by J. T. Edson
‘I’ll get ole Seth’s hoss right enough,’ Buck-Eye muttered after he had left the house. ‘But I sure’s hell don’t conclude to do the rest. If they come, Cabrito’ll be scouting ahead and I wants to live to see sun-up tomorrow.’
‘What was all that about?’ Beatrice demanded.
‘Just me being cautious and looking out for your interests,’ the killer replied. ‘As soon as Buck-Eye came out of hiding with the others, I sent him after Lebel. I figured it would be safer if we knew should anything go wrong.’
‘And something has gone wrong,’ Beatrice said bitterly.
‘Just as far wrong as it could go,’ Stagge admitted. ‘With what Peet’ll tell them, Breda, rot his guts, and Dusty Fog’re smart enough to figure plenty out. They may even get around to figuring that you and Arnaud aren’t what you claim to be.’
‘How did you know that?’ Beatrice hissed, eyes flashing dangerously.
‘Up to now, I only guessed it. There were little things pointed the way for me. Arnaud always acted more like a servant than a feller used to being served. And you sure took good care of your clothes and packed them tidy, for a gal who’d had a maid to wait on her all her life. Then there was how a real, genuine French Vicomte on his first visit to the United States knew the right folks to hire somebody like me.’
‘Go on!’
‘I played along with you, watching and listening,’ Stagge continued. ‘Which I speak French pretty good—’
‘You never told us about that!’ Beatrice accused.
‘I never put all my cards on the table,’ Stagge declared. ‘Not that you pair ever let out anything I could’ve used, I’ll give you that. This Mogollon foolery gave me the chance I’d been looking for.’
‘How?’ Beatrice asked.
‘There wasn’t much real hope of that notion about taking over Kerry County coming off,’ Stagge replied, satisfied that he was impressing her with his brilliance and intelligence. ‘And it got less when Arnaud would send Lebel to take Counter. That way, no matter how it came out, it wouldn’t’ve ended there. Neither the Army nor Ole Devil Hardin would have let it.’
‘You didn’t say anything like this to Arnaud,’ Beatrice said pensively.
‘Why should I?’ Stagge grinned. ‘Now you need me more than him.’
‘You seem sure of that.’
‘I am. Arnaud might be one slick he-coon around a big city, but he’s lost out here. I can get you and all your money away and even fix it so that nobody from this country or France’ll bother you again.’
‘Our enemies will never stop looking for me, even if they get Arnaud,’ Beatrice objected.
‘They will,’ Stagge promised. ‘Because you and Arnaud will both be dead.’
Chapter Sixteen
Backing in fright towards the bedroom’s door, Beatrice opened her mouth to scream. Before she could make a sound, Stagge sprang to her. Scooping her into his arms, he kissed her hard.
‘That’s only what folks’ll think,’ the killer said as he loosened his hold. ‘They’re going to find things looking like Arnaud died trying to save you from a fire down at the barn.’
‘A fire—?’
‘At the barn. I’ll need your wedding ring and some of that jewelry you had on at the reception in Kerrville. Stuff folks’ll recognize.’
‘I don’t—’ Beatrice began, then nodded vigorously. ‘The trinkets won’t burn, but Laura’s body will.’
‘That’s using your head, Bea gal,’ Stagge praised. ‘I knew she’d be useful if we kept her alive. I’ll fix it so that she’s burned to a cinder, but leave Arnaud so that he won’t be so bad marked up. That way everybody’ll think how we want.’
‘And then what?’ Beatrice inquired, nestling closer to Stagge.
‘We’ll head for the border with your wealth, you and me,’ the killer replied. ‘With that much money down there, we can live like a king and queen.’
‘And what of the men?’
‘They’ll be too busy fighting the fire to see us slip away. If we set loose all the horses, they can’t follow us. It’ll be dawn before anybody can find our trail and by then we’ll be miles on our way.’
‘How do we get Arnaud to the barn?’ Beatrice wanted to know.
‘Easy,’ Stagge answered. ‘First off, we get everything ready; horses saddled, money and stuff on them. Then I’ll go to the barn and fix Laura up. You fetch Arnaud from the game, make up some tale to get him to the barn.’
‘I could say that Abe Peet has come back and wants to speak to him in private—about you. That should do it. There’s only one thing wrong.’
‘What?’
‘If I go to Arnaud dressed for riding, he will be suspicious.’
‘Then have your clothes ready and go like you are,’ Stagge told her. ‘You’ve been to the bunk-house dressed that ways before now. Once you’ve got him headed for the barn, come here and put your travelling clothes on.’
‘I must admit that you seem to think of everything, Hubie,’ Beatrice complimented and thrust her face to his. ‘If only we had time to finish—’
‘We’ll have all the time in the world after tonight,’ Stagge assured her.
‘I can hardly wait,’ Beatrice purred and they started to make their preparations.
~*~
‘I just don’t figure it at all,’ said the Ysabel Kid in a puzzled, almost aggrieved tone. ‘Don’t those jaspers know I’m in Kerr County?’
‘What’s up, Lon?’ Tam Breda inquired.
