A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3) (12 page)

‘
Damned
if I know what to make of it,’ declared the gambler in ringing
tones. ‘I go out of here for five minutes and when I come back,
here’s this jasper a-pawing at my wife.’

‘
M’sieur!’
gasped the man at the bar. ‘I wasn’t. It was she—your
wife—’

‘
You
hear that, gents?’ demanded the gambler, addressing the words to
the hard-cases, the worried looking bartender and a skinny,
sly-featured man who sat at a table in the left hand corner of the
room. ‘This here foreign son-of-a-bitch’s laying the blame on my
Laura-gal.’

‘
Such
doings should oughta be stopped, stranger,’ stated the taller of
the hovering hard-cases.

‘
They sure as
hell should,’
agreed his companion. ‘Go get me a bottle of whiskey,
barkeep.’

‘
Sure,’
replied the bartender. ‘Look, fellers—’

‘
Do I
have to come over and fetch it myself?’ growled the second
hard-case.

‘
N—No,’
answered the bartender. ‘Only I don’t want—’

Seeing the ugly expression on
the hard-case
’s surly features, the bartender turned away. Instantly the
first hard-case reached behind his back to a Colt revolver thrust
into his waist-band and concealed beneath his calfskin vest.
Drawing the weapon, he tossed it at the frightened Gallic man. In
an involuntary gesture, the man caught the revolver.

‘
Watch
him, Hubie!’ screeched Laura. ‘He’s pulled a gun on
you!’

Across flashed the
gambler
’s
right hand, passing under the left flap of his coat. Even as his
fingers closed on the butt of the Colt Wells Fargo revolver hidden
there, something crashed against his right shoulder-blade with
numbing force. Letting out a cry of pain, he stumbled forward and
his hand fell limply to his side.

Startled exclamations burst from
Laura
—whose
language proved that she was not ‘good’—and the two hard-cases as
they saw a whiskey bottle flash by them and strike the gambler’s
back. Snarling curses, the pair began to turn and reach for their
guns. What they saw ended their movements in that
direction.

Entering the room unnoticed by
its occupants,
Tam Breda had realized the significance of what he saw. On
a table to the right of the entrance was a tray holding bottles and
glasses from the poker game that had resumed upstairs. Snatching up
a bottle, he had hurled it with all his strength. That had been the
only way, other than using a bullet, he could think of to prevent
Hubie Stagge from killing the scared man at the bar. From flinging
the bottle, Breda’s right hand dipped to produce his Dragoon Colt.
By the time Royce and Coxin, Stagge’s confederates, had recovered
from their surprise and started to turn, Breda’s gun was already
lined at them.

Colliding with the bar alongside
his staring, frightened would-be victim, Stagge twisted around. His
left hand went up to massage the throbbing shoulder and his eyes
flamed hatred which he hoped would hold the advancing
Breda
’s
attention. Although Coxin and Royce could not take cards, there
were other factors unsuspected by the Scot in the game. Dipping her
right hand into the reticule which swung from her left wrist, Laura
moved soft-footed to get behind Breda. Also to his rear, the man in
the corner started to rise and draw a Colt.

Just as Stagge was congratulating
himself on having an old enemy in a box, he saw a huge, blond
cowhand and a buxom blonde woman come into the room. With a fresh
flood of anger, the gambler realized that the trap might not be
sprung upon Breda.

Seeing the man in the corner,
Mark turned, drew his right hand Colt and yelled,
‘Drop it,
hombre!’

The man might look sly and shifty, but
he possessed good, sound common-sense. Knowing that such flashing
speed was mostly accompanied by considerable accuracy, he rapidly
placed his revolver on the table and shot both hands into the
air.

