A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Why not ride on over and ask Mrs. Schell?’ Mark suggested and looked at the black liquid in the cup.

  ‘Coffee all right?’ Buck-Eye asked. ‘We’re nigh on out of sugar, so it won’t be over sweet.’

  ‘It’ll do,’ Mark answered, putting the fluid’s slightly bitter taste down to the shortage of sugar. ‘You boys been mustanging?’

  ‘We’ve had to turn our hands to more’n one thing since the War,’ Buck-Eye said. ‘Ain’t nothing paying worth a damn these days.’

  After that the conversation followed general lines about conditions in Texas. Mark saw nothing suspicious and the men gave no hint of their interest in his consumption of the coffee. Emptying the cup, he returned it to Roarke.

  ‘If you gents want to come along,’ Mark said, ‘I’ll take you to see Mrs. Schell. Can’t promise anything, mind, but there’ll be a meal in it for you any way it goes.’

  Starting to walk towards his horse, Mark felt a sudden wave of dizziness strike him. For a moment he tried to clear his head by shaking it. Then his legs buckled under him and he found himself falling. Through the mists which seemed to be swirling about his head, he heard the soft thud of the men’s moccasin-covered feet coming towards him. Their voices appeared to be a long way off.

  ‘How long’ll it make him sleep, Buck-Eye?’

  ‘Until near on midnight. We’ll have him to her afore then.’

  ‘Why do you reckon she’s so set on getting him?’

  Everything went black for Mark before he heard the reply.

  ‘Now why’d you think she wants him, Seth?’ Buck-Eye grinned, stirring Mark’s unconscious, giant frame with the toe of his left moccasin. ‘’Specially after what Laura telled us about Mrs. Count.’

  ‘Which I bet ole Laura’s wishing she’d not said nothing,’ Roarke commented. ‘Whoever rough-handled her sure did one hell of a job at it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Buck-Eye. ‘Anyways, Mrs. Count’s offering a good price to whoever fetches Counter in on the hoof. And Hubie Stagge won’t let none of us get close enough to find out if Laura done had a mistake ’n’ told the truth for once.’

  ‘You had a right smart notion, coming down this way,’ Roarke enthused. ‘We made us a good catch.’

  ‘Don’t go figuring I’m all magical-like,’ Buck-Eye warned. ‘Coming here was a whole heap safer’n going someplace that we might’ve run across Cabrito. Douse the fire and let’s load him up ’n’ head back to the ranch.’

  When de Brioude had returned the previous evening, he had given his blessing to Beatrice’s and Stagge’s suggestion of settling permanently in Kerr County. Interviewing the new arrivals, the Vicomte, with Stagge’s backing, had told them what would be required of them. With money in such short supply throughout Texas, Buck-Eye and the others had agreed to work for the de Brioudes. Of the opposition, only Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid—especially the latter—had attained sufficient prominence to cause the hard-cases any anxiety. Even that was stilled by de Brioude’s assurance that they would not be asked to clash head-on with the Schells’ faction until enough men had arrived to give them numerical superiority. Pointing out that the five must earn their keep, Stagge had suggested that they should go on the scout around the county. If the chance to do so in safety arose, they were to reduce the enemy’s fighting strength.

  Buck-Eye in particular had reservations about the soundness of Stagge’s proposals and had shared them with Roarke. Killing Schell employees could easily spark off an open confrontation before Weasel brought in reinforcements. Apart from that, no man with an ounce of sound common sense would deliberately set out to hunt down the Ysabel Kid. Few who tried it lived to confess their folly. So, once clear of the ranch and other hard-cases, Buck-Eye and Roarke had made for an area in which they would be unlikely to meet up with members of Libby Schell’s party.

  Despite their precautions, they had come into contact with a member of the opposition. Resting in the clearing, they had seen a rider approaching through the trees and realized what an advantage fate had thrown their way.

  With the introductory meeting ended, a poker game had commenced. Taking her chance while the others were occupied, Beatrice had managed to contact each of the five in private. Nothing romantic had ensued. Instead she had offered every man a hundred dollars if he could capture and bring Mark Counter to her. Recognizing the blond giant from Beatrice’s description, Buck-Eye and Roarke had decided to make the most of their opportunity. Clearly their visitor suspected nothing and Buck-Eye’s ‘sleeping potion’ had reduced him to helpless unconsciousness. All that remained for them to do was deliver Counter to the Vicomtesse and collect their reward.

