by J. T. Edson
Caught with only one foot on the floor, the impetus of her attacker’s arrival threw Amelia off balance. Digging her own hands into the brunette tresses as well as the head band would allow, by instinct rather than conscious intention, she contrived to drag the Comtesse down with her in such a manner that they alighted side by side. In spite of having learned more effective methods, as had been evident in the opening exchanges, they continued to fight in a purely feminine fashion once they landed.
Over and over the embattled pair rolled, struggling, with the same thought in each head. Realizing the advantage it offered, neither was willing to let the other gain the upper position if she could help it. Being so evenly matched in height, weight and determination, it was impossible for either to remain on top more than briefly when she got there. Their writhing bodies ground together as they went back and forward across the stable floor. Hands tore at hair, slapped, punched, clutched, plucked and pulled at clothing indiscriminately. Entwined legs flailed, kicked, kneed and thrust in an equally random fashion. All the time, the air reverberated with the sound of slaps, the crisper thuds of punches, tearing cloth, squeals, gasps, squeaks and profane exclamations as garments were torn or blows landed on faces, shoulders, backs and breasts.
Gasping for breath and almost at a stalemate, crashing into a wall caused the women to roll apart and come to their knees. Each had a knee burst through her tights. Amelia had lost her blouse and bodice and the Comtesse’s leotard had been dragged from her shoulders, leaving them both naked to the waist. Paying not the slightest attention to their condition of semi-nudity and oblivious of the blood running from their nostrils, they began to swing at each other with flat hands or clenched fists. Then, almost as if they had reached a mutual decision, they brought the exchange to an end. Lunging together, they threw their arms around one another. Locked in a bosom to bosom clinch, they struggled to their feet.
After staggering in a circle with hands scrabbling and legs delivering kicks which missed as often as they landed, a push from Amelia sent Charlene reeling across the stable. Brought to a halt by hitting the gate of a stall, the Comtesse noticed a pitchfork sticking from a nearby bale of hay. A glance told her that the blonde was following to continue the attack and, croaking almost breathless obscenities in French, she flung herself sideways to pluck it free.
Throwing herself at a greater speed across the intervening distance, Amelia also grabbed the pitchfork before it could be turned upon her. Then she and Charlene each tried to wrest it from the other’s grasp. Surging a few steps in first one, then another direction, perspiration flowed more freely as they exerted all their strength to their efforts. At first, it seemed that they were once more at a stalemate. Then the Comtesse sensed that she was weakening. Feeling the other’s legs buckle a little, the Lady called upon a rapidly flagging reserve of energy and expended it in a twisting heave.
Letting out a moaning wail of distress, Charlene lost her hold on the pitchfork and was sent sprawling to fall face down near the stable door. She rolled exhaustedly on to her back, but was capable of no more. Supine and spent after the exertions of the fight, tears of defeat blurred her vision. Vaguely she saw the Englishwoman approaching. In spite of staggering and looking almost ready to collapse, the dishevelled and badly fatigued blonde came to a halt with her feet straddling her victim. She swung the pitchfork up, its gleaming tines pointing at Charlene’s heaving, exposed bosom and the Frenchwoman knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it from being driven home.
Having heard that Amelia had been seen going to the stable where Charlene was in the habit of taking her morning exercises, Dusty Fog had decided to disregard Mrs. Blaby’s instructions that it should be considered off limits while the Comtesse was using it. He believed that he was justified in going against his hostess’s wishes under the circumstances. The deaths of Charlene’s maid and Beguinage’s female accomplice, along with the arrest of the wounded “Gotz” and the local anarchist, had not ended the threat to Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia’s life. Nor did Alex von Farlenheim being sent away in disgrace rule out the possibility of danger from the aristocratic faction.
