A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Whooee!’ breathed Mark, watching Beatrice disappear into her room. ‘There goes a butt-end just begging for some feller to pinch it.’

  ‘Or for some gal to kick it,’ Libby said dryly. ‘Was I the clerk down there, I’d sure watch her ’n’ her husband when it comes time for them to pull out.’

  ‘How come?’ the big blond inquired.

  Wishing to get a better view of the Vicomtesse’s departing derriere, the bellhop had drawn ahead of Libby and Mark. So they carried on their conversation without being overheard.

  ‘Happen her husband’s too poorly off to buy her anything to go under that blouse,’ Libby elaborated, ‘he won’t be able to pay his room-rent.’

  ‘You mean she wasn’t wearing anything under it?’

  ‘Way you was a-sweating and staring down there, I figured you knew that.’

  ‘Can’t say’s how I noticed,’ Mark lied.

  ‘Maybe the steam the clerk was raising fogged up your eyes same way it got on his spectacles,’ Libby grinned. ‘Was I you-all, I’d sure look under my bed afore you get into it tonight.’

  ‘I allus do,’ Mark assured her. ‘My Mammy taught me to have regular habits.’

  ‘This time you could find more than the chamber-pot there,’ warned Libby.

  By that time they had reached the door of Room Seventeen and the bellhop opened it.

  ‘Put my bag on the bed, son,’ Libby instructed, then looked at Mark. ‘You feel like going riding?’

  ‘Where’d you want to go?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Dusty said for me to stay close to you while you’re toting the horse-sale money,’ Mark reminded the smiling blonde. ‘And life goes a heap easier happen he’s kept happy.’

  ‘I just thought you might want to take up that invitation you got down in the hall.’

  ‘Did I get one?’ Mark asked in mock surprise. ‘Damned if I noticed it.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re Big Rance Counter’s son?’ Libby demanded. ‘Anyway, after we’ve settled in, we’ll go grab a meal. Then we’ll collect the money and pay off the mesteneros—less you’ve other notions.’

  ‘Nary a notion, ma’am,’ grinned Mark and walked along to the door of his room.

  Entering her quarters, Libby thought of the incident in the hall and smiled. That foreign gal had sure made her intentions towards Mark obvious. Given half a chance, she would have likely picked him up and toted him to her bed. Not that Libby entirely blamed her. Young Mark Counter was one helluva hunk of man.

  ‘Now hush yourself from thinking things like that, Libby Schell,’ thought the blonde as the bellhop left the room. ‘And you not a year widowed, for shame.’

  After settling into their rooms, Libby and Mark went downstairs. Entering the dining room, which faced the bar on the other side of the hall, they found the Vicomtesse and a man they assumed to be her husband already present.

  Tall, slender, dressed to the height of Eastern fashion, the Vicomte de Brioude had hair so thickly plastered with bay rum that it looked as glossy-black as his wife’s. Although sallow and thin, his face was passably handsome. There was, however, an obsequious air about him that seemed more suited to a servant than a member of the Ancien Regime. For all that, everything about the couple’s appearance hinted at considerable wealth and social standing.

  Beatrice gave no sign of being aware of Mark’s presence, other than darting an occasional glance his way. Libby had selected a table on the far side of the room and the meal went by without incident.

  ‘That feller looked a mite peaked,’ Mark commented sotto voce after the de Brioudes had finished their meal and left. ‘Word around the hotel has it he’s been playing poker most of yesterday and today. Could be that’s what makes him look all tuckered out.’

  ‘Could be,’ Libby admitted. ‘How’d you find out?’

  ‘Bellhop told me.’

  ‘The gal who turns down the beds allows they’re real important folks back home in France,’ Libby remarked. ‘Come over here to hunt buffalo, antelope and the like. They’ll be pulling out in a few days. Got them a hunter, skinner ’n’ outfit. They’ve even fixed it to have an Army escort along.’

  ‘Likely been hearing how wild ’n’ woolly Texas is,’ Mark grinned.

  ‘Funny thing about that Countess,’ Libby said. ‘The gal allows she don’t have a maid along.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So she packs and tends her things as neat as any maid.’

