Trigger Fast (3 page)

‘Then get that kid on his horse and ride out of here.’

A growled order from Tring brought two men from their horses to help the groaning youngster to his feet then into his saddle. Freda watched them, seeing the conspicuous way they kept their hands clear of the guns at all times. This puzzled her for, from what she had heard, Double K hired tough hard-cases.

Under the right circumstances Tring’s bunch might have been hard and tough. Yet every last one of the seven who were capable of thought knew they faced three men who were with but few peers in salty toughness and were more than capable of handling a fight with guns or bare hands.

So the Double K’s hard-case bunch got their horses turned and headed off, leaving behind an undamaged house and a Colt Army revolver lying where the youngster let it fall.

Among the other men, thinking himself either hidden from view or unsuspected of being able to do any harm, the youngster leaned forward over the saddlehorn. The way he hung forward he looked like he was still too groggy to do anything, but his left hand drew the rifle from his saddleboot. They passed through the river and rode up the slope. This was his chance. Thirty yards or more separated him from the three Texans and the girl. It was a good range for rifle work and not one at which a man might make an easy hit with a fast drawn Colt. He could turn, make a fast shot at that small bond runt who whipped him. Then he and the rest of the boys could make a stand on the rim and cut the other two down.

The horse was almost at the top of the slope when he wheeled it around in a tight, fast turn and started to throw up the rifle. The move came as a surprise to the other Double K riders. It did not appear to be so much of a surprise to the people against which the move had been directed. The youngster saw that almost as soon as he turned the horse.

Always cautious, more so at such a moment, the Kid stayed right where he had been all the time and did not join Mark and Dusty before the house. After watching Dusty hand the hard-case youngster his needings, the Kid rested the barrels of the ten gauge on his shoulder although his right hand still gripped the butt, forefinger ready on the trigger and hammers still pulled back.

From his place the Kid saw the leaning over and might have passed it off as a dizzy spell caused by the whipping Dusty had banded out. Then the Kid noticed the stealthy withdrawal of a rifle and he waited for the next move.

‘Dusty!’ the Kid snapped, even as the youngster swung his horse around.

With men like the three Texans to see was to act. Neither Dusty nor Mark had seen the rifle drawn, but they were watching for the first treacherous move, ready to copper any bet the other men made.

At the Kid’s word Dusty went sideways, knocking Freda from her feet, bringing her to the ground. She gave a startled yell, muffled for he stayed on top of her, shielding her with his body. The girl heard that flat slap of a bullet passing overhead, but the crack of the shot was drowned by the closer at hand roar of the shotgun.

Even as he yelled his warning the Kid brought the shotgun from his shoulder. Its foregrip slapped into his waiting left hand, the butt settled against his shoulder and he aimed, then touched off first the right, then left barrel. He expected the charge to spread at thirty yards and was not disappointed in it. He did feel disappointed when the men let out howls, including the youngster who jerked up in his saddle, screamed in pain, turned the horse and headed after his bunch as they shot over the bank top and went from sight, although their horses could be heard galloping off beyond the rim.

Freda managed to lift her face from the dirt and peer out by Dusty. She saw Mark kneeling at one side, holding his right hand Colt at arm’s length, resting his wrist on his left palm and his left elbow on his raised left knee. Her eyes went to the other side of the stream. She could see no bodies, nor any sign of Tring and his men.

Holstering his gun Mark walked to her side, she saw him towering above her. He bent down, gripped Dusty by the waist-belt and with no more apparent effort than if lifting a baby hoisted him clear of the girl. Then in the same casual manner Mark turned and tossed Dusty at the Kid who came forward muttering something under his breath and too low for Freda to catch — which in all probability was just as well. Ignoring the choice and lurid remarks made about himself, his morals, descendants and ancestors by his friends, Mark bent and held a hand toward Freda.

‘If you throw me I’ll scream,’ she warned.

‘Ma’am,’ Mark replied, gallantly taking the hand and helping her rise. ‘I never throw a real good looking young lady away.’

By the time Freda stood up again she found the Kid and Dusty had untangled themselves and the Kid came forward bearing the ten gauge and showing a look of prime disgust at such an ineffective weapon.

‘What the hell have you got in this fool gun?’ he growled. ‘I reckon to be bettern’t that with a scatter.’

‘I charged it with birdshot. There’s been a chicken-hawk after the hens and so I—’

‘BIRDSHOT!’ the Kid’s voice rose a few shades. ‘No wonder I didn’t bust their hides. Landsakes, gal, whyn’t you pour in nine buckshot?’