  The first part of that proved easy enough. Physically strong and skilled horse-handlers, they experienced no difficulty in lifting Mark or draping him belly-down across the blood bay’s saddle. Then they gave thought to what they should do next. In addition to wishing to avoid sharing the loot—Mark’s horse, saddle, weapons and other valuables—with their companions, they remembered that the Vicomtesse wanted the delivery to be made in secret. Which meant that they would have to arrive at the ranch after dark. According to Beatrice, her husband could be expected to spend most nights playing cards with the other men at the bunkhouse. So Buck-Eye and Roarke believed that they could carry out her stipulations with no great danger of detection.

  Making their plans, but not forgetting to keep a careful watch all around, the two men led Mark’s stallion and left the shelter of the post oaks. They saw nobody during the journey to the ranch. Night had fallen by the time they arrived, so they brought the horses to a halt at the rear of the corrals. Telling Roarke to watch over their victim, Buck-Eye first visited the cook-shack. Everything was as Beatrice had predicted, for de Brioude was sitting in the poker game with Stagge and the other men.

  Slipping away from the window undetected, Buck-Eye crossed to and circled around the house. He knocked gently on the side door and heard soft footsteps approach it on the inside. Gun in hand, Beatrice opened the door a couple of inches and peeped out. Cold suspicion showed on her face, but died as she heard his news. Hard and tough though he might be, Buck-Eye felt uneasy at the glow of hatred which replaced the Vicomtesse’s previous expression.

  ‘Bring him here!’ Beatrice hissed eagerly.

  ‘Sure, ma’am,’ the lanky man replied. ‘We’ll put up his hoss—’

  ‘Leave it saddled and ready,’ Beatrice corrected. ‘There will be another hundred dollars in it for you if you do as I ask with le beau Counter after I’ve finished with him.’

  ‘You’ve hired a man,’ Buck-Eye promised. ‘Wait a whiles and I’ll fetch him to you.’

  ‘Bring some pieces of rope with you,’ Beatrice hissed. ‘Hurry.’

  Gliding away silently, Buck-Eye rejoined Roarke. On hearing of the Vicomtesse’s offer and requirements, Roarke agreed to help. Producing several rawhide thongs from his saddlebags, Buck-Eye thrust them into his pocket. Then the two men removed Mark from the blood bay’s back and carried him to the side entrance of the house. At Buck-Eye’s knock, Beatrice opened the door. Ignoring the two men’s bug-eyed scrutiny, for she wore her diaphanous robe over more scanty underclothing than either had ever seen, the Vicomtesse allowed them to carry their burden into the front room. Closing the door, she found them awaiting her instructions.

  ‘Put him on his back on the table,’ Beatrice commanded. ‘You have brought the ropes?’

  ‘Sure,’ grunted Buck-Eye as he and Roarke carried out the order. Mark lay motionless, arms and legs dangling over the table’s edges. ‘You want for us to hawg-tie him for you?’

  ‘No,’ answered Beatrice. ‘Remove his gun belt and put it on that chair.’ She saw their startled glances and continued, ‘I may want to do some shooting with his guns, you see.’

  While they did not see, the men raised no objections. Buck-Eye lifted Mark’s torso and held it up until Roarke had unbuckled and slid free the gun belt.

  ‘Anything else, ma’am?’ Roa
rke asked, hanging the belt on the back of a chair.

  ‘Just the ropes,’ Beatrice replied. ‘Oh yes! Make sure that nobody comes near here until I send for you.’

  ‘What if it’s your husband?’ Buck-Eye queried.

  ‘He’s the last you need worry about,’ the Vicomtesse stated. ‘How can I get to you when I want you?’

  ‘Seth’ll be with the hosses at the corral, ma’am,’ Buck-Eye suggested. ‘And I’ll stop at the bunk-house.’

  With the arrangements completed, the men took their departure. Dropping the door’s bar into place, Beatrice made sure that all the blanket-drapes were fully closed. Satisfied that nobody could see into the room, she slunk like a great cat towards the table.

  Something cold and wet splashed on to Mark’s head and jolted through the haze which filled it. He opened his eyes and looked up at a lamp suspended from the ceiling of a cabin. Hard planks, which shook and creaked a little, supported him and he became aware of the uncomfortable position in which he was lying. Shaking his head, he tried to sit up. Then he realized why his arms had been drawn above his head. Bent at the elbows, their wrists were fastened to the legs of a table. The same applied to his feet. Raising his head, he discovered that his shirt had been removed. In fact, unless he guessed incorrectly, he was completely naked. Growling a curse, he tried to tear himself free.