  ‘Maybe she’s done a fair piece of travelling and had to learn.’

  ‘Or she was a maid and married the boss’s son.’

  ‘You gals sure sharpen your claws on each other,’ Mark drawled.

  ‘Yah!’ Libby sniffed. ‘It wasn’t me who learned about her husband being out all night playing poker.’

  ‘I didn’t ask the boy,’ Mark objected. ‘He told me. What do we do now we’ve ate, Libby?’

  ‘Go tend to business,’ Libby replied.

  Leaving the hotel, Libby and Mark went to collect the payment for the two hundred and fifty horses. Then they made their way to the Mexican section of Fort Sawyer where the mesteneros were waiting to receive their money.

  With that matter attended to, they continued with a round of business and social calls which kept them occupied until sundown. From then until almost midnight, they joined in the mesteneros’ celebrations.

  Wherever the blonde and the big Texan went, curious eyes followed them. Already the whole town was buzzing with talk of how Libby Schell had sold a large bunch of horses—varying, depending on the source of the rumor, from the actual number to over two thousand—to the Yankee Army’s buyer. People studied Libby with interest and some envy. On average, Colonel Monaltrie had paid twenty dollars a head for the remounts. That totaled up to a whole heap of money. Legal tender, too. Not like the Confederate States’ currency with which most folks found themselves stuck at the cessation of hostilities. Few of Fort Sawyer’s citizens could show an equal amount to that obtained by Libby and carried in a money belt about Mark’s waist.

  On the whole, however, the consensus of public opinion was that anybody with notions of relieving Libby of her money would wind up by regretting the idea. That big blond cowhand looked strong enough to break a man in two with his bare hands and his Colts hung just right for a real fast draw.

  Shortly after midnight, following a hectic session of celebrating at the Posada del Mesteneros, Mark undressed to his long-handled underpants. With the money belt under his pillow and his gun belt hung over the back of a chair so that he could reach the right hand Colt swiftly should the need arise, he climbed into bed. About five minutes went by and Mark was almost asleep when a faint clink drew his attention to the door. He had not bothered to draw the drapes and the light of the moon illuminated the door. The key he had turned and left in the lock now lay on the floor. Even as Mark sat up and slid the right hand Colt from its holster, he heard the lock click and saw the door start to open.

  ‘If you-all after Libby’s money,’ Mark mused, thumb resting on the long-barreled revolver’s hammer-spur, ‘you’ve come to the right room—but a whole heap too early to catch me asleep.’

  Chapter Three

  Holding the Colt ready for use, Mark watched the door open and a figure enter. On the point of cocking and firing the revolver, he refrained from doing so and let out a hiss of surprise.

  Clad in a diaphanous robe, left open to display an equally flimsy nightgown, the Vicomtesse de Brioude closed the door. Easing the robe from her shoulders in a tantalizing manner, she approached the bed with an air of concupiscence. Her whole attitude hinted that she expected Mark to greet her with open arms.

  ‘What the hell?’ Mark growled, sounding anything but delighted at the visit.

  Suspecting that he might be running into the old badger game, Mark retained the Colt in his right hand as he swung his legs from and sat on the edge of the bed. If the woman’s husband burst in, ready to demand payment for the ‘alienation’ of his wi
fe’s affections, he would receive a response that might not be accorded to the male half of a ‘badger’ team operating in Europe.

  Unaware of the suspicions Mark harbored towards her, Beatrice tossed her robe on to the foot of the bed. Her eyes raked Mark from head to toe and she decided that, if anything, she had underestimated his physical attractions on first seeing him from her window.

  ‘You shouldn’t have sat up, mon cherie, Beatrice purred. ‘And you won’t need that revolver.’

  Everything appeared to be going exactly as the Vicomtesse had planned it. Much to her annoyance, she had found no opportunity during the afternoon or evening to develop her acquaintance with the blond giant. If Arnaud had noticed her interest in Mark during lunch, he had given no hint of it. Flushed with success at having emerged a winner from the poker game, her husband had insisted on celebrating with an after-lunch session of lovemaking.

