Goodnight's Dream (A Floating Outfit Western Book 4) (23 page)

About to move closer, Dusty found himself
looking into the muzzle of a Sharps rifle that appeared from behind
the trunk of a tree ahead of him.

‘
I told you somebody was sneaking
around, Al,’ said Scroggins’ voice from behind the rifle-sprouting
tree.

‘
And you was right, Scrog,’ answered
Turner, rising from behind a dogwood bush to Dusty’s left and
holding a Colt. ‘Drop the rifle, short stuff.’

Like every intelligent fighting
man, Dusty knew not only how but
when
to make war. Right then was not the moment.
Covered by two weapons and with no cover readily available on his
right side, resistance would be futile and fatal. So he lowered the
carbine’s butt to the ground and released his hold on the barrel,
letting it fall as gently as possible.

‘
Hey! What’s the game?’ Dusty asked,
trying to sound mild and puzzled. ‘Oh! It’s you fellers. Say, did
you get your steers back?’

‘
Naw,’ Turner answered. ‘All we’ve
got’s you. Unbuckle your gunbelt and let it drop. Do it
left-handed, slow and careful.’

‘
It’d be as easy to shoot him right
now,’ Scroggins commented, moving into sight alongside the
tree.

‘
Like hell it would!’ Turner snapped as
Dusty tensed, ready to sell his life dearly. ‘He’s Goodnight’s
nephew. So I’m wondering what the hell he’s doing out here and
a-foot.’

With his finger already tightening on the
trigger, Scroggins frowned and halted its rearward movement.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘There’s that.’

‘
Get that belt off, boy!’ Turner
continued. ‘Left-handed, like I said.’

Smart precaution in the majority of cases,
the insistence on Dusty using his left hand might have cost the
pair a high price.

Although completely ambidextrous—a natural
talent improved on in his childhood as a means of offsetting his
small size—Dusty had given no hint of it on his previous meeting
with them. Allowed a chance, he could have just as easily and
efficiently used his left hand to good advantage. He did not see
the chance. Both of the men possessed sufficient gun-handling savvy
to be very dangerous. A man could not take undue risks with their
kind—not twice, anyways. So Dusty freed the pigging thongs securing
the holster bottoms to his legs, unbuckled the belt and let it fall
to his feet.

‘
That suit you?’ he asked.

‘
Move away from it,’ Turner ordered
and, as Dusty obeyed, went on, ‘Now put your hands behind
you.’

Coming to a halt, Dusty did as he was
instructed. However, he placed his wrists together instead of
crossing them. Without presenting Dusty with the opportunity to
resist, Turner moved in behind him. Holstering his Colt, the man
drew a length of cord from his pocket. He formed a loop, hooked it
up over Dusty’s hands, drew it tight and started to fasten it
without making the small Texan cross his wrists.

‘
That’s got him,’ Turner grinned,
walking confidently by the prisoner. ‘Let’s take him down to the
cabin and ask him some questions.’

‘
What if I don’t answer?’ Dusty
inquired.

‘
I sure hope you don’t,’ Turner told
him. ‘I’m going to enjoy making you talk. Get moving.’

Not until Dusty’s hands were secured did
Scroggins relax. Then he walked forward, his eyes going briefly to
the carbine and jerking sharply back in its direction as
realization struck him.

‘
Hey, Al,’ the lanky man said. ‘He’s
got a Henry, only it looks better’n any Henry I ever
saw.’

‘
It’s your’n,’ Turner told him
generously, then looked at Dusty. ‘Come on.’

‘
How do you figure to make me?’ the
small Texan drawled, watching Scroggins lean the Sharps against a
tree and make for the carbine. ‘You can’t use your gun in case I’ve
got pards around looking for me.’

‘
We don’t need guns to handle a runt
like you,’ Turner spat back.

‘
You didn’t do so good last time,’
Dusty pointed out. ‘And there was three of you at it
then.’

