A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  Not that Dusty had wasted time in congratulations. While the kidnapping of Mark might have been carried out at the Vicomtesse’s instigation, if her husband did intend to obtain Mogollon by violent means she had presented him with an excuse to attack the Schells’ party. So Dusty had swiftly made arrangements for their defense. Accompanied by five of the mesteneros, Jeanie had been sent to guard the captured mustangs in the Caracol de Santa Barbara. Telling the Kid to make a scout in the direction of the Renfrew ranch, Dusty had given orders to the remainder of his companions. Before half an hour had passed, the Kid returned at a gallop with news.

  ‘Soldiers, huh?’ Dusty drawled. ‘From the de Brioudes, do you reckon?’

  ‘Down that way at least,’ the Kid replied. ‘There’s a feller in buckskins with ’em, could be a scout.’

  ‘How long before they get here, happen they’re coming?’

  ‘Fifteen, twenty minutes at the soonest. They’re riding slow and watchful, like they was expecting trouble.’

  ‘Colin!’ Dusty snapped, blessing his decision to keep the Scot at the camp instead of sending him with Jeanie. ‘Take Mogollon and head as fast as you can for Kerrville. If de Brioude’s escort’ve come back, you’ll find Tam Breda there. If he’s not, see Franklin and tell him what’s happened. Only watch how you go in town.’

  ‘Trust me for that,’ Colin replied and headed for the corral at a sprint.

  ‘This’s what I want the rest of you to do,’ Dusty went on as the Scot made a record time at transferring his saddle to the chestnut stallion’s back.

  Riding in front of his twelve men, Lieutenant Lebel gripped his reins so savagely that his knuckles showed white. Tight-lipped and fighting to prevent his anger from showing, he searched the land ahead for the first sight of the Schells’ camp.

  Having helped Tam Breda to deal with the bandidos earlier than he had expected, Lebel had hurried to rejoin the de Brioudes. Before he had agreed to assist the peace officer, Beatrice had intimated that she would be waiting gratefully when he came back. Instead he had found her suffering from a brutal assault. Guided by Peet, the besotted young officer had set out immediately to arrest the man responsible; or, if Mark Counter resisted, to kill him without mercy.

  At Lebel’s side, Peet was also scouring the range. Sent to town that morning to gather help, the hunter had covered less than half the distance when he had seen the soldiers. So he had turned his horse and ridden swiftly to let de Brioude know the military escort was returning. The news had caused a change in the Vicomte’s and Stagge’s plans. Instead of attacking the Schells with their own men and such of Kerrville’s citizens who would join them, they would let Lebel do it for them. Completely infatuated by Beatrice, the young lieutenant had needed little convincing that a great wrong had been done to her. Told the same pack of lies, Lebel’s enlisted men had shown an equal desire to avenge the Vicomtesse. There had only been one part of the plan which failed to appeal to Peet, he was ordered to guide the patrol to the camp on Wolf Greek.

  When the camp came into view, Peet slackened his horse’s pace and let the soldiers go by him. Absorbed in his cold-eyed scrutiny of the area, Lebel did not notice that Peet was falling behind. After the last man had passed him, the hunter reined his horse to a halt. Selecting a clump of buffalo-berry bushes, he made his way there and concealed himself behind them. From that position, crouching in his saddle to reduce the chance of being seen, he watched the patrol ride on.

  Oblivious of the hunter’s desertion, Lebel examined the Schells’ camp. Two wagons stood sideways-on to his party. Between them, Libby Schell, Mark Counter and a big, plump Mexican cook were gathered around a fire. At first Lebel felt puzzled as he looked at the trio. None of them showed more than ordinary, casual interest in the approaching soldiers. Lebel decided that their lack of concern was understandable. It was unlikely that Counter had told his companions how he spent the previous night. So the woman and her cook saw nothing unusual in the patrol’s visit. Maybe the big blond believed that he had escaped unrecognized from his crime and so had nothing to fear from Lebel’s arrival.

  Fifty yards from the wagons, Lebel ordered the patrol to halt, dismount and draw their carbines. Leaving the horses ground-hitched, the men formed into two ranks. Spitting into the grass at his feet, Sergeant Heaps opened his saddle’s left side pouch. From it he drew a set of leg-irons and a pair of handcuffs.