  While Beatrice never objected to that, she had had her heart set upon the change many philosophers insisted was as good as a rest. By the time Arnaud’s passion had worn away and he returned to the poker game, le beau Counter and the fat old woman had left the hotel.

  Learning that Mark would not be returning until late, Beatrice had made preparations. Waiting until she could do so unobserved, she had taken the hotel’s passkey from its hook behind the reception desk. Having obtained the means to enter the Texan’s room, she had returned to her quarters and changed into suitable attire for the occasion. Leaving her own door open an inch or so, she had settled down with what patience she could muster to await Mark’s return. Time had dragged by slowly, but she had consoled herself with thoughts of the pleasure to come. Unless she misjudged her man, Beatrice expected a night to remember.

  On hearing Libby and Mark arrive, Beatrice had watched them enter their respective rooms. Wise in such matters, she waited long enough for them both to undress and get into their beds. Then she had set out for her assignation. Using the passkey, she had gained admittance to Mark’s quarters and—although she did not guess it—had come mighty close to taking a bullet in the head as she entered.

  Now she was prepared to reap the benefits of her enterprise.

  Unfortunately, she had reckoned without Mark’s views on the matter. Maybe the big cowhand had an eye for a well-turned set of feminine curves and was not averse to dalliance with members of the opposite sex, xi but there were limits to how far he would go. His interest in the Vicomtesse had departed the moment he had learned that she was married. So the sight of Beatrice in his room gave him none of the pleasure nor desire she had expected to arouse.

  Ignoring the cooing words, Mark returned the Colt to its holster. He rose and strode towards Beatrice. Eyes glowing with lust and eagerness, she raised her hands ready to slip off the nightgown. Before she could touch the shoulder straps, Mark had caught hold of her arms. Drawing them together,

  he enfolded her wrists in his powerful left hand. Gathering up her robe with the right hand in passing, he started to haul her towards the door.

  ‘What—?’ Beatrice croaked, hardly able to believe that he planned to evict her. ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘I sure as hell will,’ Mark promised grimly. ‘Just as soon’s I’ve tossed you out of my room.’

  ‘You filthy pig!’ the Vicomtesse spat viciously, her voice rising higher with each syllable. ‘You stinking Yankee pig! I came here to—’

  Realizing that the woman would be screaming loud enough to wake up the other occupants of the building if she continued, Mark knew he must stop her. Tucking the robe into the waistband of his underpants, he whipped his right palm hard across her cheek. The force of the slap rocked her head violently to one side. Tears burst from her eyes and the pain of the impact brought her words to an abrupt end.

  ‘Start yelling again and you’ll get some more,’ the blond giant warned, ignoring the kicks she lashed at his legs and reaching for the door’s handle. ‘I know why you came here and your husband’s the man to give it to you.’

  ‘H-He-pl-plays-ca-cards with the sher-sheriff and oth-other men,’ the Vicomtesse sobbed, tears ruining her carefully applied make-up. She kept her voice down, guessing that the Texan would carry out his threat. ‘If-if-y-you-do as you-s-say, I’ll g-go and t-tell them you tr-tried to f-force yourself on to me.’

  ‘I’ll chance that,’ Mark growled, opening the door and thrusting her into the dimly lit passage.

  Catching her balance and skidding to a halt, Beatrice twisted around. Before she could speak or make another movement, Mark had flung her robe into her face and closed the door. By the time she had torn the clinging fabric from her head, she had heard the click of the lock. A string of violent French oaths bubbled furiously from her lips, sounding all the more obscene coming from such a beautiful set of features. She looked like a great wildcat preparing to spring at and rend its prey with teeth and claws. Pitching up and down with the force of her emotions, the all but naked hemispheres of her bosom seemed to throb with an inhuman passion.

  For a moment she was on the verge of leaping at Mark’s door and battering it with her fists. Cold, savage logic prevented her from doing so. With an almost visible struggle, she calmed herself down. A vicious glint came to her eyes as she remembered the things she had heard about how Texans treated a man who molested a ‘good’ woman.

  ‘You just wait, le beau Counter!’ Beatrice hissed audibly, taking hold of her nightgown and ripping it down the front. ‘You’ll pay for spurning me. See if you don’t, my friend.’

