"Can I go outside?" he asked.
"What for?" Annie snapped.
"Guess."
A slight flush came to Annie's cheeks. She rose, blinking sleepily at the clock, and nodded.
"Go ahead."
"No peeking mind."
When he returned, Mark found a sleepy-looking Britches
emerging from the bedroom, her hair tangled, her shirt half in, half out of her waistband, ankles and feet bare, and carrying her gunbelt in her hand. Flopping in the chair, she dumped her gunbelt on the table.
"You watch him good now, Britches!" Annie ordered.
"I'll do just that," the little girl replied, throwing a suspicious look at the blanket draped over the chair back.
However, once Annie entered the bedroom and settled down Britches rested her head on her plump arms and soon began to bubble gently as she drifted off to sleep. Mark, watching her from his blankets, knew she would make no better a guard than Annie had. Rising, he crossed the room, wrapped the girl up, built up the stove fire without waking either girl, then went back to his bedroll and fell asleep.
The first light of day broke through the window and Mark heard Little Britches stirring. The girl padded across the room to stoke up the stove and range, setting the coffee-pot on it. He waited until she had made the coffee before he let her see he was awake.
"Hi!" Britches greeted. "Come on over and drink some coffee."
While drinking the coffee they talked of various things and Mark let slip the information that he knew somebody in whom Britches had a great interest.
"You mean you know Belle Starr?" she gasped.
"Why sure," Mark agreed. "I met her up to Elkhorn three years back."
"You know her real well?"
Mark grinned, thinking of his meeting with the famous, or notorious lady outlaw. Anyway a man came to look at it, Mark reckoned he could say he knew Belle Starr real well.
"As well as they come, gal," he admitted.
Next moment Britches sat in his lap, her arms around his neck and her mouth thrust to his, kissing him with all the passionate power she could manage. On releasing Mark, Britches stood up, put her hands on her hips, tossed back her head and looked him over In a challenging and provocative manner.
"How does she come up to me?" she asked.
"Nary a comparison, Britches gal."
Fortunately Little Britches took the statement at its face value and did not ask him to explain it further. Britches was a pretty little girl, gay, happy and cute. Yet to compare her with Belle Starr—well it would be like comparing a pretty, friendly, cuddly little house-cat kitten with the latent, wild and savage beauty of a she-cougar.
"Course, a man can't really tell, not unless he's free to get his arms around the gal," Mark went on. "Just cut me loose and we'll try it again."
For an instant much the same expressions played on Little Britches's face as had shown on Annie's when Mark made the suggestion to her. Then Britches winked and bent over, reaching for the rope hobble on Mark's feet. Neither she nor Mark had seen a sleepy looking Annie emerge from the bedroom and her bare feet made no sound as she crossed the room. Like Britches, Annie had removed her boots and gunbelt before she went to sleep and was not wearing either.
Britches received notice that Annie had woke up when the other girl delivered a round house slap which cracked like a gun shot and landed fairly on the tight stretched seat of Britches's amply filled pants.
"Yeeeow!" Britches yelled, jerking erect and whirling to face Annie. "I was just making sure the rope hadn't slipped."
For all that hot anger flooded her face and tears brimmed in her eyes as she rubbed the spot on which the slap landed.
"Yeah!" Annie replied. "I could see you was."
"Now easy there, Annie," Mark put in. "Choke off, she kisses just as good as you do."
Instantly the girls were facing each other. Annie opened her mouth to frame an angry, if untrue, denial. She saw the look which came into Britches's eyes and knew she should not have slapped her plump little friend.
Suddenly, without any warning, Britches let Annie have it. Not a slap, but a round-arm punch with her clenched right fist. She swung the blow in the manner Bill Doolin taught her, smashing her fist into Annie's cheek, snapping her head around. At the end of the swing Britches brought the hand whipping back, the knuckles landing on Annie's other cheek and swinging her head over once more.
