Trigger Fast (2 page)

Each man laid his saddle carefully on its side clear of the door, by the wall of the house. No cowhand worth his salt ever rested his saddle on its skirts, or placed it where clumsy feet might step on it. A cowhand took care of his saddle for without it he could not work.

‘Go on through and sit a spell,’ she told them, indicating the door into the front room. ‘I’ll fetch in the coffee.’

By the time Freda arrived with the coffee she found her guests sitting at the table, their hats hanging by the storm straps on the back of the chairs. Her eyes studied them, knowing them to be strangers to this part of the range.

‘You’re from down south, aren’t you?’ she asked, pouring the coffee into cups.

Under the rules of rangeland etiquette the host could ask that much without giving offence. It left the guests free to tell as much or as little as they wished.

‘I didn’t think it showed,’ drawled the dark boy.

‘You aren’t looking for work hereabouts?’ she went on, hoping they were not. Such men would stiffen any fighting force and they would be powerful backing if they aimed to ride for Double K.

‘Work, ma’am?’ asked the blond giant. ‘The word near on scares us off our food.’

‘I tell you, ma’am,’ the small man went on. ‘In all the years I’ve known this pair I haven’t once got them to do a hand-stroke of work.’

Freda could hardly restrain a smile as she noted the way the small man spoke. He really must be wanting to impress her, make her believe he gave the other two orders, or was in a position to have to put them to work. Then she thought of the big paint stallion, a real valuable animal. The small man must be the son of a rich ranch owner and the other two hired to be his bodyguard. Yet neither of the tall men looked like the sort to take pay for being a wet-nurse.

The small man’s eyes flickered around the room. It looked neat, clean, tidy without being so fussy a man wouldn’t dare breathe in case he messed something up. None of the furniture looked new, but it had been well kept, and expensive when new. The drapes at the window were clean and colourful, and enlivened the atmosphere. Over the fireplace hung a Le Mat carbine, one of the old type known as the ‘grapeshot gun’. The upper of the twin, superposed barrels took the nine .42 balls in the chamber. The lower barrel had no rifling and threw out either a .50 calibre grapeshot, or a charge of buckshot when needed.

Despite its brilliant conception the Le Mat was a weapon long out of date, yet the house showed no more modern weapons — except for the shotgun leaning by the door.

Following the small man’s gaze, Freda gulped as she saw the gun. Nobody would keep a shotgun in such a position as a normal thing. Her eyes went back to the small man once more.

‘Menfolks not at home?’ he asked.

‘Not just now,’ she replied, then went on hurriedly. ‘They’ll be back any time now.’

‘Huh huh!’

He left it at that. The girl shut her mouth, holding down a remark about the men her father hired, one much more complimentary than they deserved. Some instinct told Freda she need not fear her guests even though she was alone.

The small man’s eyes were on her face; they were grey eyes and met a gaze without flinching. Nor was there any of the slobbering stare of her father’s hands in the way he looked at her. His eyes did not try to strip her clothes away and feast on her young body. He looked like a man with close women kin. He also looked in a manner which told Freda her last words had not fooled him one little bit.

Suddenly she became aware of the strength in the small man’s face. She knew her first impression could have been wrong; there might be much more than was at first apparent about this small South Texas man. Her eyes dropped to his gunbelt, seeing the fine workmanship in it — and how well worn and cared-for it looked. He had none of the habits of a show-off, nor did he in any way, by voice or gesture, call attention to the fact that he wore two guns like a real bad hombre.

‘I’m afraid we’re clean out of everything but eggs,’ she said, wanting to prevent her confusion showing.

‘Lon,’ drawled the big blond, ‘you’ve got a head like a hollow tree. What about those pronghorn steaks in the pack?’

‘Ain’t your fault we done got ‘em, any old ways,’ replied the dark boy who then turned to Freda. ‘There I was, ma’am, trying to sneak up on that lil ole rascal. Then this pair comes—’

‘How about you-all sneaking through the door, sneaking to the pack, sneaking out the steaks, then sneaking back and giving them to the lady,’ put in the small man. ‘You being so sneaky and all.’

Freda noticed the way the small man addressed his friend. He spoke like a man long used to giving orders and having them obeyed. The black dressed boy came to his feet and performed the remarkable feat of draining his coffee cup while bowing gracefully to her.