  Still sniffling and screwing her eyes up to make the tears keep coming, she scuttled to her room. Inside, she rumpled her hitherto immaculate hair and donned a more sedate robe. Scowling at her tear-stained face in the mirror, she nodded her satisfaction. She looked just right to arouse sympathy from her husband’s poker playing companions and inflame their desire to avenge her ‘besmirched’ honor. Smiling in a manner that, taken with the tears still trickling along her cheeks and her disheveled appearance, made her look old and evil, she returned to the passage. Throwing a glare of undistilled hatred towards Mark’s door, she made her way to the room in which her husband was playing poker.

  After locking his door, shoving the passkey out with his own, Mark returned to the bed. He sat down and let the anger ooze from him, then started to raise his feet from the floor. Before he could lie down, he heard a soft knock at the door. Flinging himself from the bed, he stamped grimly across the room.

  ‘If that’s you again—!’ Mark began.

  ‘It’s not,’ Libby Schell’s voice replied. ‘Open up, Mark!’

  ‘What the—?’

  ‘Do it. Pronto!’

  ‘Let me put some clothes on first,’ Mark suggested, impressed by the note of urgency in the blonde’s voice.

  ‘There’s no time for that!’ Libby warned him. ‘Open up, damn it, or you’re in real bad trouble.’

  Wondering what the woman meant, Mark obeyed. Certainly she would not act in such a manner for the reason that had brought the Vicomtesse to his door. Almost as soon as he had operated the lock, Libby twisted the handle and pushed her way in. Bare-footed and wearing a far less glamorous nightdress than Mark’s last visitor, she looked like she had come until morning. She carried her dress, underclothing and shoes in her arms. In her right hand, she held the passkey by which Beatrice had entered.

  ‘What’s the idea, Lib—?’ Mark began.

  ‘Lock the door again,’ the blonde ordered, hurrying across the room.

  Frowning and puzzled, Mark obeyed. On turning, he found that Libby had dumped all her clothes on the chair that held his own. Going to the window, she opened it and hurled the passkey along the alley behind the building. Closing the window again, she swung to face the big Texan.

  ‘Get in bed,’ Libby said, voice tight with emotion. ‘We likely don’t have much time if she’s doing what I reckon she aims to.’

  ‘What—?’ Mark gasped.

  ‘Get in bed, damn it!’ Libby hissed. ‘Do you reckon I’d be doin
g this if it wasn’t necessary?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  Once more Mark’s words trailed off in surprise at Libby’s actions. Wriggling out of her nightdress, she climbed into the bed as naked as the day she was born and threw the garment underneath. Seeing that Mark hesitated, her face twisted in an expression of anger. Realizing that only a most unusual and desperate set of circumstances would cause Libby to act in such a manner, Mark joined her in bed.

  ‘Turn this way,’ Libby ordered as he lay on his back. ‘Damn it! This’s no game I’m playing. That foreign hussy’s planning mischief and us looking right might save you from a bad fuss.’

  Rolling on to his side and feeling her upper arm slip across his neck, Mark opened his mouth to ask for further details. Then he heard feet running along the passage and saw the glow of a lamp appear under the crack at the bottom of the door. Close against his, the firm, warm flesh of Libby’s body was shivering. He realized what an ordeal it must be for her to be acting in such a brazen manner. His request for information went unsaid.

  The feet halted outside Mark’s door and a brief, muttered conversation followed. There was a sudden, violent crash and the lock sprang open to let the door burst inwards. Two middle-sized, stocky men wearing the dress-style of professional gamblers thrust into the room with revolvers in their hands. Behind them loomed the big, flabby form of Sheriff Lansing, the Vicomte and three more men.

  Mark’s reaction to the intrusion was immediate, instinctive and appeared completely natural under the circumstances. Sitting up, he jerked Libby erect with him. The bedclothes fell away, showing their naked torsos as Mark grabbed for his nearer revolver.

  ‘What the hell—?’ Mark spat out as the Colt left its holster and its hammer reared back under his thumb. ‘Ben Thompson!’