Bringing a
Derringer from her reticule,
Laura prepared to avenge her ‘husband’s’ injury. Although she heard
the patter of footsteps behind her, she ignored them—at first. A
hand gripped Laura’s shoulder and swung her around. On turning, she
had a brief impression of an angry, good-looking female face and
blonde hair. From the corner of her eye, Laura caught just a
glimpse of a fist growing in size as it hurled in her direction.
The hard knuckles crashed against the side of her jaw. Exploding
patches of brilliant light obscured the brunette’s vision. Vaguely
she felt herself spin around, then everything went black. Taking
Libby’s power-packed punch so unexpectedly, the brunette was
propelled sideways. Striking a table, she rolled across its top and
flopped in a flaccid manner to the floor.

‘
If that
bit—
woman’s hurt Laura—!’ Stagge blazed, not particularly
caring but feeling he should make the comment.

‘
She’ll’ve got no more than she asked for,’ Breda answered,
glancing to where Libby was picking up Laura’s discarded Derringer.
Then he looked at the gambler and continued, ‘You should try a new
game, Stagge. That one’s getting known.’

‘
What’s
it about, Tam?’ Mark inquired, watching the skinny man.

‘
Mr.
Stagge here’s a hired butcher, laddie,’ Breda
explained.

‘
That’s
never been proved!’ Stagge spat out.

‘
No,’
Breda agreed. ‘He does it all nice and legal. Every man he’s
dropped’s had a gun in his hand. Like this young feller would have
had if I hadn’t cut in. You’d best give me the gun,
friend.’

‘
Wha—?’
gasped the proposed victim. ‘I—Here, take it,
m’sieur.’

‘
Who
hired you to kill him, Stagge, and why?’ demanded Breda, accepting
the revolver thrust in his direction.

‘
I
don’t know what you mean,’ the gambler snarled. ‘He was a-pawing
Laura—’

‘
Was it
that way ’round,’ Libby commented dryly, ‘I’d say she’s been pawed
plenty. And done some pawing herself.’

‘
Yeah?’
Stagge snarled at the blonde. ‘And I’ve heard—’

‘
Just
what did you hear,
hombre?’
Mark asked, his Colt turning towards the speaker’s
belly.

‘
Nothing!’ Stagge muttered.

Although Stagge had not heard
about the previous night
’s incident, he held back his intended accusation.
There was an air of menace about the blond giant and the Colt lined
with disconcerting accuracy. So Stagge did not repeat the vicious
fabrication about Libby’s amatory relationship with her
Mexican
mesteneros
since Trader Schell’s death.

Before the affair could be taken
further, Sheriff Lansing and other people arrived. To Mark, it
seemed that the local peace officer looked to
Tam Breda for guidance and went
willingly along with the Scot’s suggestions that the gambler and
other participants be taken to the jail for questioning. Mark felt
puzzled. A political appointee, Lansing had never been an efficient
sheriff. Yet Mark could not understand why he allowed Breda to give
him even the correct advice.

‘
I’m
sorry, Libby lass,’ Breda said. ‘I’ll have to go tend to this afore
I leave town. I’ll come back as quickly as I can.’

Watching the party leave, with
Stagge supporting a wobbly-legged Laura, Libby frowned.
Tam Breda was
behaving like a peace officer, but that could not be. One of the
first acts performed by the Reconstruction administration had been
to disband the Ranger companies. So Tam—
her
Tam, as she now regarded him—could no
longer be wearing a badge. If he should be—Libby did not want to
consider that possibility. Still frowning, she accompanied Mark to
the dining-room.

Half an hour went by before
Breda joined them and apologized for his absence. During that time,
they had not mentioned him except in general terms. To Mark, it had
seemed that Libby had wanted to avoid discussing the
incident
’s
implications.

‘
What
happened down to the sheriff’s office, Tam?’ Mark
inquired.

‘
Not
much,’ Breda answered disgustedly. ‘Stagge and his bunch stuck to
their story about the man accosting Laura. The barkeep hadn’t been
there when she started ’ticing the feller. That skinny-gutted
cuss’s one of ’em and he goes along with the tale. Trouble being, I
can’t prove he’s in cahoots with Stagge.’