  ‘I forgot to give these back to Breda,’ Heaps commented as Lebel darted an inquiring glance at him. ‘Could be they’ll come in useful.’

  ‘They will!’ the officer confirmed grimly, and led his men forward.

  ‘Howdy, young feller,’ Libby said, placing hands on hips and eyeing the lieutenant coldly. ‘There’s some’s’d say it’s polite to wait until you’re asked to do it, but we’ve got to mind you’re Yankees. So come up to my fire and rest yourselves.’

  Annoyed by the implied criticism of his manners, Lebel brought his escort to a stop farther from the fire than he had originally intended.

  ‘I’m here on official business, ma’am!’ he announced stiffly.

  ‘Such as?’ challenged Libby.

  ‘I’m going to arrest that man,’ Lebel answered, indicating Mark.

  ‘What for?’ Libby asked, doing as Dusty had told her.

  Deciding that the woman would be more amenable to reason if he treated her with frankness. Lebel sucked in a deep breath. His upbringing and training had instilled firm ideas of what should or should not be mentioned when addressing a member of the gentle sex. So he needed a moment to prepare himself for the disclosure.

  ‘Last night Counter raided the de Brioudes’ camp, raped the Vicomtesse and killed two men while he was escaping,’ Lebel explained, eyes glowing hatred at the blond giant. ‘Put the handcuffs and leg-irons on him, sergeant.’

  ‘Yo!’ Heaps barked, jingling the instruments of restraint in his hands. A wolfish leer twisted at his lips, for he doubted if the big Texan would permit such an indignity.

  Taken with the lieutenant’s words, the sergeant’s too obvious eagerness to obey ripped like a knife into Mark. Instead of continuing to follow Dusty’s instructions, the big blond tensed like a cougar preparing to spring.

  ‘The only way you’ll do it is after I’m dead,’ Mark warned, hands hovering the butts of his Army Colts. ‘And I’m not ready to die just yet.’

  About to accept Mark’s defiance as an excuse to start shooting, Sergeant Heaps identified a sinister double clicking noise which came to his ears. It was the sound made by a Henry repeating rifle being charged and brought to full cock—and the soldiers carried nothing but single-shot Sharps carbines.

  Swiveling their heads in the direction of the sound, the cavalrymen saw the Ysabel Kid bound from the rear of the right side wagon. He landed with a cat-like grace, facing them. No longer did the Kid seem young or innocent, but created an impression of savage, deadly menace as he gripped the new model ‘Henry’ ready for instant use. Like Mark, the Kid sensed that Lebel’s and Heaps’ hostility went beyond the needs of their duty. Never a respecter of authority and having little liking for the Union Army, the dark youngster forgot the part he had been told to play.

  ‘Happen you’re fixing to put them things on Mark, blue-belly,’ the Kid said in a voice almost angelically mild and gentle, ‘just come ahead and try it.’

  Silently cursing his amigos’ response, although he realized what had caused them to disregard his orders, Dusty sprang from concealment over the box of the other wagon. He came with empty hands, but there was that air of command about him which had so often made men forget his actual height.

  ‘That’s enough, Mark, Lon!’ Dusty snapped. ‘And you keep a tight hold on your men, mister!’

  Much to his annoyance, Lebel found himself stiffening into a parade ground brace. He had heard that tone of voice before when a tough, capable officer possessing rank higher than his own addressed him. Angrily he halted his training-induced reaction. The speaker was not an officer of the
Union Army—empowered by Acts of Congress and the military disciplinary code to command obedience—but a big Texas cowhand. An officer with superior rank to lieutenant he might have been in the Confederate States Army, tough and capable he most certainly was. However, neither qualification gave him the right to issue orders to 1st Lieutenant Charles Lebel.

  ‘Do your duty, serg—!’ Lebel ordered, secure in the knowledge that numerical superiority favored his patrol.

  ‘Take a look around, mister,’ Dusty interrupted, right hand lifting. ‘Then maybe you’ll stop trying something you’ll have cause to regret.’