A hot flush of annoyance crept over Turner’s
face. With the plan they had been instructed in only partially
successful—not even that, according to what he had seen of
Goodnight’s herd growing in numbers—Turner’s employers were vocal
in their recriminations. Worse than that, they flatly refused to
pay the trio until some more adequate result was forthcoming. So,
instead of being free to spend time and money in celebrations, they
had been forced to remain in the comfortless mustangers’ camp. That
their failure had been brought about by such a small, insignificant
cuss increased Turner’s anger. So Dusty’s reminder brought the
man’s temper to boiling-over point.

‘
One of us’ll be enough!’ Turner
snarled and moved towards Dusty. ‘See if it ain’t.’

Facing Dusty, but to his right, Turner
prepared to enforce his demands. Catching the small Texan’s right
bicep with his left hand, Turner began to pull him forward and drew
back his own left fist for a punch. Just an instant too late the
man became aware of the size and solid nature of the muscles he
gripped. Yet he still did not realize that he was playing right
into his ‘victim’s’ hands.

While Turner remembered the manner in which
Dusty had acted by the herd, he preferred to regard it as no more
than panic-inspired luck which brought his and Luhmere’s downfall.
Sure the small cuss had moved fast, taking them by surprise. Only
this time he did not have the element of surprise on his side. So
thought Turner until awareness of Dusty’s muscular development
began to sink in. By that time, it was too late.

Dusty did not try to hold back against the
pull. Instead he let himself be drawn towards Turner. Up close
enough for his purpose, Dusty pivoted on his right foot until its
toe pointed directly at Turner. Whipping up his left leg, Dusty
propelled its knee with considerable force between the other’s
spread-apart lower limbs. Turner let out a croaking cry of pure
agony. Nausea and pain almost too great to bear caused him to
release his hold on Dusty’s bicep. Stumbling back and doubling
over, Turner collapsed writhing to the ground.

Becoming aware of what was happening,
Scroggins forgot his interest in the new model ‘Henry’ and turned.
Just in time he remembered the need for reasonable silence and
decided against using the carbine as a firearm. There seemed no
need to shoot when dealing with a small man whose hands were tied
behind his back; even if he was fortunate enough to have done
Turner a severe piece of no good. Striding forward, he swung up the
little Winchester in both hands, his intention being to drive its
metal-shod butt against the back of Dusty’s head.

Anticipating the attack and gambling on the
way that it would come, Dusty was ready to counter it. From kneeing
Turner, he brought his left foot back to the ground. With the
carbine swinging savagely in his direction, he bowed his torso
forward. Over his head whistled the butt and he felt the wind of
its passing. Still bent over, he twisted his hips slightly,
balanced on the left leg and shot his right foot in Scroggins’
direction. The high-heeled boot spiked hard into the lanky man’s
belly as he continued forward with the weight of his abortive blow.
Although the kick landed just a touch too high to be fully
effective, it threw its recipient backwards. Reeling under the
impact, Scroggins dropped the carbine but did not go down.

Ignoring Scroggins for a moment, Dusty
brought down his leg. Before him, Turner was still rolling in
torment and clutching at the injured area. Dusty could not take the
chance of the man staying incapacitated while he dealt with
Scroggins. So he sprang forward and kicked Turner at the side of
the jaw. Rolled over by the force of the latest attack, Turner came
to rest on his back and lay without a movement.

Whirling around, Dusty faced
Scroggins, Pride prevented the lean man from yelling for help.
Scroggins could imagine Luhmere’s comments if called to help
against the small, handicapped Texan. So Scroggins began to move
forward and saw that the
big
cowhand stood balanced lightly, clearly ready to
defend himself.

‘
All right, feller!’ Scroggins snarled,
sliding his saber from its sheath. ‘I’m going to cut you to
doll-rags.’

From the way Scroggins
advanced, he knew more than the rudiments of handling a saber.
Bounding in, he launched an inside swing at Dusty’s head. If he had
been dealing with the
normal run of cowhand, Scroggins would have been
successful. However, Dusty had received saber training from
childhood and still managed to keep up his practice when at home.
So he read what the other planned to do and avoided the attack by a
rapid stride to the rear. Scroggins followed the small Texan,
making cuts that Dusty identified before they started and evaded by
fast footwork. Yet Scroggins managed to keep himself at a distance
where Dusty could not reach him with a kick. It was, Dusty knew,
only a matter of time before Luhmere made an appearance to see what
was delaying his companions’ return. Somehow Dusty must deal with
his assailant, free his hands and arm himself before that
happened.

