Texas Killers (13 page)

“Mon dieu!”
the maid croaked, staring out of the house as she was about to emerge. Jumping backward, her voice rose to a terrified shriek and she slammed the door. “His men are coming!”

With his bunched fist driving out, “Gotz” was distracted by the woman's warning. In spite of re
alizing the danger, he could not halt his actions. Unable to understand much more English than the basic words of command issued when working on a ship, the two men holding Dusty were startled by the commotion without knowing what the maid had said. So, although they started to look around and relaxed their holds a trifle, neither offered to release the captive.

Slight though the reduction of the restraint upon him might be, it gave the small Texan the opportunity for which he had been waiting. What was more, his mocking comments to “Gotz” had produced the kind of response he had hoped for. The woman's participation was an added bonus, although he was by no means surprised to discover that assistance was so close at hand.

The sheriff had been willing to cooperate when he had heard Dusty's proposals for dealing with the anarchists. The maid had all the contempt that most middle-class liberals had for the genuine working classes and she had not doubted that the two cowhands, who were now approaching the house, had behaved in such a manner that the sheriff had had to arrest them. Having Waco and the Kid follow close enough to be able to intervene, instead of walking with him, had been one of the precautions the small Texan had taken against an
ambush by Beguinage's woman. There were two extra pairs of keen and unsuspected eyes helping to keep watch for trouble. However, as there was no cover for them between the nearest buildings and the house, they had not attempted to approach until he was inside and holding the attention of the occupants.

Taking advantage of the loosening of his captors' grips, Dusty rolled his head aside and caused “Gotz's” fist to pass without touching him. At the same moment, he snapped up and bent his left leg. Carried onward by the impetus of the abortive blow, the anarchist received the small Texan's knee just below his breast bone. For all that, he might have counted himself fortunate. The attack was intended to strike his testicles, but had been mis-timed slightly. While the impact hurt and sent him staggering backward for several steps, he was far from incapacitated.

Paying only the scantiest attention to what the men were doing, the maid dashed across the room. Beyond hoping that her companions could cause a sufficient delay to let her make good her escape, she gave no thought to what might happen to them. Once she was outside, she could seek refuge at the home of a sympathizer until a way could be found for her to flee the country. As a precaution,
she was carrying the means to blackmail the local anarchist into doing as she desired.

Passing through the second door, a frightening thought struck the woman. She realized that she had seen only two of the small Texan's companions approaching and wondered where the third might be. Even as she remembered that he had still been at the reception when she left to warn her companions of “
Rapido
Clint's” true identity, the memory gave her no comfort. There might be other men surrounding the building. Drawing the hammer of the Webley to fully cocked, regardless that its double-action mechanism rendered this unnecessary, she swore that she would kill anybody who came between her and freedom.

Feeling Dusty's movements, the two men obeyed their instincts and tightened the grips on his arms. By doing so, they were inadvertently playing into his hands. Braced by them and allowing them to support his weight, he raised both legs and brought them down hard. Due to the haste that was necessary if the next part of his plan was to succeed, he achieved only part of his purpose. Descending, the heel of his left boot landed far from gently on the near side man's right toes. The other missed its mark, coming down between the feet of
the man at the right. So, although the stricken captor gave a howl of agony, let go, and staggered away, his companion still clung on.

Seeing that “Gotz” was not collapsing and—while still being propelled backward—was already dipping his right hand into the pocket of his pea-jacket, the small Texan realized the knee had failed to produce the desired result. He also appreciated that there must be no delay in ridding himself of all restraint. In spite of the pain caused by the stamp on his bare foot and the blood oozing from split open toenails, the first of the captors also had not fallen and was clawing at the revolver in his waist belt. The move lacked the cohesive purpose of a highly competent gun-fighter, but it was sufficiently swift to pose a dangerous threat. Nor dare Dusty rely upon the Kid and Waco arriving soon enough to remove it. There was too much noise in the room for him to hear their approaching footsteps and he did not know how far away they had been when seen by the woman.

Bearing that thought in mind, Dusty gave a surging heave with his right shoulder. Already somewhat off balance due to his sudden change from submissively passive to
very
active, the man holding him was not prepared for such a response. Furthermore, the great strength his powerfully
muscled small frame was capable of exerting came as a complete surprise. Almost lifted from his feet, the man felt the arm wrenched from his grasp as he was flung aside.