‘Reckon I’ll have to apologize for this pair, ma’am,’ he~ said. ‘I can’t take them no place twice. Folks won’t even have them back to apologize for the first time.’

He replaced the cup on the saucer and headed out through the kitchen. Freda followed and in a few minutes he returned carrying a burlap sack and several thick antelope steaks wrapped Indian-style in leaves.

“You-all take the thickest for yourself, ma’am,’ he told her. ‘We’re riding greasy-sack, so take whatever you need out of the bag.’

The girl understood his meaning. To ride greasy-sack meant that they had no chuckwagon along and so carried their food in a burlap bag. She opened the bag to find it contained potatoes, carrots, onions and a few cans of tomatoes, corn and peaches.

Since the arrival of the three men Bugle, the redbone hound, had stuck pretty close to his mistress, showing no sign of friendship, following her into the kitchen. Now his tail wagged as he caught the scent of fresh meat.

‘You come friendly all of a sudden,’ drawled the dark boy. ‘Is it me or this here meat you’re in love with?’

‘I can’t take your food!’ Freda gasped.

‘Don’t let that worry you, ma’am,’ he replied, tossing a two pound steak to the waiting jaws of the redbone. ‘Too much food makes Mark ‘n’ Dusty get all mean and ornery. Only with Dusty, him being the boss, you can’t most times tell no difference. Say, was it all right for me to feed your dawg, ma’am?’

Freda nodded. She thought she had the three men sorted out now. The dark boy’s name appeared to be Lon and from what he just said about Dusty being the boss it ought to make the small man’s name Mark, for he was not likely to be the other two’s employer.

At that moment the small man came to the kitchen door.

Whatever Lon’s telling you, ma’am,’ he said, ‘it’s likely to be all lies.’

‘Just telling the lady what a sweet, kind ‘n’ loving nature you-all got, Dusty,’ Lon replied. ‘Course, like you said, it’s all lies.’

The words puzzled Freda more than ever. The small man’s name appeared to be Dusty and that made him the boss. Then she thought she had the solution, Dusty was their boss’ son and they treated him in such a manner as a result of it.

‘You wouldn’t be looking for the Double K, would you?’ she asked.

‘Double K?’ Dusty replied. ‘That’s the old Lindon Land Grant, isn’t it?’

‘It was. Lindon died and an Englishman bought it.’

We’ve never been this way before, have we, Lon?’ drawled the small man. ‘I run my herds over the eastern trails, it’s better for us that way.’

Once more Freda noticed how he spoke; as if he was the trail boss when his ranch sent a herd to market. Yet he did not seem to speak in a boasting manner, or to be trying to impress her.

Through her cooking and the meal which followed Freda tried to understand the man called Dusty. The other two regarded him as their boss. Yet, from the banter which flowed between them, they were also good friends with much in common.

‘You mean you came along the stream?’

The words came in a gasp from Freda as the import of something Mark just said sank into her puzzled head. A blush came to her cheeks for if they had been riding the bank of the stream they must have seen her bathing.

‘Why else do you reckon we’d put up with Lon’s caterwauling?’ asked Dusty, a smile on his lips. It was a friendly smile, not the leer of a venal sneak who would sit watching a nude girl in the privacy of her bathing.

Then Freda understood and the blush died away. The three men must have spotted her from a fair way back down the river. To avoid causing her any embarrassment they swung from the bank edge and rode parallel to it but well clear, with Lon singing to warn her of their presence. They also took their time, allowing her a chance to get to the house and dress before riding in.

Tactfully, and in a diplomatic manner, Dusty swung the conversation away from the subject. Then Lon started her laughing with an exaggerated story of how he hunted and shot the prong-horn, which had tasted so delicious, despite having his two friends along.

The meal had ended but Freda wanted her guests to stay on and talk. She felt starved for company and good conversation and for the first time realized how lonely her life was.

Suddenly Bugle raised his head, looking across the room from where he had laid since finishing his steak. At the same moment Lon’s youth and levity fell from him like a discarded cloak. He looked older, more alert — and deadly dangerous.

‘Your pappy run seven — eight men, Miss Freda?’ he asked.

‘No, why?’

‘There’s that many coming up right now.’

Then the others heard the sound of approaching hooves, coming at a good pace towards the river bank, down it and through the water. This had a special significance. The stream marked the boundary of the ranch house and nobody but the owners and their hired help had the right to cross without first calling for permission to do so.

