holsters. His new bandana and shirt lay among Freddie’s clothes, his boots and socks with Freddie’s shoes and a pair of button tipped rapiers on the floor.
He had just completed a trail drive and last night had been one to howl.
In many ways the trail drive had been a swine. Dusty brought it north earlier than usual and they hit swimming water over the willows in three rivers, but forced their way across. The bad luck dogged them and was only averted by damned hard work on the part of every man of the trail drive crew. A bunch of rustlers tried to hit the herd six days from Mulrooney, only to be driven off and trailed to their hide-out. The rustlers had been busy, with a herd of five hundred head of unbranded stock to show for their efforts. After the shooting ended Dusty took the cattle as compensation for his trouble. He still brought in the first drive of the season and sold it for top prices. Then, as he promised he would, Dusty threw a party for his men in the Fair Lady Saloon.
Just how he and Freddie ended up in her private suite of rooms, Freddie could not remember. They left while the party was at its height; with Freddie wishing her partner, Buffalo Kate, had not gone East on vacation, for this celebration would be Kate’s idea of fun. In the suite Dusty and Freddie shared a
<<>>
bottle of champagne. Then she insisted he ran a few passes with the duelling swords, for Freddie was an unconventional young woman and could handle a blade, saying it was good exercise for hex’ figure. After that things took their course and Freddie had no cause for complaint.
A knock sounded on the door, it opened and Freddie’s maid entered with a buff coloured telegraph form in her hand. Crossing the room, she handed the form to Freddie without even a glance at the open bathroom door.
‘It’s for you, Dusty,’ Freddie called.
Dusty came from the bathroom wiping his face with a fancy, soft white towel. He stopped dead as he saw the maid, but her back was to him and she ignored his presence. Crossing to where Freddie sat, Dusty took the paper and read its message.
‘What is it?’ Freddie asked.
‘Darned if I know,’ he replied. ‘It’s from Uncle Devil, says for me to go see Counsellor Talbot as soon as I can and tell him I’m Elmo Thackery’s agent, then do what he wants doing.’
‘Talbot?’ Freddie asked in a puzzled voice. ‘He’s my lawyer. But he won’t be at his office until after nine o’clock. Will this work he has mean you’ll be leaving Mulrooney immediately?’
‘I don’t know. It most likely will though.’
‘Oh!’ Freddie sounded disappointed.
‘I’d best get the boys woke, in case it’s urgent,’ Dusty drawled.
‘Martha will do it for you,’ Freddie answered, watching him start to don his shirt. ‘It seems a pity to waste time until nine o’clock though.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty smiled, watching the maid leave the room.
Freddie removed the stocking she had put on and yawned, stretching. ‘I think I’ll be lazy and have breakfast in bed,’ she said. ‘Did you ever have your breakfast in bed, Dusty?’
‘Only when I was sick.’
‘You’re looking a little peaked right now,’ Freddie said, and Dusty took off his shirt again.
On leaving the bedroom in which he spent the night, Mark Counter walked to the next door and pounded on it.
There stood a man who might have served as a model for what Dusty Fog should look like by popular conception. Six foot three inches in height, with a costly white Stetson hat on his curly golden blond hair. He had an almost classically handsome face, yet one with strength of character and intelligence. Great wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, clad in an expensive tan made-to-measure shirt over which the ends of a scarlet silk, tight rolled, bandana hung from his throat. He wore levis which had been made for him, for he would have had difficulty to obtain such a perfect fit by buying off a storekeeper’s shelves. His
He had just completed a trail drive and last night had been one to howl.
In many ways the trail drive had been a swine. Dusty brought it north earlier than usual and they hit swimming water over the willows in three rivers, but forced their way across. The bad luck dogged them and was only averted by damned hard work on the part of every man of the trail drive crew. A bunch of rustlers tried to hit the herd six days from Mulrooney, only to be driven off and trailed to their hide-out. The rustlers had been busy, with a herd of five hundred head of unbranded stock to show for their efforts. After the shooting ended Dusty took the cattle as compensation for his trouble. He still brought in the first drive of the season and sold it for top prices. Then, as he promised he would, Dusty threw a party for his men in the Fair Lady Saloon.
Just how he and Freddie ended up in her private suite of rooms, Freddie could not remember. They left while the party was at its height; with Freddie wishing her partner, Buffalo Kate, had not gone East on vacation, for this celebration would be Kate’s idea of fun. In the suite Dusty and Freddie shared a
<<
bottle of champagne. Then she insisted he ran a few passes with the duelling swords, for Freddie was an unconventional young woman and could handle a blade, saying it was good exercise for hex’ figure. After that things took their course and Freddie had no cause for complaint.
A knock sounded on the door, it opened and Freddie’s maid entered with a buff coloured telegraph form in her hand. Crossing the room, she handed the form to Freddie without even a glance at the open bathroom door.
‘It’s for you, Dusty,’ Freddie called.
Dusty came from the bathroom wiping his face with a fancy, soft white towel. He stopped dead as he saw the maid, but her back was to him and she ignored his presence. Crossing to where Freddie sat, Dusty took the paper and read its message.
‘What is it?’ Freddie asked.
‘Darned if I know,’ he replied. ‘It’s from Uncle Devil, says for me to go see Counsellor Talbot as soon as I can and tell him I’m Elmo Thackery’s agent, then do what he wants doing.’
‘Talbot?’ Freddie asked in a puzzled voice. ‘He’s my lawyer. But he won’t be at his office until after nine o’clock. Will this work he has mean you’ll be leaving Mulrooney immediately?’
‘I don’t know. It most likely will though.’
‘Oh!’ Freddie sounded disappointed.
‘I’d best get the boys woke, in case it’s urgent,’ Dusty drawled.
‘Martha will do it for you,’ Freddie answered, watching him start to don his shirt. ‘It seems a pity to waste time until nine o’clock though.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty smiled, watching the maid leave the room.
Freddie removed the stocking she had put on and yawned, stretching. ‘I think I’ll be lazy and have breakfast in bed,’ she said. ‘Did you ever have your breakfast in bed, Dusty?’
‘Only when I was sick.’
‘You’re looking a little peaked right now,’ Freddie said, and Dusty took off his shirt again.
On leaving the bedroom in which he spent the night, Mark Counter walked to the next door and pounded on it.
There stood a man who might have served as a model for what Dusty Fog should look like by popular conception. Six foot three inches in height, with a costly white Stetson hat on his curly golden blond hair. He had an almost classically handsome face, yet one with strength of character and intelligence. Great wide shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, clad in an expensive tan made-to-measure shirt over which the ends of a scarlet silk, tight rolled, bandana hung from his throat. He wore levis which had been made for him, for he would have had difficulty to obtain such a perfect fit by buying off a storekeeper’s shelves. His
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