‘There’s not a single one solitary son-of-a-bitch out on guard,’ explained the Kid, having just rejoined his companions after making a thorough scout of the Renfrew property.
‘You’d’ve expected them to have at least one out,’ Dusty commented. ‘Even without knowing you was in Kerr County.’
‘Maybe they don’t know their little game’s gone sour on them,’ Mark suggested. ‘Lebel allowed that he’d told them he’d take me straight to the Kerrville jail after he’d arrested me.’
‘They’d’ve expected Peet to come in and tell them about it,’ Dusty objected. ‘Is anybody at the ranch, Lon?’
‘I didn’t look too close,’ admitted the Kid. ‘But there’s some hard drinking ’n’ a poker game in the bunk-house.’
‘Who’s in it?’ Breda asked.
‘That French hombre, a Mexican pelado, feller’s might be their cook ’n’ three hard-cases.’
‘Just them, Lon?’
‘Nary a sign of anybody else, Dusty,’ stated the Kid, then slapped a hand against his thigh. ‘Hey though! I thought I heard a hoss moving off as I first come up. Maybe their guard up and lit a shuck out of it.’
‘It could be,’ Breda admitted. ‘Only that’d mean they know what’s happened.’
‘Or only some of them do, Tam,’ Dusty corrected. ‘What if they had a feller watching, besides Peet? Then he came back, told what he’d seen and was sent out to stand guard. Only he allowed it’d be safer to take a Mexican stand-off.’
‘They’d not be drinking and poker playing if they knew what did come off at our camp’, Mark protested. ‘Which could mean somebody’s playing all smart ’n’ sneaky.’
‘One of ’em’d be that foreign gal for certain sure!’ Libby put in. Wearing Levi’s pants, a shirtwaist and moccasins, she had stood listening to the men.
‘And the other’s Stagge,’ Dusty guessed.
‘I’ll swear he’s not in the bunk-house,’ the Kid declared. ‘You boys told me what him ’n’ the Count looked like, so I’d know one from t’other.’
‘Well!’ Breda said. ‘Standing here whittle-whanging won’t give us the answers. The folks who know ’em’re waiting for us.’
‘How do we play it, Tam?’ Mark inquired.
‘We go ’round the back of the cook-shack and surround it,’ Breda replied. ‘I’d sooner chance disturbing the horses than going into sight of the main house.’ The others muttered agreement and he continued, ‘Lon, you’re the one to take the front. Whistle when you’re there and a
ll bust in at once. Libby, you’d best wait—’
‘Stagge and the gal might get away unless they’re taken at the same time as the others, Tam,’ Dusty warned. ‘Somebody should round them up.’
‘You’re right,’ Breda admitted. ‘You and me’ll do it, Libby.’
‘Your place is with the boys,’ Libby objected. ‘So why not leave Stagge and the foreign gal to Dusty ’n’ me?’
‘All right,’ Breda answered after a moment. ‘You’re faster with a gun than me, Dusty, anyways. But don’t take chances with Stagge. He’s a killer all the way.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty promised.
‘We’ll move out,’ Breda ordered. Letting the men set off, he caught Libby by an arm and swung her to face him. ‘You watch what you’re doing, lassie.’
‘Count on it,’ the blonde replied and kissed him. ‘I’ve got too much waiting for me to take fool chances.’
Knowing the lie of the land, Libby had suggested a route that would bring them to the ranch at the rear of the barn. In that way, they could reach the house or cook-shack while keeping the other building between them and the horses in the corrals for as long as possible. They had around half a mile to cover, the Kid having decided that it would be unsafe to ride closer. Once again the dark youngster glided ahead, fading into the blackness as silently as a shadow. Before they had covered half of the distance, the Kid materialized before them.
‘Damned if a half-smart li’l part-Pehnane boy like me knows what to make of it,’ the Kid announced. ‘The gambler and the French gal’ve just come back from the corrals. Only she sure’s not dressed for going riding any place ’cept bed.’
‘How do you mean?’ Dusty asked.
‘There’s a couple of saddled hosses down where they come from,’ explained the Kid. ‘And, to put the lid on the whole boiling, he’s gone to the barn and she’s headed for the cook-shack.’
‘What do you make of it, Dusty?’ Breda inquired.
‘I’m damned if I know,’ the small Texan replied. ‘Let’s go and find out.’
Continuing their advance, Libby and Dusty separated from the remainder of the posse. Having a shorter distance than their companions to cover, they took up their position and studied their surroundings. Lights glowed in all three buildings which did not surprise them. Suddenly Libby gripped Dusty’s left arm and pointed to where a man and a woman had appeared from the side door of the house.
‘It’s the “de Brioudes”!’ Libby breathed. ‘She’s sending him to the barn.’
Crouching motionless, the blonde and Dusty watched the French couple. After her husband had walked off in the direction of the barn’s front entrance, Beatrice turned and entered the house through the side door.
‘Hell’s fire!’ Dusty spat out. ‘This changes everything. Go and get Tam, Libby, pronto!’
‘Why?’ the blonde asked.