‘Because I didn’t think I’d need it!’ she answered hotly, the reaction at her narrow escape almost bringing tears.

‘Easy gal, easy,’ said Dusty gently. ‘Lon’s only joshing you. It’s just his mean old Comanche way. They’ve gone and they won’t be back.’

‘Not today,’ she agreed bitterly, thinking of the morrow and the visit it would surely bring.

‘Nor any other day,’ Dusty promised. We’ll call in at the Double K and lay it plain before the new boss. If he makes fuss for you we’ll make it for him on our way down trail.’

oooOooo

1. Told in TRAIL BOSS

2. Told in QUIET TOWN

CHAPTER THREE

IT took Freda a couple of minutes to catch control of her nerves again. She made it in the end, helped by the thought of how lucky she had been. Tring and his men might have done much worse than wreck the buildings and rip down the corral on finding her alone at the house. She thought thankfully of the unfastened dress, it caused her to request the three Texans take their horses around back and then come in for a meal. That gave her a chance to fasten the dress. It also kept the horses out of sight. Had Tring and his men seen three fine looking animals such as Dusty, Mark and the Kid’s mounts out front they might have waited in the background until the visitors departed.

‘Whyn’t you call in the local law?’ Mark asked.

‘In Barlock?’ she replied. ‘There’d be more chance of help in a ghost town.’

‘Well,’ Dusty drawled, ‘We’ll ride in and see their boss. It might do some good for you.’

‘Riders coming in, Dusty,’ remarked the Kid, walking towards the side of the house with his hand hanging by the butt of the old Dragoon and the despised shotgun trailing at the other side. ‘Three of them, coming from back there a piece.’

Freda ran towards the Kid, sudden fear in her heart. She reached the corner of the house at the same time he did, staring across the range to where three men rode towards them, following the wagon trail into town. She clutched at the Kid’s right arm, holding it tight.

‘Don’t shoot, Lon,’ she gasped. ‘It’s my father!’

Wasn’t fixing to shoot, so let off crushing my dainty lil arm,’ he replied. ‘You-all near on as jumpy as those other pair.’

‘Something’s wrong. I’m sure something’s wrong,’ she went on.

‘Won’t get any righter until we know what it is,’ Dusty answered, coming to the girl’s side.

None of the approaching trio rode real good horses. Two were youngish, cowhands; although not such cowhands as the OD Connected would hire. The third looked in his late forties, sat his horse with something of a cavalryman’s stiff-backed grace. It showed even slumped up and dejected as he looked. His clothes were not new, but they were clean and neat — and he didn’t wear a gun. The three Texans saw this latter point even before they noticed the rest. A man without a gun was something of a rarity anywhere west of the Mississippi and east of the Pacific Ocean.

Nearer the house the three men split up, the hands making for the door which led into the room they used as living quarters. The older man rode forward, halted his horse and swung down from his saddle. His face bore a strong family resemblance to Freda, now it was lined and looked exhausted, beaten, like the face of a man who has taken all he can and wants to call it quits.

He came forward, hardly looking at the three Texans, laid his hand on his daughter’s arm and shook his head gently.

‘We’re licked, Freda,’ he said. ‘Mallick has taken over the two stores and won’t let any of us small ranchers buy supplies unless we pay cash.’

‘But Matt Roylan has always known our credit is good,’ she answered.

‘Yes, but the Double K has taken over Mart and Pop Billings’ notes at the bank and will foreclose if they sell. I saw Mallick, he said we could have all the supplies needed and he’d take it out of the price he offered for our place.’

‘He can’t pull a game like that!’ Dusty said quietly stepping forward.

‘He’s done it,’ George Lasalle answered.

‘And the local law stands for it?’ Mark asked.

‘Elben, he’s town marshal, takes orders from the Double K and has men supplied to back him.’

Never had Freda felt so completely helpless and so near to tears. They must have supplies, food at least, to tide them over until the first drive came up trail and they could sell cattle to the trail boss. Then they would have enough money to straighten their account, as they had in previous years.

‘Sloane sold out,’ her father went on. ‘I saw his wagon before Billings’ store, taking on supplies. Mrs. Sloane was crying something awful.’

Then for the first time he seemed to become aware that there were strangers, guests most likely, present. Instantly he shook the lethargy from him and became a courteous host.

‘I’m sorry, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t be troubling you with our worries. Have you fed our guests, Freda?’