Alarmed by the apparent ease with which the diminutive Texan was escaping from the clutches of two larger, heavier men, both of whom he knew to be very strong, “Gotz” managed to come to a halt. He was already grasping the butt of his Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker, but decided against trying to lift it from the pocket. Instead, jerking back the hammer, he tilted the barrel forward and fired through the thick woollen cloth of the peajacket.

Hearing the shot as she was opening the back door, the maid neither paused nor looked back. Stepping from the house, she found herself confronted by a dark human shape. While unable to discern who it might be, she saw the figure's right hand thrusting toward her. It was clenched, but—as it did not appear to be holding anything—she decided that the intention was to catch her by the shoulder, or knock her down with a blow. Instinctively and without any conscious guidance, the Webley R.I.C. revolver lifted and she squeezed the trigger, which required only a light pressure with the action cocked. Nor, at such close quarters, was
there any need for her to take aim. Yet, in spite of delivering a Boxer cartridge's
¹
.422 caliber bullet to the center of her assailant's chest, which elicited a squeal that was feminine in its timbre, she had not reacted quite swiftly enough. Even as the figure was jolted away from her, she felt something thin and sharp being thrust into the left side of her throat. Whatever it was sank deeply before being withdrawn as its wielder tumbled backward.

Inside the building, for all the difficulty involved when using even a short barrelled revolver in such a manner, the bearded anarchist came very close to achieving his purpose. As the muzzle blast from the detonated black powder was igniting his pocket, the expelled bullet flew to rip off Dusty's hat.

The small Texan did not allow himself to be deterred or distracted by his narrow escape. While relieving himself of the second man, his left hand was already crossing to the right-side Colt. Being aware of the problems involved when discharging a firearm as “Gotz” had done, he saw no reason to
change his intentions. At that moment, the man with the injured foot was the most immediate danger. He was already liberating his weapon and was under no restrictions as to how he could use it. Flowing from its holster, Dusty's bone-handled Colt was turned, lined and fired in a blur of movement. While it, too, was aimed by instinctive alignment, its owner had no cause for complaint over the result.

Looking around as the bullet struck the man between the eyes and killed him instantly, Dusty noticed in passing that “Gotz” was being compelled to withdraw his hand from the burning pocket. Then his gaze went to the last of the anarchists, who had been brought to a halt by colliding with the wall. He too was far from out of action and demonstrated an ability as a gun-handler on a par with that of his now dead companion. So it was obvious to the small Texan that he must be dealt with before any further attention could be devoted to his leader.

At that moment, something observed out of the corner of his eye warned Dusty that his position was becoming even more desperate. Despite the flames, “Gotz” had not released the Storekeeper and was bringing it clear of the pocket.

There would not be time to cope with both men!

Frightened by what had happened, the maid ran past the writhing figure that was sprawling on the ground and wondered disinterestedly who it might be, but had no intention of stopping to find out. Apart from the initial stab of pain and a smarting where the point had entered and had been pulled out, she felt nothing and doubted that she was seriously hurt. Then a sensation of tightening began to affect her muscles and agony of a numbing, soul-searing kind impinged itself upon her whole being. She staggered, stumbled and tried to scream, but no sound came. With legs buckling beneath her, she measured her length on the ground to twitch and jerk away what remained of her life.
²

Kicked open by Waco, the door burst inward with such force that its rotten wood was torn from the hinges. Showing the coordination acquired while working as Dusty's deputies in Mulrooney, Kansas, he and the Kid plunged into the room practically simultaneously. Having been anticipating trouble, or the possibility of it, they were following their training as peace officers by carrying offensive
rather than defensive weapons. A glance was all they needed to inform them how they might best use the rifles they carried to their
amigo's
benefit.

Held at waist level spurts of flame began to erupt from the Winchester Model of 1866 rifle as the black-dressed Texan operated its lever and worked the trigger with great rapidity. Engulfed in a veritable torrent of flying lead, the bare footed man was briefly held against the wall by five of the ten bullets sent in his direction.