Mark grunted, wincing in sympathy, for it looked as if
Britches knew how to throw a real good punch. With a yell of triumph Britches lunged in, but she was over confident. Annie, who had staggered back a pace or two, recovered her balance and stabbed a hard right into Britches's plump middle and rocked her back a few steps gasping and holding where the blow landed.
The two girls had always been tomboys and since joining the Doolin gang had received lessons in defending themselves. They appeared to have learned their lessons well. Britches backed off hurriedly, avoiding Annie's rush and keeping her fists raised. Annie shot by Britches, hit the table, which stopped her charge.
Giving a squeal of fury, Annie turned and attacked once more. At the last moment Britches side-stepped and hooked her in the stomach, then clipped her over the ear as she staggered by. Annie hit the wall, twisting around to ram head first into Britches's middle and force her backwards. Digging her left hand into Annie's hair, Britches dragged the other girl's head up and started to drive her free fist into Annie's face. Three times she hit, drawing blood from Annie's nose. Then Annie caught Britches by the left wrist, twisted and threw the plump girl over her shoulder. Flinging herself on to Britches, she landed facing the other girl's feet but they rolled and squirmed until they managed to get around and at each other.
Clinging to each other's hair, they rose and reeled across the room. At last Annie forced Britches backwards to hit the table. For a moment Annie held the advantage, yanking at Britches's hair with her left hand, slapping and punching with the right. Desperately Britches wriggled backwards on to the table and Annie followed her. Annie landed between Britches's legs and the little girl wrapped them around the other's slim waist. Crossing her ankles, Britches began to squeeze. From the way Annie howled, Britches's legs packed a fair amount of crushing power.
Squawking in agony, Annie grabbed Britches's hair in both hands, trying to smash her head on the table top. One of Britches's wildly flailing hands touched the handle of the coffee-pot, missed its hold as her head thudded on to the
wood, slapped wildly at Annie's cheek, then came down and caught hold of the handle.
That was when Mark decided to take a hand. The coffee in the pot would be hot enough to give Annie a nasty scald and he knew Britches did not mean to do so, yet in her anger she might.
Lifting his feet, Mark placed them under the edge of the table and tilted it over. The weight of the girls turned the table on its edge and they slid to the floor. Desperately trying to avoid Annie's hands, Britches let the coffee-pot fall and it spilled harmlessly on to the floor. Getting her feet under Annie's body, Britches flung the other girl back across the room.
On closing with each other, the girls decided to start using fists again. Annie decided her best hope lay in keeping Britches at range and Mark admired the way the slim girl stabbed out punches which stopped her opponent's rushes and kept her back. For a few seconds she managed to keep it up, then Britches got inside her guard, ripping savage little fists into Annie's ribs. Squealing in pain, Annie trapped Britches's right hand under her arm. Then Annie began to lash her other hand in flat palm slaps and back-hand blows across Britches's face.
Britches took it for a moment, then thrust Annie backwards so she crashed into the wall by the door. The impact not only jarred Britches free, but it knocked the catch off the door. Swinging a round-house punch, Britches knocked Annie staggering through the now open door. Lowering her head, Britches charged out after Annie. The thud of a blow sounded and Britches came in again, landing on her plump little rump.
/> Coming up with a yell, Britches lowered her head to charge into Annie with head down as the other girl appeared in the doorway. They shot through it and out of Mark's sight, but from what he could hear the fight did not slacken its pace any.
Mark had come to his feet after turning the table over. With the girls busy outside, he set the table on its legs again and prepared to escape. Up until the fight started Mark had
planned to escape some time in the morning, then take the two girls across his knee and teach them not to waylay and kidnap strangers. From what he had already seen, and from the sounds coming in through the door, Annie and Britches were raising lumps on each other and handing out more punishment than he would have.
Raising his hands, Mark brought them down in the direction of the table. The handcuffs struck the wood and, as he knew they would, burst open. As a trained lawman Mark knew better than leave a handcuffed prisoner unwatched, the girls did not know of the danger.