Freda rose to her feet and darted to the door, opening it and stepping out. Eight men came across the stream, riding towards the house and halting their horses in a rough half-circle. They looked a hard bunch, with guns hanging low at their sides. She only knew one of the eight but could guess at the purpose of their visit.

The man she knew was called Preacher Tring — he’d been at Mallick’s left hand when the Land Agent offered to buy them out. Now it looked as if Tring had returned to make sure the Lasalle family did sell out.

CHAPTER TWO

FREDA stepped across the porch and halted at the edge of it looking towards the eight men, not liking what she read in their eyes. They, with one exception, were men in the thirties or early forties, and with one exception wore cowhand dress — but they weren’t cowhands.

Preacher Tring sat in the centre of the group. A big blocky man with heavy rounded shoulders and a nose hooked like a buzzard’s beak. He wore a round topped hat of the style circuit-riding preachers favoured. His white shirt looked dirty, the black tie crooked. His sober black suit also looked stained and rumpled as if he’d worked bard in it that day. Around his waist hung a gun-belt, a brace of Navy Colts riding the fast draw holsters. Slouching in the saddle of a fine black horse Preacher Tring looked like a particularly evil buzzard perched ready to slash the eyes out of a corpse.

What do you want?’ Freda asked.

We’ve come to move you folks on,’ answered Tring, his voice a harsh croak which was well suited to his looks. ‘Boss made you a good offer for this place. Now he allows you’ve had time to think about it. Price still goes, even after the place gets wrecked.’

‘How do you mean, wrecked?’

‘Going to wreck the place, gal,’ Tring answered, waving a hand towards the buildings, then down to the corral. ‘Then happen your father doesn’t sell out it won’t just be the place we wreck.’

Freda grabbed Bugle’s collar as the dog stood by her side, his back hair rising and a low growl rumbling from his throat. She knew the men would shoot down her dog without a second thought and did not want that to happen.

‘You wouldn’t dare!’ she gasped.

Without even troubling to reply Tring turned his horse and rode towards the corral. He unshipped the rope from his saddle-horn, tossed the noose over the right side gate post and secured the other end to the horn. Turning his horse he rode forward slowly until the rope drew taut. The big black threw its weight forward to try and drag whatever lay behind it.

Laughing and making coarse comments the men sat their horses and watched Tring. They did not trouble to look at the house, knowing the quality of Lasalle’s hired hands and expecting no opposition except maybe from the rancher himself. Only Lasalle could not be at home or he would be outside and facing them.

‘Go on, Preacher!’ yelled the youngest of the bunch, a brash, tall youngster in his late teens and who clearly considered himself the hardest rock ever quarried. ‘Get off and push!’

This brought a roar of laughter from the others and a snarled curse from Tring. He often boasted of his horse’s strength and pulling power, so did not intend to allow the animal to make him a liar.

Tring spurred his horse cruelly. Steel shod hooves churned up dirt as it threw weight against the taut rope, trying to tear the corral’s post from the earth. The man cursed savagely as the post held firm. He raked his struggling horse from neck to rump with sharp-rowelled petmakers, but to no avail.

From behind Freda came the crash of a shot. The rope split and the horse, suddenly relieved of the strain, stumbled forwards, throwing its rider over its head. Tring’s companions turned to see who dared interfere with the Double K.

The small Texan stood in, the doorway of the house, smoke rising lazily from the barrel of the Army Colt in his right hand. He looked at the hostile group of eight hard-case riders.

‘I’m taking cards,’ he said. ‘The name’s Dusty Fog.’

With that the sleek Colt pinwheeled on his finger and went back to the holster at the left side of his body. He stepped forward, passing the girl, to halt between her and the men.

Only it was not a small, insignificant cowhand who passed her. Now he seemed to have put on inches, and to exude a deadly menace. Never again would Freda think of him as being small.

He faced the men, hands thumb-hooked into his belt, eyes watching them, daring any of them to make a move.

Snarling out incoherent curses Preacher Tring sat up. He had lost his hat and his head was completely bald, which added to his general air of evil. He forced himself to his feet and looked at the small Texan. From the expression on Tring’s face, Freda thought he would grab out his gun and shoot down this impudent stranger who came between him and his desires. In the heat of the moment Freda clean forgot about the other two men and did not wonder why they failed to stand alongside their boss at such a moment.