Snapping the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, Waco took the instant needed to aim and fired. His bullet plowed into “Gotz's” right shoulder while the Storekeeper was still lifting toward Dusty. Spun around and dropping his gun, the anarchist tried to run away. Before he reached the door through which the maid had departed, the small Texan tackled him around the legs. Brought down hard enough to drive all the air from his lungs, although the landing put out the fire in his pocket, he was in no condition to struggle even if the muzzle of Dusty's Colt had not been pressed against the side of his head.

“Get out back and grab the woman!” the small Texan yelled. “Watch her. She's armed.”

“Yo!” replied the Kid, using the traditional cavalry acknowledgement of an order.

“Sit up!” Dusty commanded, rising as the black-clad Texan ran from the room.

Several seconds elapsed before “Gotz” could obey. From outside came a startled exclamation, followed by the glow of a match ignited by the Kid.

“D-Don't kill me!” the anarchist gasped, shuffling until his back was against the wall and staring at the two young Texans.

“Why shouldn't we?” Waco demanded, working his Winchester's lever and pointing its muzzle at the bearded, frightened face. “You was planning to do it to Dusty.”

“L-Let me live and I'll tell you where to find the woman if she gets away,” “Gotz” offered.

“You're a mite too late for that,
hombre,
” the Kid announced returning. “She's out there, dead and, unless I'm mistook, so's Beguinage's woman.”

“H
OW DID IT GO,
M
ISS
A
MELIA?”
F
LORENCE
Drakefield inquired, watching the beautiful Englishwoman slipping into a nightgown.

“I wish I knew,” Amelia Benkinsop admitted, sitting on the bed.

The reception had been terminated shortly after Dusty Fog's departure. Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia had suggested that he was tired and taking the hint Senator and Mrs. Blaby had set about dispersing the guests so that he could retire. The Lady had not been sorry to make her way to the room which had been allocated to her, and the maid had arrived to attend to her needs. While the
latter was unnecessary, she had welcomed the opportunity to discuss the happenings of the evening.

“Why did you ask Captain Fog to go outside with you?” the maid inquired, puzzled by her mistress's air of perturbation.

“I didn't,” Amelia corrected. “He told me we'd go.”

“He'd a nerve!” Florence snorted indignantly, although she knew the blonde was not the kind to accept orders mildly from strangers.

“Not necessarily,” Amelia replied. “It was just that he knows I'm
not
Freddie Besgrove-Woodstole.”

“Heh?” Florence gasped.

“Of all the infernal luck, Freddie owns a saloon in Mulrooney, Kansas, wherever that might be,” the Lady elaborated, with just a suggestion of bitterness. “And, unless I'm sadly mistaken, she and Captain Fog are on
very
good terms.”

“Oooer!” the maid breathed, realizing the implications of what she had just been told. “Shall we take stoppo?”

“It's too late for
that,
” Amelia smiled, knowing the word “stoppo” meant to run away in the argot of London's criminal element. “Anyway, it isn't necessary and wouldn't be polite. We're invited to be guests on the royal hunt.”

“I
knew
you'd get him to ask you,” Florence declared, having been aware that the blonde had hoped to obtain permission and never doubting she would be successful.

“On the contrary,” Amelia answered, “I don't think Rudolph knew that dear Charlene and I would be accompanying him.”

“Charlene—!”
the maid repeated and the one word was indicative of a far from favorable or respectful regard for the
Comtesse de
Petain. “When did he ask
her?
”

“To be precise, my dear, he
didn't,
” the Lady replied. “I could be wrong, but I doubt whether he had even thought about inviting either of us when Captain Fog told us in the garden that we were going.”

“But—?” Florence yelped.

“I know exactly what you mean,” Amelia sighed, running fingers through her hair in a gesture redolent of mystification. “My acquaintance with Captain Fog hasn't been extensive, but I'm sure he's not the kind of person who would forget
anything
important. Yet when he told the
Comtesse
that I had been invited, he also said he had forgotten to mention she was invited too. What is he up to?”

“Don't ask me,” Florence requested, starting to gather her mistress's clothes.

“Why does he want us to go with them?” Amelia went on, speaking half to herself. “Is it because he believes my story, or so that he can keep his eye on both of us?”

“What do
you
think?” the maid inquired, her attitude suggesting complete confidence in the blonde's ability to produce the correct solution.