Being missed by a savage
down-lashing direct swing to the head, Dusty appeared to land
awkwardly. Stumbling, he fell with his back to the trunk of a
sturdy cottonwood tree. With a snarl of satisfaction, Scroggins
followed up his advantage. Forward shot the saber in a near-classic
lunge, its point aimed at the small Texan’s belly. At the last
instant Dusty twisted himself aside. Hissing by him, the point of
the saber spiked deep into the wood. Once again the impetus of an
attack carried Scroggins into danger. Thrusting himself from the
tree, Dusty met the man. Driving up his knee, Dusty slammed it into
Scroggins’ chest. The man released his saber, which remained
standing out from the Cottonwood’s trunk. Staggering back, he
straightened up. Dusty followed him, bounding into the air and
sending both boots crashing into him. The right foot caught the
center of Scroggins’ chest and the left impacted on his jaw. Lifted
from his feet by the force of the
mae-tobi-geri
forward jump kick of
karate,
Scroggins crashed
to the springy turf. He bounced once and then went limply
still.

Landing from his attack, Dusty staggered and
caught his balance. There was no time to waste, but he looked
around him and made sure that he did not need fear a further attack
from his assailants or Luhmere. Satisfied on that score, he went to
the cottonwood. Turning with his back to the tree, he carefully
hooked his bound hands under the saber. Then he rested the small of
his back against the hilt, pressing on it in an attempt to hold it
firm. Raising his hands slowly, he felt the touch of cold steel on
his flesh. Down it moved until the sharp cutting edge rested on the
cord binding his wrists. At that moment the wisdom of avoiding
crossing his wrists showed. Edging his hands back and forwards,
Dusty felt the saber’s cutting edge slitting the fibers of the
cord.

Having no wish to slice open his hands. Dusty
worked slowly and carefully. The need to hurry soon rose. Rolling
on to his face, Scroggins slowly forced himself up onto hands and
knees. Beyond him, Turner was groaning and stirring. As the sound
reached his ears, Scroggins looked towards its source. He shook his
head to clear the swirling mists from it and remembrance returned
with a rush. Forgetting his companion, he swung his eyes around in
search of the cause of his misfortunes. At the sight of Dusty
standing against the tree, fury twisted Scroggins’ face. No longer
did the man worry about the noise of a shot attracting unwanted
attentions. Spitting out a curse, he grabbed at his holstered
revolver.

With a tug, Dusty snapped the
remaining strands of the rope. From doing so, his right hand
slipped into the saber’s hilt. Giving a pull that plucked the point
from the tree’s trunk, Dusty thrust himself into motion. While he
could claim to be something of an expert in the use of the saber,
the attack he launched did not come from the curriculum of
any
salle-de-armes.
Leaving the tree’s shelter, Dusty threw himself
forward in a somersaulting dive. Going by the kneeling Scroggins,
Dusty launched a slash in mid-air. Steel sliced into the side of
the man’s neck until the cutting edged chipped against the neck
bones. The Colt was only just clearing leather as Dusty struck,
Scroggins’ reactions being too sluggish for the rapid movement that
would have saved him. Feeling the saber stick, Dusty released it.
Ahead of him lay his carbine. Never had he felt so pleased than
when his hands closed on the walnut furnishings and he finished his
roll holding the fully loaded Winchester.

Twisting around on his knees, Dusty halted
the carbine halfway to his shoulder. Scroggins sprawled on his
back, dripping his life-blood over the springy grass. That left
Turner, and Dusty swung his way. Still too hurt and dazed to
intervene, the man offered no immediate danger. Under the
circumstances, however, Dusty did not dare take a chance. Not when
Turner might recover sufficiently to take cards before Dusty could
deal with the last of the trio. Dusty rose and approached the
groaning hardcase. A sharp blow from the carbine’s butt tumbled
Turner back into harmless unconsciousness.

For a moment Dusty stood breathing hard. Then
he mopped his brow with a bandana. Crossing to where his gunbelt
lay, he picked it up and strapped it on.