In spite of having been impressed by the sincerity with which the Lady had stated she wanted to prevent harm befalling the royal visitor, the small Texan had not ruled out the possibility that it was merely well simulated. Whether real or false, he was curious about her private meeting with the Comtesse. There had been a very marked lack of cordiality between them the previous evening, but that too could have been no more than acting their parts in a conspiracy.
Before Dusty arrived at the stable, he saw and heard enough to consider it was unlikely that Amelia and Charlene had met for a friendly, or mutually advantageous discussion. Not only were there sounds suggestive of women engaged in physical conflict, but the behavior of the Lady’s maid gave strength to the assumption. Looking in the window, she was acting in a manner reminiscent of a spectator at a prize fight. Although she did not shout encouragement, she ducked, bobbed her head and made punching motions with her fists. At the same time, her face expressed delight or sympathy depending upon how her employer was faring.
“What’s going on?” Dusty demanded.
“Oh, it’s you, Captain Fog!” Florence said, after giving a start of alarm and swinging around. She stood with her back to the window, trying to prevent him from seeing what was happening inside. “Lady Winifred and the Comtesse are just taking their morning exercises.”
Neither the excuse nor the attempt to block the small Texan’s view was successful. What he saw over the maid’s shoulder informed him that nothing so innocuous was taking place. Also that there was an urgent need for outside intervention. Swinging around, he ran toward the door and hoped he would be in time to save the Comtesse from being killed.
On the point of driving the pitchfork into her recumbent and all but helpless foe, sense returned to Amelia. She realized that to have fought could be excused, as Charlene had been the aggressor, the same would not apply if she terminated it in such a manner. Flinging the device aside, she sank to kneel astride the Comtesse’s torso. Even as she delivered a punch to the jaw which knocked Charlene out, the door burst open.
“H-Hello, Captain Fog,” Amelia gasped, staring at the small Texan as he sprang into the stable. “Th-The Comtesse told me I couldn’t stand the rigors of the hunt. But I think she may have changed her mind.”
Chapter 14
YOU’RE STILL ALIVE
“DON’T YOU THINK THAT IT IS TIME FOR US TO GO back to the camp?” Captain Fritz von Farlenheim inquired, glancing upward through the foliage of the woodland at the darkening sky. “It is getting late and Uncle Ludwig has arranged for that conjurer to entertain us this evening.”
“Let me see if I can collect another rabbit or two, or at least another bird, in that clearing,” requested Charlene, Comtesse de Petain, gesturing to an opening among the trees ahead of them with the shotgun she was carrying. “I do so want to take back a better bag than Lady Winifred collected yesterday, Fritz, and just a couple more will beat her.”
Ten days had elapsed since the disastrous confrontation Charlene had brought about between herself and the beautiful blonde Englishwoman she still believed to be Lady Winifred Amelia Besgrove-Woodstole. In spite of her belated regrets over having provoked the incident, she considered that everything was still progressing in a satisfactory manner and the culmination of her plan to assassinate Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia was approaching its climax.
Traveling almost due west from Corpus Christie, the royal visitor’s hunting expedition had set up its first base camp in Duval County about five miles north of the town of San Diego. To avoid being requested to attend official receptions, or receiving visits from the citizens, they had not informed the local authorities of their presence. However, while their privacy in that respect had been attained, Ludwig von Farlenheim had obtained the services of a well known medicine showman to give a performance on the second evening after their a
rrival. Charlene knew why this had been arranged, but was unaware of much else that had happened recently.
Dusty Fog had cooperated with Sheriff Elvis Tragg in dealing with “Gotz” and the local anarchist. Interrogating them, the peace officer and the small Texan had been satisfied that their faction could now be discounted as a threat to the Crown Prince’s well-being. Finding themselves in the hands of the law, they had been so eager to save their skins that each had supplied sufficient information to convince their captors there was nothing more to fear from their associates. Unfortunately, neither could produce any evidence to incriminate Charlene. Although the dead maid had learned that a party of aristocrats also hoped to assassinate the royal visitor, and knew of “Rapido Clint’s” true identity, she either had not known, or did not take the men into her confidence, about any plans that had been made to kill Rudolph.