“That I wish I had your faith in me, for one thing,” Amelia smiled, then became serious. “I would like to think it's because he trusts me and wants me to watch her. But, whatever the reason, I have the feeling that dear Charlene isn't terribly taken with the idea of having the pleasure of my company.”

“Cheeky cow!” Florence snorted, resenting the possibility of her well-respected employer being slighted by what, in her insular British fashion, she regarded as a not too savory foreigner. “She deserves a maid like she's got.”

“Speaking of the maid, I don't remember seeing much of her toward the end of the reception.”

“That's because she wasn't there.”

“Where did she go?”

“To our room, with a headache she said. But she wasn't there when the butler sent me to look for her.”

“What time was this?”

“When Mrs. Blaby started getting the guests ready to go home.”

“Perhaps she's gone to the
Comtesse
's room,” Amelia suggested.

“Not her,” Florence declared. “I looked after I'd made sure she didn't know how to pick a lock and get in here.”

“It's probably not important where she went,” the Lady decided, knowing full well that her own maid had the skill to pick a lock and deducing that it had been put to use. “Most likely she has a gentleman friend she wanted to see.”

“Any bloke who'd go out with the likes of her must want it bad,” Florence stated. “Stuck up, snobbish cow she is.”

“You don't appear to like her,” Amelia remarked.

“No more than you like her boss,” the maid admitted. “What'd she have to say about you going on the hunt?”

“She pointed out how terribly strenuous, uncomfortable and unpleasantly primitive it would be,” the Lady replied pensively. “And how she didn't think someone as delicately raised as I would be able to stand its rigors.”

“You?”
Florence gasped, as if hardly able to believe her ears. “How about
her
in that case?”

“Oh she'll be all right,” Amelia answered dryly. “But she says that she wouldn't consider going if she didn't carry out a program of exercises every day to keep her in tip-top physical condition.”

“That's certainly true,” Florence affirmed, having completed the task of putting away her mistress's clothing while they were talking. “The girls downstairs told me she asked Mrs. Blaby if she could use the empty stable at the back of the house, and she goes there every morning. Everybody's been told to keep away while she's in it.”

“Hum!” Amelia said, standing up and stretching. “Then I hope she's told Mrs. Blaby I've been invited to join her tomorrow morning.”

“Why?” the maid demanded suspiciously.

“Probably so that she can prove to me how unsuited I am for the rigors of the hunt,” the Lady guessed. “It was more of a challenge than an invitation.”

“You don't think she's going to make sure you can't go on the hunt?” Florence asked.

“I don't think she would try anything so drastic,” Amelia replied, having considered the possibility.

“I wouldn't put it past her if she thought she could get away with it,” Florence stated. “And she's up to
something,
anyway.”

“Well, there's only one way to find out what it is,” the Lady declared, glancing at her open trunk. “Let's see if we can find anything appropriate for me to wear when I go to do it.”

 

“Good morning, Lady Winifred,” Charlene greeted, a suggestion of mockery in her voice. “I wondered if you would come and join me.”

“I said I would,” Amelia answered, her air of defiance combining with a suggestion of apprehension, as she studied the other woman's appearance.

Although the
Comtesse
had been informed of her maid's death before leaving her room at the mansion, she showed neither regret nor remorse. On hearing the news, her only emotions were anger over the realization that she had been tricked and relief at learning the woman was not taken alive to divulge whatever information might have been obtained regarding her faction's plans for the assassination of the Crown Prince.

Originally built to house the small ponies suitable for use by the Blabys' now grown-up and departed children, the stable in which the Lady had joined the
Comtesse
was not large enough to fill the needs of saddle-or carriage horses. So, although the stalls had not been removed, it now served as a store for forage. Otherwise unoccupied,
it held bales of hay, sacks of grain and the implements necessary to handle them.

Standing with her right hand and left foot resting on the top of the center stall's gate, like a dancer using a wall bar in training, the play of firm arm and leg muscles proved Charlene's adherence to a rigorous program of exercises was beneficial. Nor was it any wonder that, while making her way from her room to the stable, she had worn the long black cloak which was now hanging on the gate. A white silk band held back her brunette tresses. She had on a sleeveless black leotard and matching tights that fitted like a second skin and showed there were no other garments beneath them. Thin black leather riding gloves covered her hands and ballet-shoes graced her feet. The whole effect of the ensemble was sensual in the extreme, but also a little sinister when considered in conjunction with the expression of her beautiful features.