  Swiftly leaving the rear of the wagon from which Dusty had emerged, Felix Machado carried a shotgun in his left hand and gripped the wrist of a Sharps carbine’s butt with his right. Tossing the shotgun to Libby, who caught it deftly, he transferred the fingers of his liberated hand to the carbine’s fore grip. Reaching behind his back, the cook produced a Dragoon Colt. Cradling a Mississippi rifle ready to be brought to his shoulder, Bernardo rose into view on the box of the right side wagon. Nor did the increase in the Schell faction’s numbers end there. Following the movements of Dusty’s pointing forefinger, the patrol saw three more mesteneros armed with rifles rise from cover. Whoever had selected the trio’s positions clearly knew his business. They were ideally placed to inflict the maximum damage to any enemy occupying the ground on which the soldiers stood.

  ‘So you’re protecting the murd—!’ Lebel blazed.

  ‘Way I’ve always heard it, mister,’ Dusty cut in, ‘a man’s innocent until somebody proves him guilty.’

  Again the small Texan had prevented words being spoken that could have set guns roaring. Fearing Ole Devil Hardin’s potential strength in the political field, Davis’ corrupt Reconstruction Administration would be only too willing to turn to their advantage the news that OD Connected men had killed members of the Union Army. So Dusty had made plans to reduce the danger of it happening. Everything, from Libby’s comment on Lebel’s lack of etiquette to the positioning of the men, had been made with that end in mind. What Dusty had not taken into consideration was the threat of using handcuffs and leg-irons on Mark. Once that had been made and answered, the whole situation rested precariously on a knife-edge. The slightest wrong move might easily prove fatal.

  Watching from behind the buffalo-berry bushes, Peet scowled and cursed under his breath. Instead of charging up with guns blasting, that hawg-stupid luff had set his men afoot and led them straight into a trap. Studying the disposition of Libby Schell’s party, Peet grudgingly admitted that they had the soldiers over a barrel. If Lebel tried to arrest Counter, he stood a better than even chance of losing most of his patrol—which would not be a bad thing as far as de Brioude’s scheme was concerned. The trouble being that Lebel stood like he recognized the danger and intended to avoid making hostile moves. He might even listen to Counter’s side of the story and, knowing the Vicomtesse, decide to check into it. What the son-of-a-bitch needed was something to trigger him off and start him throwing lead.

  At which point, Peet saw a difficulty in supplying the trigger. Riding into town that morning had not seemed a task which required that he tote along his heavy Sharps rifle. Nor had he collected it when told to guide Lebel to the Schells’ camp, as he did not intend to become involved in the expected fighting. All he had on him was his holstered Leech & Rigdon Navy revolver and a Kaddo tomahawk strapped to the other side of his gun belt. The latter weapon would be of no use, but the revolver might serve his needs.

  All too well Peet could imagine the sense of tension which had built up at the camp. Every man’s nerves would be taut as they concentrated on snapping into motion at the first hint of danger. If he started firing the revolver even from such a distance, nobody would wait to learn who did it, or why. At the first shot, all would suspect the worst and take instant action for their own ‘protection’. Grinning viciously, the hunter started to draw his handgun.

  ~*~

  Holding Mogollon to a fast, mile-devouring canter, Colin Farquharson turned a bend in the valley he was following and found himself confronted by three riders. One wore travel-stained range clothes and looked like a Texan. The second hailed from east of the Mississippi River if his outfit was anything to go by. There could be no doubting the last man’s occupation. He had on the uniform of a major in the United States cavalry. Debating what action he should take, Colin saw the Texan’s face take on a warm smile.

  ‘Càrn na cuimhne!’ the stocky Westerner whooped.

  Instantly Colin’s misgivings ended. Although he had not met Tam Breda, the Clan Farquharson’s slogan identified his cousin. Riding to meet the trio, Colin clasped Breda’s hand.

  ‘I’m pleased to mee—!’ Breda began.

  ‘There’s trouble at the camp, Tam!’ Colin interrupted. ‘If we hurry, we may stop it.’

  ‘Let’s go then!’ Breda snapped, knowing that only a desperate situation would cause Colin to be so abrupt and unsociable.

  Turning Mogollon, Colin accompanied the three men.