Having failed to acquire any evidence against the Comtesse, Dusty had decided to let her accompany the expedition so that a watch could be kept upon her. It had been as a result of Amelia Benkinsop’s quick wits that this had been brought about. Questioned about the fight by an indignant Mrs. Blaby—who had considered such unladylike behavior should preclude either participant from accompanying the royal visitor—in the presence of the small Texan, Governor Stanton Howard and Liebenfrau, she had claimed that catch-as-catch-can wrestling had become all the rage as a sport—albeit in private—among female members of the European aristocracy. Finding that she and the Comtesse had a mutual interest, they had met for a friendly bout. Because of adequate supervision and the lack of proper facilities, it had degenerated into a situation for which they were both ashamed and deeply contrite. Inadvertently putting too much gusto into their efforts, they had hurt one another and lost their tempers. However, they were now sorry for what had happened and neither bore any ill will. In proof of this, as Charlene had lost her maid, the Lady had already offered to share Florence Drakefield’s services with her on the hunting trip. Seeing that the only hope of being able to carry out her plan lay in agreeing, much as having to do so and conceding that she had been well and truly beaten by the Englishwoman rankled, the Comtesse had supported Amelia’s story. She had drawn comfort from the thought that her honor would be avenged when the scheme was brought to fruition.
Hampered by his lack of trained assistants, Tragg had done all he could to learn about the woman who had met her end while killing Charlene’s maid. Medical evidence had determined that she had used the same means as had murdered the town marshal and Liebenfrau’s orderly. She had also been identified as the saloongirl who had befriended the three men involved in the first attempt to gun down “Rapido Clint,” but neither the sheriff nor Buck Raffles were able to connect her with the second pair. What was more, her attire on the night she had died had been more suitable to a moderately affluent “good” woman than an employee of a cheap saloon, and none of the garments had been purchased in the United States. In spite of it being unlikely that she had acquired a private residence since arriving in Corpus Christie, no hotel or rooming house had reported she was missing. Nor had a request for information, accompanied by an illustration of her features, in the local newspaper produced results before the expedition had taken its departure. Tragg had had no greater success in discovering where Beguinage or “Gustav Breakast” had been staying in the town, but had promised to notify Dusty if he should do so.
There had only been one major incident before the party set off. A lengthy telegraph message had informed Ludwig von Farlenheim that his younger nephew had met with a fatal accident during the voyage to Brownsville. According to the captain of the ship, who had sent the news, Alex had started to drink heavily as soon as they left port. Walking alone on the open deck after dark on the second night, he had been seen to lose his balance as the vessel rolled and he had tumbled over the rail. Although the ship had been put about and a search made, he was not found. Nor, in the captain’s opinion, could he have survived to reach the shore alive with such a high sea running, even if he had been sober. Von Farlenheim had admitted to feeling at least partially to blame for his nephew’s death, but he had not allowed grief to interfere with his efforts to make the royal visitor’s hunting trip a success.
While the expedition was neither as large nor luxurious as some which had been organized for other visiting members of the European nobility,1 it was well equipped and comfortable. Until Amelia and Charlene had recovered from the effects of the fight, they had ridden with Florence in a Britschka2 carriage imported from England by Ludwig von Farlenheim. Designed for long distance travel over poor or non-existent roads, they had sufficient room to sleep in it at night and there was adequate storage for their baggage. Two large wagons transported the men’s belongings, four good-sized wall tents, equipment and supplies, including a selection of drinks and enough food to supplement the meat acquired once hunting had been commenced. The vehicles had been driven by the Bosgravnian orderlies, one of whom was also an excellent cook.