‘We had a good meal, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘Your daughter’s a fine cook.’

At that moment the two hired hands emerged from their room carrying what looked like all their gear. Without a word they swung afork their horses and rode away, not even giving a backwards glance. Dusty watched them, thinking how he would not take their kind as cook’s louse even, but most likely they were the best hands Lasalle could afford to hire. Now it looked like they were riding out.

‘Where’re they going, papa?’ Freda asked.

‘They quit. A couple of Double K men saw them in town and told them to get out while they could. I told them I couldn’t afford to pay them but they said they were going anyway.’

‘But we can’t manage the place without their help,’ Freda gasped. ‘You can’t gather and hold the shipping cattle alone and we have to get a herd to sell so we can buy supplies.’

‘Never knew that ole hoss of mine so leg-weary as now, Dusty,’ Mark remarked in a casual tone.

‘Ole Nigger’s a mite settled down and ain’t willing to go no-place at all,’ drawled the Kid. ‘And it looks like this gent needs him a couple or so hands for a spell.’

Lasalle and his daughter exchanged glances. He did not know who these three young men might be, but he knew full well what they were. They looked like tophands in any man’s outfit, seventy-five-dollar-a-month men at least and he could not afford to pay for such talented workers.

‘Happen Mr. Lasalle here can let us stay on a spell we’ll have to get word up to Bent’s Ford and warn Cousin Red not to wait his herd for us,’ Dusty remarked more to himself than the others. He turned to Lasalle. ‘Take it kind if you’d let us stay on and rest our horses. We’ll work for our food and bed.’

A gasp left Freda’s lips. She could hardly believe her ears and felt like singing aloud in joy. After seeing the way Dusty, Mark and the Kid handled the eight Double K hard-cases and made them back off, she did not doubt but that the ranch would be safe in their hands.

‘We haven’t much food,’ she said, ‘but the way you told it none of you do much work either.’

From the grins on three faces Freda knew she had said the right thing. Her reply showed them she had the right spirit and knew cowhand feelings. Her father did not take the same lighthearted view.

‘Just a moment, Freda,’ he put in. ‘These gentlemen are welcome to stay over and rest their horses, but we won’t expect them to work for their food.’

‘Why not?’ asked Dusty. ‘The way this pair eat they need work, or they’ll run to hawg-fat and be good for nothing when I get them back to home.’

‘But — but—!’

‘Shucks, give it a whirl, sir,’ interruped Dusty. ‘Mark here’s good for heavy lifting which don’t call for brains. Lon might not know a buffalo bull from a muley steer, but he’s better than fair at toting wood for the cook.’

‘And how about you?’ asked Freda. What do you do?’

‘As little as he can get away with,’ Mark answered.

The girl laughed and turned to her father. ‘Papa, this is Captain Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid.’

It took Lasalle a full minute to reconcile Dusty’s appearance with his Civil War record, or his peacetime prominence. Then Lasalle saw the latent power of the small man, recognized it as an old soldier could always recognize a born leader of men. His daughter was not a victim of cowhand humour. This small man was really Dusty Fog. He still did not know what he could say or do for the best.

Then his daughter took the matter out of his hands, made a decision on her own and showed him that she was a child no more.

‘I’ll show you where the hands bunked,’ she said. ‘You can move your gear in and then I’ll find you some work.’

‘I’m beginning not to like this here job already,’ the Kid told Dusty in an audible whisper; ‘This gal sounds too much like you and I’m all for a day’s work — providing it’s spread out over three days.’

With that the three cowhands started to follow Freda, leaving her father with his mouth hanging open, not knowing how things came to happen. Then he recalled a piece of news overheard in town, something which might interest the three cowhands.

‘Mallick’s started wiring off their range. He’s already fenced off the narrows all the way along their two mile length from the badlands down to where they open out on to his range again. He doesn’t allow any trail herds to cross the Double K.’

‘He’s done what?’

Lasalle took a pace backwards before the concentrated fury in Dusty Fog’s voice as the small Texan turned back towards him. Mark and the Kid had turned also and they no longer smiled or looked friendly.

‘Put wire across the trail, clear across the narrows. Says any trail herd which wants to make the market has to swing one way or the other round his range.’