  While riding at a good speed, he darted glances at them. He liked everything he saw of his kinsman, figuring that Breda would qualify as a .44 caliber man. Swarthily handsome, the civilian had a sturdy build and his clothes came in the middle price range. There was an air of authority about him, despite his lack of visible weapons. Tall, lean and middle-aged, the major belonged to the regiment which occupied the post at Fort Sawyer. Going by his expression, he was on a mission of importance and did not relish being diverted by a side issue.

  On coming into sight of the camp, Colin let out a sigh of relief. Despite the hostile attitudes of the figures ahead, no trouble had started. With Tam Breda and the major present, it was unlikely to do so.

  ‘We’re in ti—!’ Colin ejaculated.

  ‘Look over there!’ Breda barked, pointing. ‘Behind them buffalo-berry bushes.’

  Following the direction indicated, Colin saw Peet drawing the revolver and guessed the hunter’s intentions. Maybe Colin had not been long in Texas, but he could imagine what would happen if Peet started shooting.

  ‘Get down there!’ Colin yelled. ‘I’ll stop him!’

  In fact the young Scot had already achieved his part of the affair. Hearing the shouted words, Peet swung his head around. At the sight of Colin setting out towards him, the hunter forgot all about helping the de Brioudes. Loyalty had never been a matter of great importance to Peet. He had been willing to start a fight between the two groups, but drew the line at risking his own life.

  Turning his brown gelding, Peet nudged it into motion with his heels. A glance over his shoulder warned him that he must drive the animal to the limits of its endurance if he hoped to escape. Wanting to increase his control of the horse, he attempted to replace the Leech & Rigdon in its holster. No fast-draw exponent, preferring to use his rifle or tomahawk depending on circumstances, his gun-rig did not make for easy withdrawal or return of his revolver. While Peet managed to thrust the handgun partially into its holster, he found himself compelled to take his hand from it so as to grip the reins. Ignoring the gun’s insecure fit, he concentrated on urging more speed from his mount.

  Behind Peet, Colin allowed Mogollon to build up the long, raking stride which had so often carried it to safety before mustangers. Rested all morning and warmed up by the work it had already carried out, the huge stallion seemed to skim over the ground at an ever increasing rate. Although Colin had prevented Peet from starting the fight, he had no wish to see the man escape. No doubt Peet could explain some of the mysterious events which had taken place since the de Brioudes had first made their offer to buy Mogollon. So Colin allowed the horse to run and hoped to catch up with the fleeing hunter.

  Looking to the rear, Peet found that the distance between himself and Colin had lessened. Trained for hunting, the gelding still could not hope to out-run the great stallion. Too often in the past, Mogollon’s speed and endurance had been the means of retaining its freedom. Peet could see how the man
adero had avoided capture for so many years.

  Two miles fell behind Peet, with Mogollon slowly but surely eating away at the distance separating them. Between the hunter’s knees, the lathered gelding was showing signs of distress. Neither Peet’s flailing with the reins nor heel-kicks could make it run faster. In fact, its pace was weakening. Twisting in his saddle, Peet could detect no slackening in the chestnut stallion’s racing gait. It ran as if powered by a machine rather than flesh and blood.

  Ahead of the hunter, the land fell away into a valley. He had not tried to go back the way he had come, but cut off across country in the hope of eluding his pursuer. So he did not know the nature of the slope beyond the rim. He found out soon enough. Down plunged the incline, steep and dotted with rocks. At the sight of the terrain, the gelding screamed and tried to turn. Rearing on its hind feet, it fought against the reins and Peet’s efforts to guide it forward. Down went the horse, pitching its rider from the saddle. Only luck saved Peet from injury. He landed rolling, the revolver falling from his holster, and managed to halt himself as he tipped over the edge.

  One glance told Peet that he could not remount the gelding before Colin arrived. However, another avenue of escape presented itself. No man could ride a horse faster than a walk down such a slope. Nor did it seem likely that a dude in a skirt could match a hardened frontier’s man if he gave chase on foot. So Peet shoved himself erect and started to descend. Becoming aware of his empty holster, he spat a curse. There was no time to go back. In fact, agile as he was, Peet found that he had all his work cut out to retain his footing and prevent himself from tumbling the rest of the way.