As at the previous night's reception, Amelia's attire was far less revealing and she had had no need to cover it for the walk to the stable. The neck of her plain white blouse was unbuttoned, but it was not open to an indecorous length. For all that, it was sufficiently tight to show she was as well endowed physically as the
Comtesse.
Equally unostentatious, her black skirt was just long enough to
show she was wearing a pair of bedroom slippers. Mindful of Charlene's remarks when suggesting she join in the exercises, she too was wearing black riding gloves to avoid soiling her hands.

“You should try this kind of exercise,” the
Comtesse
remarked, raising and swinging her left leg up and down effortlessly in the fashion of a dancer. “Although you would find it far too strenuous.”

“I used to do it at school,” Amelia protested mildly.

“And stopped as soon as you left,” Charlene guessed, and walked forward, performing a couple of graceful pirouettes, while continuing, “You know, my dear, I really don't think you should accept Rudy's invitation.”

“Why shouldn't I?” the Lady asked, putting her hands on her hips in a gesture of petulant indignation.

“Hunting can be dangerous,” Charlene explained, sounding solicitous and confident that she was correct in her assessment of the Englishwoman being a pampered milksop who could easily be frightened into accepting her wishes. Measuring the distance between them as she commenced what appeared to be another pirouette, she went on, “All kinds of accidents can happen. Like
this!
”

Simultaneously with uttering the last two words,
the
Comtesse
snapped her right leg sideways in a horizontal circular motion. Its purpose was that of the French style of foot-boxing called
savate
rather than part of a ballet training exercise. However, if she had been less assured that her motive for inviting the blonde to the stable had not been suspected, she might have noticed that her action was not entirely unexpected.

In spite of anticipating something of the sort when she saw Charlene's footwear, the speed and precision of the attack still took Amelia almost unawares. She had left moving away and trying to grab the rapidly approaching limb an instant too late. Passing between her hands before they could catch hold and deflect it, the foot reached her stomach. Contact was made with somewhat less force than had been intended, but nevertheless it was sufficiently hard to hurt her. Croaking in pain and folding at the waist, she stumbled back a few steps to trip and collapse on to her hands and knees. Looking up while sucking in air to replenish her depleted lungs, she saw her assailant walking toward her like a cat stalking a mouse.

“So tell him!—that you have!—changed your mind!” Charlene ordered, punctuating each third word by driving the hard-packed toe of her left ballet shoe against the Lady's ribs. Ensuing gasps
from Amelia proved they were being felt. Then she bent to sink her right hand into the blonde's back hair, grasped the waistband of the skirt with her left and began to lift, exclaiming, “Do you hear, you Engli—?”

The question was terminated by a startled and anguished squawk much like those Amelia had been emitting when kicked and for a similar reason. Instead of begging for mercy, or struggling in a feebly ineffectual fashion—the only contingencies envisaged by the
Comtesse—
the Lady produced a far more positive repayment for the punishment inflicted upon her. She was unable to prevent herself from being hauled upward in a painful manner, but did not wait until she was fully erect before responding. Thrusting her bent left arm to the rear with all the force she could muster, she rammed its elbow into Charlene's
solar plexus.

As with the first kick Amelia had taken, the jab she delivered failed to achieve its maximum effect. The effort being exerted by the
Comtesse
to lift her victim had caused her stomach muscles to tense. Although she released the Lady, bent over with hands clutching at the stricken region and staggered backward, she suffered far less than would have been the case if she had been relaxed when the blow landed.

“How right you are,
Comtesse,
” Amelia purred, straightening up and, doubting whether the affair was over, starting to unfasten her skirt. “Accidents
do
happen—and not only when one is on a hunt.”

In one respect, Charlene had been more fortunate than the Lady. She came to a halt without falling down. Watching what was happening, she began to suspect that her judgment might have been at fault once again. When she had lured the Englishwoman to the stable, she had believed she would be dealing with a pampered, soft-living victim who could be terrified into refusing the invitation and keeping quiet about why she had changed her mind. From the way the other had reacted since she launched the attack, it seemed that her summation was wrong.