Noticing how the Comtesse had sought to ingratiate herself with the Crown Prince and his retinue since leaving Corpus Christie, Dusty had wondered if she was cutting her losses by giving up her support of the aristocratic faction and hoping to gain Rudolph’s favor. Having no wish to confirm that he was still suspicious of her, the small Texan had decided against trying to get her to betray her former associates. So far, only the Crown Prince, Liebenfrau and his three amigos were aware of her connection with them and he wanted it kept that way. Subjected to an equally careful surveillance, Amelia had done nothing to suggest that she had been lying when explaining why she had come to the United States.
Compelled to travel in the same vehicle until they were in a condition to ride on horseback had been something of a strain for the Lady and Charlene, but they had managed to maintain nothing worse than an icily polite attitude toward one another. The only noticeable evidence of their continued antipathy had manifested itself in their obvious rivalry. No matter what one did, the other would invariably try to better. Each had requested a mount as an alternative to being carried in the Britschka before she had really felt up to sitting a saddle because the other had done so. In addition to displaying their respective equestrian skill, another area of contention had arisen from mutual ability to handle a shotgun. Finding that they both possessed considerable proficiency, they had offered to keep the party supplied with small game for the pot, thus allowing the men to concentrate upon collecting more worthwhile trophies.
The difficulty of hunting while on the move all day had tended to restrict competition between the women during the journey, but once they had arrived at the first base camp the rivalry blossomed. Having been less successful than Amelia the previous day, none of the party had been surprised when Charlene had expressed her determination to go out again and improve on her performance. It had been decided that, being new to Texas, neither of the women would hunt alone. So Charlene had asked Fritz von Farlenheim to accompany her. She had also suggested that, although it had proved comparatively unproductive when she had been there with his uncle as her escort the day before, they should visit the woodland about two miles west of the camp. They had arrived there in the early afternoon, finding some game; but not quite enough to satisfy her.
Wishing to avoid attracting any more attention than was necessary, the members of the Crown Prince’s retinue did not wear their uniforms. Instead, they were clad in clothing purchased at Corpus Christie. While there, Rudolph and Fritz had also acquired Western-style gunbelts with open-topped holsters. However, there had been more than just an outward change where the First Taster was concerned. Impressed by the four young Texans’ competence, he had lost his attitude of superiority toward them. In fact, he had followed his leader’s example and treated them as social equals. He had unbent to such an extent that he had not become annoyed when his choice of a British Adams .450 revolver was subjected to criticism by Waco during a debate about the relative merits of various types of firearms around the campfire one nig
ht.
Fritz was dressed in the style of a working cowhand and had the Adams hanging in its holster on his right hip. As a precaution in case they should come across some animal that was too large to be dealt with by Charlene’s shotgun, he was carrying a Winchester Model of 1873 carbine.
For her part, the Comtesse had on a two piece travelling costume. Its jacket was open and, attached to the left side of her leather waistbelt was a cross-draw holster in which rode the short-barrelled Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver her maid had appropriated on the night the anarchist faction was wiped out. She had purchased the rig shortly after her arrival at Brownsville, claiming that she had heard so many frightful stories about Texas that she felt it was advisable for her to go armed when travelling. Amelia had taken a similar precaution and a competition between them had established that they were both competent shots with a handgun.
Scanning the terrain ahead as he and Charlene emerged from the trees and advanced across the small clearing, Fritz failed to notice that she was not carrying the shotgun in a manner conducive to being brought into action quickly if some kind of quarry was present. Instead, she had the barrels resting on her left shoulder and was gripping the wrist of the butt with her right hand. Furthermore, not only did she allow him to take the lead, she moved until she was walking directly behind him and would be unable to shoot without endangering his life. Not that there appeared to be any need for a posture of greater readiness on her part. The clearing was devoid of animals and birds.
“Bad luck, Charlene,” Fritz commiserated. “There’s nothing here.”
“I thought I saw a rabbit or something moving under the bushes between those two big trees over there,” the Comtesse replied, without taking the shotgun from her shoulder. “Let’s take a look and, if we don’t find anything, we’ll go back to camp.”
