gulped.
‘We don’t know how much,’ Waco replied, grinning. ‘But he left you an equal share with six other folks. Reckon you could use that drink now.’
‘I reckon I could,’ Joan agreed and sank four fingers of rye whisky in a single gulp.
The bite of the raw liquor ragged her and made her cough, bringing tears to her eyes. However it also served to force coherent thought into her head. Such things did not happen in real life, folks didn’t come into a saloon and tell you that you’d come into a fortune—only this pair of cowhands had just done so.
If this’s a joke!’ she warned grimly.
Taking a letter from his pocket, the Kid slid it across the table to Joan. She took it up, extracted a sheet of paper from the envelope and read its contents with growing amazement and certainty that this was not a joke. Or, if joke it be, those two Texans had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to put it over on her.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said. ‘You know what I’m going to do?’
‘No, ma’am,’ grinned the Kid.
It was on the tip of Joan’s tongue to say she aimed to treat the house to decent drinks instead of the cheap whisky which had been served the first time.
‘How soon can you start back to Mulrooney with us, ma’am?’ Waco asked before she could speak.
‘Mulrooney? I thought the ranch was in Texas.’
‘Sure it is,’ agreed the Kid. ‘But we’re meeting some of the other folks, who get a cut of the will, down there.’
‘I’ll catch the noon train tomorrow. But this’s my night to howl.’
Grins came to two Texan faces. Way they saw it, Joan had a right to howl and they reckoned they could help her do it.
‘How do I attract folks’ attention?’ Joan asked.
‘You want to?’ grinned the Kid.
‘Sure.’
Rearing up from his chair, the Kid threw back his head and let out the most hideous scream Joan had ever heard come from a human throat. Waco added a wild cowhand yell and Joan, though taken by surprise, came in with a screech like a train going through a tunnel.
On the stage a group of tumblers had reached the high spot of their act and all six of them stood in a human pyramid. The yells spoiled their concentration and the pyramid collapsed faster than it had
Screwing her face in a puzzled frown, Joan thought back to all the times she had bought needy folks meals. At first she could not think of any old man while she worked for the Bon Ton, in fact she had not been long in the Bon Ton’s employment, having a rooted objection to sleeping with the customers, picking pockets and rolling drunks even if the place did have the patronage and support of the Earp brothers.
‘Sure!’ she said, slapping her brow. ‘Some old bag-line bum—’
‘His name was Emo Thackery,’ the Kid put in.
‘Oh sure,’ Joan answered. ‘And you’re Dusty Fog.’
‘No, ma’am. I’m some better looking than Dusty. ‘Sides which he’s gone to Chicago after Thackery’s niece. I’m the Ysabel Kid and this’s Waco.’
‘You’re serious!’ she gasped.
‘No, ma’am. The Ysabel Kid, like I told you. And Elmo Thackery’s done left you a share of his fortune. All you have to do is go to Casa Thackery with us and see a lawyer.’
‘Nice feller, Elmo Thackery,’ Waco carried on after the Kid stopped speaking. ‘Or so somebody said, leastways, somebody somewhere must have said so.’
Joan barely heard a word Waco said. She turned a dazed, unbelieving face to the Kid and asked, ‘You mean that old feller I bought a meal for was Elmo Thackery, the richest man in Texas?’
‘Why sure, though I wouldn’t say he was the richest. I ride for Ole Devil Hardin myself.’
Ignoring the cowhand belief that his boss must be the best man alive, no matter what aspect was being discussed, Joan shook her head as if to clear it.
‘And he’s left me some money?’ she gulped.
‘We don’t know how much,’ Waco replied, grinning. ‘But he left you an equal share with six other folks. Reckon you could use that drink now.’
‘I reckon I could,’ Joan agreed and sank four fingers of rye whisky in a single gulp.
The bite of the raw liquor ragged her and made her cough, bringing tears to her eyes. However it also served to force coherent thought into her head. Such things did not happen in real life, folks didn’t come into a saloon and tell you that you’d come into a fortune—only this pair of cowhands had just done so.
If this’s a joke!’ she warned grimly.
Taking a letter from his pocket, the Kid slid it across the table to Joan. She took it up, extracted a sheet of paper from the envelope and read its contents with growing amazement and certainty that this was not a joke. Or, if joke it be, those two Texans had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to put it over on her.
‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said. ‘You know what I’m going to do?’
‘No, ma’am,’ grinned the Kid.
It was on the tip of Joan’s tongue to say she aimed to treat the house to decent drinks instead of the cheap whisky which had been served the first time.
‘How soon can you start back to Mulrooney with us, ma’am?’ Waco asked before she could speak.
‘Mulrooney? I thought the ranch was in Texas.’
‘Sure it is,’ agreed the Kid. ‘But we’re meeting some of the other folks, who get a cut of the will, down there.’
‘I’ll catch the noon train tomorrow. But this’s my night to howl.’
Grins came to two Texan faces. Way they saw it, Joan had a right to howl and they reckoned they could help her do it.
‘How do I attract folks’ attention?’ Joan asked.
‘You want to?’ grinned the Kid.
‘Sure.’
Rearing up from his chair, the Kid threw back his head and let out the most hideous scream Joan had ever heard come from a human throat. Waco added a wild cowhand yell and Joan, though taken by surprise, came in with a screech like a train going through a tunnel.
On the stage a group of tumblers had reached the high spot of their act and all six of them stood in a human pyramid. The yells spoiled their concentration and the pyramid collapsed faster than it had
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