‘Easy Preacher!’ a man spoke hurriedly, urgently. ‘He’s speaking true. That there’s Dusty Fog all right. I saw him when he brought the Rocking H herd to Dodge against Wyatt Earp’s word.’
¹

Not until then did Freda fully realize who her small guest really was. She could hardly believe her eyes or ears as she looked at the small Texan called Dusty Fog.

She’d heard the name often enough, but never pictured the famous Dusty Fog as anything but a handsome giant, a hero of the same kind she read about in books. In the War Between The States she, and almost every other southern girl, dreamed of Dusty Fog as their knight in armour. He had been the boy-wonder, the Confederate Cavalry captain who, at seventeen, made the Yankees wish they’d stayed at home and who carried a fighting cavalryman’s reputation as high as that of Turner Ashby or John Singleton Mosby.

Since the War his name rose high as a cowhand, a trail boss who ranked with Charlie Goodnight, Oliver Loving, Stone Hart, the pick of the trail bosses. It had been Dusty Fog and his friends who tamed the bad Montana mining city called Quiet Town,
²
after three lesser men died in the trying. He was the segundo of the great OD Connected ranch in the Rio Rondo country. He had ambidextrous prowess with his matched bone handled guns. His speed of drawing those same guns and his accuracy in shooting were all legends. Now he stood before Freda Lasalle, a man of five foot six at most, a man she had dismissed as nobody and hardly spared a second glance.

Tring also thought of all he had heard of Dusty Fog and liked none of it. The small Texan stood alone, facing eight of them — or did he stand alone — where he was two other men were likely to be.

The tall, handsome blond stood at the corner of the house. He stood with empty hands but that meant little for rumour had it that Mark Counter could draw and throw lead almost as fast as Dusty Fog. In his own right that handsome blond giant had a name himself.

If anything Mark’s reputation as a cowhand stood higher than Dusty’s. He had a name for being somewhat of a range country Beau Brummel who helped set cowhand fashions now as he had once done amongst the bloods of the Southern army. A rich man in his own right, son of a prosperous Big Bend rancher, Mark still rode as a hand for the OD Connected, working as a member of the floating outfit and siding Dusty in any trouble to come along. His strength was a legend, his skill in a rough-house brawl spoken of with awe and admiration wherever it was seen. How fast he could handle his gun was not so well known. He rode in the shadow of the Rio Hondo gun wizard for all that he stood a good six feet three inches tall.

Small wonder the hired guns from Double K looked uneasy when they saw Mark Counter all set to back his
amigo
against them.

Slowly Tring lowered the hands which had hung like curved talons over the butts of his Navy Colts. He’d been set to chance taking Dusty Fog with odds of eight to one in his favour. Eight to two were far from being bad odds, even eight to those two — then the odds dropped to a level where Tring did not intend bucking against them.

A sinister double click announced another man stood at the side of the house opposite Mark Counter. Not one of the assembled gunhands thought it to be a trick of their ears, or imagination. That showed in the way they looked towards the dark boy, noting the twin barrel ten gauge in his hands.

Freda also looked and felt surprise. This was not the innocent looking boy who talked and joked with her inside the house. The clothes might be the same, but the face was a mean, cold, slit-eyed Comanche Dog Soldier’s mask, alert, wolf-cautious and watching every move.

They called him Loncey Dalton Ysabel, the Ysabel Kid,
Cabrito
depending on how well folks knew him. Three names, but they all added up to one thing — a real dangerous man. His father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian border smuggler, his mother the daughter of Chief Long Walker of the Comanche and his French-Creole squaw. That marriage brought a mixing of bloods which produced a deadly efficient fighting man with an innocent face and a power of danger inside him. He had the sighting eye of a backwoodsman of the legendary past and the same ability to handle a rifle. He could use his Dragoon Colt well enough when needed. From his French-Creole strain he gained an inborn love of cold steel as a weapon and an ability to use that James Black bowie knife which would not have shamed old Jim Bowie himself. Tied in with that came the skill of a Comanche Dog Soldier at riding anything with hair, ability to follow tracks where a buck Apache might falter and the keen eyes which came in so useful when riding scout. He could move through thick brush as silent as a shadow, speak seven languages and fluent Spanish. All in all it made the Kid a real good friend — or right bad enemy.

