by J. T. Edson
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.”
Chapter 13
HUNTING CAN BE DANGEROUS
“HOW DID IT GO, MISS AMELIA?” FLORENCE 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 m
ore 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.
The Comtesse’s revised point of view received further confirmation as Amelia’s skirt began to slide down. Instead of the decorous underwear that she had expected to be revealed, the blonde was wearing black tights similar to her own. Such a revelation came as a surprise and aroused disturbing speculations. It implied that her reason for arranging the meeting had been suspected. Therefore the Englishwoman had not walked into her trap, but had arrived anticipating some such eventuality. What was more, Charlene’s instincts as she rubbed gingerly at the spot where the blow had landed warned that she could be up against a formidable antagonist.
The kind of fury that she had only just managed to control at the Portside Hotel when Alex von Farlenheim had taunted her over the error she had made by hiring “Rapido Clint” boiled through the Comtesse. It drove all thought of the possible consequences from her. Letting out a shriek of profanity in her native tongue, she darted forward to try and come to grips before Amelia obtained the extra freedom of movement that the removal of the skirt would permit.
Appreciating what was intended, the Lady found herself unable to avert it. She had hoped to step out of the skirt, but it had only descended as far as her ankles when the Comtesse reached her. Raising her left leg out of the garment was the best she could accomplish. So she twisted her torso and snapped a punch with her right fist in an attempt to fend off hands which were thrusting in her direction. Her knuckles dug into the thinly covered mound of Charlene’s left breast, but achieved no more than producing a squeak of pain. Then the brunette’s right fingers sank into her hair, pulling at it hard, while the other arm encircled her waist.