  ‘It’s no use, Cherie,’ purred a sultry feminine voice he recognized.

  Twisting his neck, Mark saw the Vicomtesse approaching. Her bare body was quivering with lust and passion. In her eyes flamed a light as cold and chilling as the steel of the spear-pointed knife she carried. Up and down whipped her right hand, spiking the blade into the table close to his face. Then she leaned over, her nipples brushing against his chest. Digging her left fingers into his hair, she held his head still and lowered her face. Hot lips crushed against Mark’s and her tongue tried to thrust its way into his mouth. At the same time, her right hand explored his body like a spider crawling about on its web.

  ‘So! You don’t kiss back!’ Beatrice spat, jerking erect when her embrace produced no response. ‘This is the second time you have spurned me. But you will make love to me now, or I swear you will never make love again. By the time I’m finished, you’ll be good for nothing but a eunuch in a harem. If you know what that is.’

  To emphasize her point, she fondled the area of his body that would be affected by such an operation. A lusty, vigorous young man, Mark could not prevent an involuntary reaction to the treatment. Whispering incoherently, Beatrice swung herself from the floor and crouched astride the big Texan. Louder groaned the ancient timbers of the table at the increased burden placed on it.

  Sweat flowed freely from Mark’s pores, soaking his bonds. By the time Beatrice lifted herself into a kneeling position above him, he could feel the thongs loosening. Rawhide might be strong and practically unbreakable, but it stretched when wet. Taking advantage of the slight slackening, Mark twisted his right hand until his fingers gripped the table’s leg to which it had been fastened.

  ‘Wasn’t that better than your fat old woman?’ Beatrice gasped, panting from her exertions.

  ‘She even kissed better than you,’ Mark replied.

  ‘Kissed!’ the Vicomtesse spat and acted as Mark had hoped she might.

  Throwing herself forward, she pressed her face to Mark’s. Instantly he gave a tremendous outwards tug with his right arm and ankle. Already straining almost to the breaking point, the affected legs tore free from the rest of the table. Tipping over to the right, Beatrice was tumbled from Mark’s body. As the edge of the table struck the floor, the knife slipped free and bounced a few feet across the boards.

  Winded by the fall, Beatrice sprawled on her back. Giving her no time to recover, Mark rolled on to her. He could feel her voluptuous body writhe in a desperate attempt to escape. Ignoring the pain caused by her teeth biting at his chest, he start to rock back and forwards on top of her. Savagely he ground his two hundred and eighteen pound frame to crush her against the floor. At last her struggles ended and she fainted. Mark continued his pressure for a few more seconds to make sure that she was not bluffing. Satisfied on that score, he rolled from her. Collecting the knife, he contrived to set himself free. Beatrice lay where he had left her, moaning a little as she dragged air into her lungs.

  ‘The next gal’s asks me to sleep with her, I’ll sure as hell do it,’ Mark mused as he stood up and looked around. ‘I’d hate to have her go to this much trouble if I don’t.’

  With that, he donned the long-John underpants, socks, shirt and Levi’s removed by the Vicomtesse before she had fastened him to the table. His gun belt came next. Strapping it on, he checked that the Colts had not been unloaded. Having taken the precaution, he drew on his boots. While collecting his Stetson, he noticed that the Vicomtesse had rolled on to her stomach and was forcing herself on to her hands and knees. Distorted with frustrated rage, her face looked old and haggard as she turned to glare at him. Then she started to scream. Shriek after shriek burst from her, shattering the silence of the night.

  ‘That does it!’ Mark growled as shouts rang out from beyond the building.

  Starting towards the door on the side away from the shouts, Mark slapped the Stetson on to his head. Still screeching fit to wake the dead, Beatrice hurled herself at him. She came with teeth bared and hands crooked like talons, raging like a madwoman.

  Although Mark had never seen or heard of football, he reacted as if he had played the game all his life. Thrusting out his left arm, he placed the flat of his palm on her face. For an instant her rage-strengthened impetus caused even that mighty limb to bend. He felt her fingernails clawing through the material of his shirt’s sleeve. Straightening his arm, he flung the Vicomtesse backwards. Colliding with the wall, all the air once against burst from her lungs. Her screams ended as her feet slipped forward and she slid, glassy-eyed and mouth working soundlessly, to the floor.