The girl looked from her father to the three cowhands. She knew cowhands hated barbed wire and fences of any kind. She knew all the range arguments about wire; that cattle ripped themselves open on the spikes; that a man might ride into such a fence during the night hours and not see it until too late. She also knew the hate went deeper than that. From the Mississippi to the Pacific a man could move or let his cattle graze without being fenced in. He could ride where he wished and had no need to fear crossing another man’s land as long as he obeyed the un-written rules of the range. Through all that expanse of land there were few if any fences and the free-roaming cowhands wanted to see it stay that way.

‘How about the herds already moving north?’ Mark asked quietly. ‘This’s the trail Stone Hart uses and he’s already on his way.’

‘I think we’d all better go into the house and talk this out,’ Lasalle replied, but some of the tired sag had left his shoulders now and he seemed to be in full command of himself.

He led the way around the house side and in through the front door. The Kid collected the fallen Army Colt, although Lasalle paid no attention to it, or to the shotgun which the Kid leaned against the door on entering. He waved his guests into chairs and rooted through the side-piece drawers to find a pencil and paper. With these he joined the others at the table and started to make a sketch map of the outline of the Double K. It looked like a rough square, except that up at the north-eastern corner the narrows thrust out to where it joined the badlands. All in all Lasalle drew quite a fair map, showing his own place, the other small ranches and the general lay of the land.

‘Did some map-making with the Field Engineers during the War,’ he remarked. ‘This’s the shape of the Lindon Land Grant. We ranch here. This was the Doane place, but they’ve sold out. This’s the Jones place and the last one here is owned by Bill Gibbs. The town’s back here, out beyond the Double K’s south line. If the new owner can buy us out it will make his spread cover a full oblong instead of having the narrows up here.’

Taking the pencil Dusty marked the line taken by the northbound trail herds. He tapped the narrows with the pencil tip. Freda noticed that he handled the pencil with his left hand, yet he drew his Colt with his right. He must be truly ambidextrous, she thought.

‘And he’s run wire down this way,’ Dusty said. ‘From the badlands up that way, right down to where the river starts to curve around and down to form his south line.’

‘So I’ve heard. I haven’t been out that way.’

‘Which means any drive that comes up is going to have to swing to the west,’ Mark drawled. ‘Or go east and try to run the badlands.’

Lasalle nodded. ‘Mallick claims the trail herds won’t cross Double K.’

‘Which’d mean the drive would have to circle right around their range to the west, lose maybe a week, maybe more’s drive, or cut east and face bad water, poor graze, worse country and the chance of losing half the herd,’ said Mark quietly. ‘I can’t see any trail boss worth his salt doing that.’

‘Me neither,’ agreed the Kid. ‘What do we do about it, Dusty?’

‘Wait until the Wedge comes up and see what Stone allows to do.’

‘Huh!’ grunted the Kid, for once not in agreement with Dusty’s reply. ‘I say let’s head up there to the narrows and haul down that fence.’

‘The Double K have twenty men at least on the spread,’ Lasalle put in. ‘They have such law as exists in this neck of the woods. Elben has eight men backing him in Barlock, all being paid by the Double K.’

‘Which sounds like a powerful piece of muscle for a man just aiming to run a peaceful cow outfit,’ drawled Dusty. ‘Have you seen this new owner?’

‘Nobody has yet, apart from the hard-cases stopping folks crossing their range. They say the new owner hasn’t arrived yet, that he bought the place without even seeing it.’

‘So we don’t know if he is behind this wiring the range or not.’

‘No, Captain, we don’t. Only it’s not likely Mallick would be doing all this off his own shoulders is it? It’d take nearly four mile of barbed wire to make a double fence along the narrows and that runs to money.’

Changing hands Dusty started to doodle idly on the paper. This ambidextrous prowess was something he had taught himself as a child, mainly to take attention from his lack of inches. He thought of Englishmen he had known, a few of them and not enough to form any opinion of such men as a whole. Yet none of those he had known ever struck him as being the sort to make trouble for folks who couldn’t fight back.

‘We ought to head over and see if this English hombre’s to home, Dusty,’ growled the Kid, sounding Comanche-mean.

‘It’ll wait until we’ve a few more men,’ Dusty replied.

‘Hell, after they come here today—’

Lasalle stared at the Kid. This had been the first time Tring’s visit received a mention. Freda hurriedly told of the arrival of the Double K men, their threat to the property and their departure. The rancher’s face lost some of its colour, then set in grim lines as he thought of what might have happened had Dusty, Mark and the Kid not been on hand. His attempts to thank the three young Texans met with no success for they laughed it off and, the way they told it, Freda did the running off wielding a broom to good effect on the hard-case crew.