On the impact, the handcuffs burst open and Mark tossed them aside. His powerful fingers made short work of the hobbles and he rose a free man. Crossing the room, Mark took his gunbelt from the racks and donned it while watching the two girls. They appeared to have forgotten their fist fighting and were rolling over and over in a hair-yanking feminine brawl.
After checking his guns were still loaded, Mark took up his hat, set it at the correct "jack-deuce" angle over his off eye and prepared to deal with the two girls. They seemed to be tempting providence for they had rolled to the edge of the spring and still fought on. Neither had any idea their prisoner had freed himself. Not until they felt a hand clamp on each of their waist-belts and lift them into the air.
Although Mark held the squealing, kicking girls in midair, they still clung to each other's hair. He swung them forward and sent them flying out over the spring and they disappeared with a splash and muffled, mutual squeals of surprise. They came up spitting water and spluttering. The ducking in the icy cold water appeared to have ended their aggressive desires and they stood hip deep in the spring, side by side looking dazedly around them. It took them almost thirty seconds to realise their prisoner was a prisoner no more and that they were now at his mercy.
"Come on out!" Mark ordered grimly.
Two dishevelled girls waded towards him. Both had lost their shirts in the fight; Annie's underskirt had been ripped open but she held it together with both hands; Britches wore a man's undershirt that had been torn across one shoulder
and which she held up protectively. Both had a blackened eye, bloody noses and numerous bruises. Altogether they looked like a very sore and sorry brace of desperate lady outlaws.
Suddenly the life of an outlaw lost its appeal for the two girls. They found themselves faced with the consequences of their actions. The man they had so merrily kidnapped now stood before them and in a position to send them both to jail for a long time.
Just as they came ashore and started to walk by Mark, a shot ripped through the air. A second bullet kicked up dirt between Annie's feet and the third came so close to Britches it made her yelp in fright and released the vest which collapsed to expose her chubby, naked torso.
At another time Mark might have enjoyed the view.
"Head for the house!" he ordered.
Neither girl needed twice telling. They had been born and raised in Indian country and did not need warning twice when bullets flew. So they took off at a gallop for the safety of the house.
The shots had come from the corner of the valley. Mark knew this and he sprang away from the girls, making a fast, swerving dash towards the slope, hoping to draw the fire from the girls. He had no idea who the attackers might be, but he sure as hell did not intend to stop and find out. Three more shots spattered around him, from two of the rifles unless he missed his guess, for he had heard another shot which must have gone in the direction of the girls.
A rolling dive carried Mark to the first of the cover. He heard the scream of a ricochet as he lit down behind the rock. Turning, he looked to see how the girls fared. Neither lay on the ground, which was a relief, and the door to the cabin slammed to even as he looked.
Then Mark turned his attention to his attackers. Two of them had found a snug spot, one between two large rocks, the other on the slope side of them. It took Mark ju^t five seconds to recognise the two flabby hard-cases he and Cousin Beau tangled with in Guthrie. It would appear they sought revenge.
At that moment Mark remembered the third rifle.
Apparently the two men had brought along a friend to even the odds a mite—or had they come after him at all? Mark remembered the bartender's pungent comments on how Rushton and Kinnear made their money. More likely they came after the Doolin gang. Of course the girls would be worthless to the bounty hunters, for they did not have rewards on their heads. However they would know the location of Doolin's hide-out, so could lead the bounty hunters to it.
Somehow it did not fit with what he had seen of the two men in town that they would risk tangling with the Doolin gang. Maybe they only hoped to pick off a stray. Perhaps they took him for an outlaw—or they may have recognised him and decided to combine business with pleasure and get their revenge.
Carefully Mark scanned the slope. One thing he did know. He must get in a whole lot closer happen he hoped to do any shooting. Maybe if he used both hands, rested his wrists on the rock top and took careful aim he might be able to do something useful at that range. Only while he stayedup there ranging in on the men, they could aim their rifles on him and finish him off; for a rifle was easier to aim over a distance.