  Giving the naked woman no further attention, Mark flipped up the bar and tore open the door. As he sprang into the open, he saw a man emerge from a building that, by its shape, would be the back-house. The supposition was supported by the fact that the man was holding up his pants with his left hand. His right gripped a revolver.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled the man, bringing up the gun and firing—to miss.

  Mark’s right hand dipped and closed on the ivory handle of his off-side Colt. Out it came in less than a second and roared from waist level. Struck in the chest by the blond giant’s bullet, the man pitched backwards into the small cabin.

  Already men had reached the opposite side of the house; Mark could hear one of them pounding on its door as he fired. Without wasting further time, the big blond started to run towards where he detected the presence of horses. Moving fast and swerving, he made a poor target for the figures who appeared at the far end of the building. Guns crashed and lead made its eerie sound as it winged by the Texan. In the corrals, disturbed by the shooting, horses snorted and milled around. Not only inside, Mark observed as he drew nearer. Three animals backed and tugged at the reins which secured them to the rails on the outside at the rear of the enclosures. There was sufficient light from the stars for Mark to recognize his blood bay. Forgetting his original intention of opening a corral’s gate and escaping on one of the horses from it, Mark directed his feet towards the stallion.

  Moving swiftly along the curving side of the corral, hidden from the men by its occupants’ restless milling, Mark kept on the alert. One of the approaching horses suddenly veered away from the railings, snorting in alarm. Instantly Mark hurled himself sideways. Thrusting himself erect from where he had been crouching in partial concealment, Roarke cut loose with his revolver in the blond giant’s direction. Mark missed death by little more than an inch, but he did not let that distract him. Swinging his Colt’s barrel parallel to the ground, Mark fired three times as fast as he could thumb-cock the hammer and control the recoil. Fanning ahead of him, two of the bullets missed their t
arget. The third took Roarke in the head as he attempted to correct his aim. Spun around by the impact, the man involuntarily discharged his weapon but its load flew harmlessly across the range.

  Striding on as Roarke went down, Mark reached his objective. Swiftly he set free Buck-Eye’s and Roarke’s horses. Going to his own mount, he unfastened the reins. Although the men from the buildings were running towards him, Mark took time to ensure that his saddle’s girths had not been loosened. Finding all to be satisfactory, he swung into the saddle. Flattening himself forward along the blood bay’s neck, he turned it and started it moving. A few shots followed him, but none came close and he knew that there could be no pursuit until de Brioude’s hired hands had saddled their horses. Catching the spooked horses and doing so was likely to be a lengthy business.

  After covering almost a mile, Mark brought his horse to a halt. He listened, but could not hear any sounds of following riders. Pausing to try to get his bearings, he set off in what he believed to be the direction of the Schells’ camp.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Soldiers coming, Dusty,’ warned the Ysabel Kid, bringing his horse to a sliding halt by the Schells’ camp fire. ‘Around a dozen of ’em, I’d say.’

  The time was shortly after noon and the mustanging party had returned from making a successful corrida. Instead of the rest and relaxation they had expected, Jeanie and the men had discovered the reason why Mark had failed to return the previous night.

  Being unfamiliar with the country he had to traverse and still feeling the effects of the ordeal, Mark had not reached the camp before dawn. By the time he had arrived, he found only Libby and the cook present. When Libby had learned what had happened, she wanted to recall her people and head for the Renfrew place. Knowing that the corrida would be started before they could reach Jeanie, Mark had suggested that they should wait until the work was finished.

  Discussing the situation, Libby and Mark had concluded that the de Brioudes lacked the men to attempt reprisals. Nor did it seem likely that the Vicomte would report the matter to the law. ‘Constable’ Franklin might be long in the tooth, but he was a fair and smart peace officer. There would be too many aspects which the de Brioudes could not explain to his satisfaction for them to want Franklin involved. Even if the Vicomte should call Franklin in, relying on his popularity to gain the town’s support, Mark knew that Dusty and the others would be in camp before a posse could arrive. The big blond also felt sure that the power of Ole Devil Hardin’s name, backed by his friends’ guns, would ensure him a fair hearing. So he had insisted on taking no action, a decision which met with Dusty’s approval when the small Texan was told of it.