‘
He was
trying to pull down on you,’ Libby pointed out.

‘
And
allows he aimed to help me,’ Breda replied. ‘The only way we
could’ve proved different would’ve been after he’d shot
me.’

‘
I’m
sorry I billed in and spoiled it for you,’ Mark said with a
grin.

‘
I’m
not!’ Breda declared. ‘So it’s that feller’s word against the
boiling of ’em. Sure, I know what they aimed to do. But I can’t
take ’em in front of a judge and prove it.’

‘
What
set them on to that feller?’ Libby inquired, rather than ask why an
ex-Texas Ranger should want to take Stagge’s bunch into
court.

‘
They
wouldn’t say and he couldn’t even start to guess,’ Breda answered.
‘There doesn’t seem to be any reason why anybody’d want him dead
bad enough to pay Stagge for doing it. He’s just a cook, headed
west looking for work. That was why he went to the Grand; got told
at the stage depot that they might be hiring.’

‘
He
talked sort of French,’ Mark commented. ‘There’s a French count and
his missus at the hotel—’

‘
I
thought some on that,’ admitted Breda. ‘Trouble being, the feller’s
a Creole from down Louisiana way and’s never been to France.
Anyways, let’s forget it. The feller’s not got work and’s heading
west on the stage this afternoon. Lansing’s holding Stagge’s bunch
until after he’s gone. There’s nothing I can do. It’s not in my
bailiwick.’

‘
Shouldn’t be, seeing’s you’re not with the Rangers no
more,’ Libby remarked, the words coming despite her desire to avoid
hearing an explanation.

‘
Nope,’
Breda said, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’m a captain in the State
Police now, Libby.’

Going by
Libby
’s
intake of breath, Mark concluded that the news of Breda’s new
employment did not meet with her approval. He could guess
why.

Brought in to replace the Texas
Rangers, Governor Davis
’s State Police had rapidly made themselves hated.
Many of its officers were vicious, corrupt opportunists eager to
line their pockets at the Texans’ expense; or ‘liberals’ seeking to
work their bigoted hatred against the supporters of the Confederate
States. The enlisted men were of the same kind, with a number of
the worst type of white-hating Negroes to swell their
ranks.

Loyal to the Southern cause, for
family rather than political reasons, Libby had accepted
Breda
’s
reasons for not joining the Confederate States’ Army. Like her
husband, he had carried out an important task at home. Trader had
supplied remounts to the Rebel cavalry or artillery. Riding with
Cureton’s Rangers, Breda had helped to protect the homes of
men—regardless of whether they wore blue or gray—away fighting the
War. To learn that Breda had accepted an important rank in the
State Police drove a chill of anger through her. One of that
force’s victims had been her brother, killed while ‘resisting
arrest’ by an officer who wanted to take over his
property,

Jerking her head around, without
giving Breda the opportunity to explain his
‘treachery’, Libby started to talk
pointedly to Mark. The remainder of the meal was not a success, due
to her behavior. Glancing at Breda, Mark could see his lips tighten
and tried to lessen the tension. Libby showed no sign of repenting,
but the Scot accompanied her and Mark to the wagon. On the way,
Mark felt annoyed and embarrassed by the way Libby was acting
towards him. Sure they had made love the previous night, but he had
expected that the dawn would see the incident over. In her
annoyance at Breda, Libby seemed likely to make a fool of
herself.

The situation did not improve
during the journey out of town. After Mark and Breda had collected
their horses, they set off with Libby
’s party. By the time they had set up camp
for the night, the big blond had decided that she must be taught a
lesson and brought back to her senses. Just as he hoped, she played
into his hands. They had made camp in a clearing a short distance
from the Kerrville trail. Surrounded by trees and bushes, the
area’s water-supply was about a hundred yards away. With the fire
built, Libby asked Mark to help her collect water.

‘
Sure,’
the big blond agreed, picking up a couple of buckets and conscious
of Breda watching the by-play. ‘I’d admire to, Libby.’