From the way he stood and watched the Double K men he was no friend.

‘Don’t see how all this comes to be your concern, Cap’n Fog,’ Tring said, in a much milder tone than he usually adopted. ‘These here nesters—’

‘Stop handing us that bull-droppings,
hombre
!’ growled Mark Counter, moving forward to flank Dusty and face the men. ‘These folk don’t plough. They run a brand and keep cattle. That makes them ranch folks.’

The youngster in Tring’s bunch thought he was real fast with a gun. He had come through a couple of cowhand backing-down sessions and didn’t reckon this trio would prove harder to handle than the others.

He swung down from his saddle to step by Tring and face the two Texans in his toughest and most belligerent manner, even though he wasn’t showing good sense.

‘Who asked you to bill in?’ he asked in a tough voice.

‘We’re in, boy,’ Dusty answered, sparing him hardly a glance. ‘You,
hombre
, get afork your hoss and take your pards off with you.’

Tring wasn’t fixing to argue. He bent and took up his hat, placing it on the bald head. Tomorrow would be another day. The Texans would be riding on soon and he would return. Freda Lasalle was going to wish he had not when he came back. Or maybe Lasalle would pull out in a hurry when he heard what had happened — or what might have happened had not those three interfering Texans been on hand.

So Tring turned to collect his horse. His backers did not want trouble, he could read that on their faces. Only the fool kid wanted to make fuss, bring off a grandstand play.

Full of brash conceit and over-confident both in himself and the ability of the others to back him, the young hard-case took a pace forward.

‘Listen, you!’ he said to Dusty. ‘Our boss sent us to do a job, and we aim to do it, so you can smoke off afore you get hurt.’

Dusty did not even look at the young man, but threw a glance at Tring as the bald man mounted his horse.

‘Call him off,
hombre
,’ Dusty said gently, ‘or lose him.’

Tring made no reply. He watched the young gun-hand, wondering if he might be lucky and give the rest of them a chance to cut in.

‘Listen, you short-growed ru—!’ began the youngster.

He stopped faster than he started, and without finishing his speech, for a very good reason. Dusty Fog glided forward a step. His right fist drove out and sank with the power of a mule-kick into the youngster’s stomach. The young gunny’s hand started moving towards the butt of his Army Colt as Dusty stepped forward. He failed to make it. The hand which he meant to fetch out the Colt clutched instead at his middle as he doubled over croaking in agony.

Instantly Dusty threw up his fist-knotted left hand, smashing it full under the youngster’s jaw, lifting him erect and throwing him backwards into the horses. Then the gunny slid down into a sitting position. Through the spinning pain mists and bright lights which popped before his eyes he saw Dusty standing before him and again tried to get out his gun. Dusty jumped forward, foot lashing out in a kick which ripped skin from the gun-hand, brought a howl of pain from the youngster and sent the Colt flying.

Bending forward Dusty took a double handful of the youngster’s shirt and hauled him erect, shook him savagely, then let him go. The youngster’s legs were buckling under him as Dusty’s right fist lashed up at his jaw. Mark Counter winced in sympathy as the blow landed. The youngster went over backwards, crashing down and made no attempt to rise.

Dusty looked at Tring, his eyes cold and hard.

‘You always let a boy do your fighting?’ he asked.

‘Boy played it on his own,’ snarled Tring, hating backing down but not having the guts to take Dusty up on it. We ain’t after fuss with you.’

‘Fussing with a gal’d be more your game,’ drawled Mark. ‘Wouldn’t it?’

Never the most amiable of men, Tring still managed to hold down his anger and resentment at Mark’s words.

‘The boss made these folks a fair offer for their place,’ he said. ‘He wants more land to build up his holding. We just figured to toss a scare into the girl and her pappy. Didn’t mean her no real harm.’

Freda watched everything, still holding Bugle’s collar. She wanted to say something, take a part in the drama being played out before her. Dusty did not give her a chance for he clearly aimed to handle the entire affair his own way. She went back to shove Bugle into the house then came towards Dusty.

‘We aren’t selling,’ she said.

‘You hear that?’ asked Dusty.

‘I heard it!’ Tring replied.

‘We’ll be going up the trail today. But we’ll be coming back this way and if these folks aren’t here and unharmed,
hombre
, you’d best be long gone or I’ll nail your hide to the door. Understand?’

‘I understand, Cap’n Fog.’