With that in mind Mark left his cover and started to move up the steep slope. He wanted to get above the men, always the best place to be in any fight. While not being the Ysabel Kid, who could glide through the thickest cover as silently as a shadow, Mark had taken more than one wary mule deer by stalking it. So he moved from cover to cover, angling up and along the slope.
The man who stalked Mark had Indian blood and knew the secrets of silent movement. Luckily for Mark, the half-breed had never been a very good shot and wanted to get so close he could not miss. Mallalieu's instincts warned him that if his first shot missed, or failed to kill, he would most likely die an instant later. Consequently Mallalieu came to within twenty feet of Mark before he crouched among the bushes and raised his rifle.
In the cabin Britches and Annie, their differences forgotten, knelt by a window, each holding her carbine.
From their position they could see the two men by the rocks, Mark moving up and along the slope—and a patch of black where such a colour had not been a few seconds before.
"Hold them two down, Britches!" Annie snapped.
Without questioning her friend, Britches started to throw lead at the rocks and her spirited bombardment caused Rushton and Kinnear, never the bravest of men, to duck hurriedly. Annie rested her carbine on the window ledge, took careful aim and fired.
Mark became aware of a smell as he inched along on silent feet. He did not carry his guns in his hands, keeping the hands free for parting branches and giving him support. The smell wafted down-wind to him and it took him an instant to recognise it. Then he remembered. The stench of grease blackened buckskins and stale, unwashed human flesh which often clung to Osage Indian villages. Yet such a smell should not come to him here unless—
Behind the bushes Mallalieu lined his rifle at the big Texan. His finger curled on the trigger, then Annie's bullet slapped the air over his head. He jerked back and his rifle cracked as its muzzle tilted upwards.
Flinging himself to one side, Mark lit down with a gun in either hand. He fired, left, right, left, right, sending the four bullets hammering into the bushes and spacing them along. He heard a gasp and the soggy thud as his fourth bullet struck flesh, so sent a fifth into the same spot. Mallalieu reared upwards into view, his mouth hanging open, a neat hole between his eyes and no back to his head.
Fifteen seconds ticked by slowly. Mark lay under the cover of a rock, his Colts in his ha
nds. He watched the moccasion clad foot which stuck from behind a bush, but it did not move.
"Looks like he got Sunset," Kinnear remarked, crouching between the rocks and throwing a couple of shots at the cabin.
"Sure," Rushton replied, ducking down as a bullet sent rock chips flying into the air. "But I reckon Sunset downed him at the same time. What now?"
"There's only them two gals and the Texan here. We'll get the gals and make 'em tell us where Doolin and the bunch are.
If they haven't pulled the raid, we can telegraph the town they're headed for, warn the marshal and get a cut of the reward."
A loose-lipped, slobbering grin came to Rushton's lips. "We'll do more'n..."
Yet the problem of how to get at the girls needed some solving, for both had weapons and showed they knew how to use them. Rushton and Kinnear did not aim to take chances, that had been Mallalieu's side of the partnership, they reserved the safe plays for themselves. Neither man had come up with any startlingly brilliant solution when Mark appeared and took cover behind a huge rock some forty yards above them.
Now Mark also had a problem. A similar problem to the two bounty hunters if he had only known. His problem, like theirs, was how to get close enough to take his opponents without also taking a bullet in the belly.
His eyes checked the area ahead of him. It appeared to have been swept by an avalanche at some time, for it lay more open than most of the slope. Then Mark looked at the rock he stood behind. This rested on a level piece of the slope, but did not appear to be part of it or an outcrop rising above the soil.
Turning, Mark holstered his Colts. He pressed his back against the rock, braced his arms and hands against it, bent his legs and began to push. Never had his enormous strength been placed to such a test. Never had so much depended on his muscular powers. Sweat poured down his face, he forced back on the rock, his boot heels gouging into the earth. Joe Gaylin, the El Paso leather-worker who made the boots, always boasted that no power on earth could rip off the heels. Now Mark was giving the boots a thorough test—and they proved Gaylin's boast.
Troubled range Page 16