‘Stagge’s waiting in the barn, fixing to kill that feller and burn him and Laura!’ Dusty snapped and darted away before Libby could say another word.
Once again the small Texan had made an accurate guess at what his enemies planned to do. He based his findings on what the Kid had seen and the incident he had just witnessed. With the horses saddled and waiting, there could hardly be any other reason for Beatrice to send her husband into the barn. Only two mounts waited ready for use, while Stagge and the injured Laura were in the barn.
Shocked by the sheer callous nature of the scheme, Dusty held himself in control and refused to be panicked into acting recklessly. To take the shortest route to the front of the barn meant going alongside the house. Dusty faced the same danger as his companions if he passed by the end of the main living quarters. If he did so, Beatrice might see or hear him. In which case, she would raise the alarm before the cook-shack was surrounded. Let that happen and the hard-cases would burst out. All too well Dusty knew the perils of a number of men fighting in the darkness. As a result of the confusion, a friend could easily be shot instead of an enemy. Determined to avoid that if he could, Dusty ran along the rear of the barn. He hoped to be able to effect an entrance from there.
Watching her companion go, Libby let out an indignant sniff. While she did not doubt that Dusty had excellent reasons for leaving her, she felt disinclined to accept the part assigned to her. If she carried out her instructions, the Frenchwoman might still escape. Anyways, as Libby saw it, she was the one best fitted to deal with Beatrice whatever-her- real-name-might-be.
Setting her lips into grimly determined lines, Libby went to the side door. She had visited the house when the Renfrews owned it and knew that the door led into the main room. Carefully operating the handle, she eased open the door. Its hinges creaked a little, but there was no immediate challenge to her entry. A lamp glowed from the center of the ceiling and the robe Beatrice had been wearing lay on the floor.
‘Who is that?’ demanded the Frenchwoman from the nearer bedroom.
Moving fast, but silently, Libby went to and flattened herself against the wall at the right of the door. She only just reached her position in time.
‘Arnaud!’ Beatrice called, in French. ‘Have you done it already?’
While speaking, the ‘Vicomtesse’ walked out of the bedroom. She was buttoning a blouse, but still had not donned a skirt or sturdier footwear than her slippers. In passing, Beatrice caught a glimpse of Libby from a corner of her eye. However, the realization of what the sight meant came a moment too late. Stepping behind Beatrice, Libby hooked her left arm about the woman’s throat. While doing so the blonde also tried to catch hold of the ‘Vicomtesse’s right wrist with her other hand. Although she failed to do so, Libby was not unduly concerned—at first.
Born in the Paris slums, Beatrice had learned early how to defend herself. On feeling Libby’s arm about her throat, she reacted like a flash. While her two hands flew up to take a hold of the blonde’s hair, she dropped her left knee to the floor. Sinking down and bending forward, she dragged her attacker off balance. Libby’s feet left the floor. Passing over Beatrice’s shoulders, she landed rump-first on the hard wooden planks.
The force of her efforts threw Beatrice forward along Libby’s body. Almost by instinct, the blonde raised and wrapped her thighs about the ‘Vicomtesse’s’ head. Any relief Beatrice might have experienced at escaping from the first attack ended as Libby’s ankles crossed and she began to apply the pressure with a vice like power. Desperately Beatrice thrashed her legs and body around, while her fingernails raked ineffectually at Libby’s Levi’s-protected thighs.
Gritting her teeth and flailing punches at Beatrice’s body, Libby thought she sensed her leg-hold slipping. The ‘Vicomtesse’ felt a slight lessening of the constriction as the blonde sought to improve her grip. Taking her chance, Beatrice twisted her head and sank her teeth hard into Libby’s inner thigh. Although the fingernails had had no effect against the Levi’s material, Libby shrieked when the pain of the bite struck home. Again Beatrice clamped down her teeth, bringing a second cry from the blonde and the scissor-grip sprang open.
Croaking in relief, the Frenchwoman rolled across the floor. She wanted to be clear of any repetition of the agonizing hold. Hands flashing to her throbbing left thigh, Libby forced herself into a sitting position. They made their feet almost at the same moment.
‘All right!’ Libby gritted, still rubbing at her thigh. ‘I’m taking you—’
‘Daughter of a whore!’ Beatrice screeched back, but in French.
All the ‘Vicomtesse’s’ pent-up hatred for Libby boiled over. While speaking, she flung herself forward with hands reaching to claw or clutch flesh. That proved the wrong kind of tactics against Libby. Always something of a tomboy, the blonde had lived a life in which she had to be self-reliant. So her husband had improved upon her childhood lessons in self-defense. Trader had always told her that using clenched fists was a more effective protection than hair-yanking. Backing his words with instructions, he had left her well prepared for such an eventuality.
Bo
uncing forward, Libby swerved her head and torso clear of Beatrice’s hands. Avoiding them, she hooked her right fist into the ‘Vicomtesse’s’ belly. The blow halted Beatrice’s charge. Driven back a pace, the Frenchwoman caught her balance and hurled a wild right. Wild or not, it took Libby in the left breast an instant before her right drove into Beatrice’s mouth.
Fists flew and the women came together, each trying to get inside the other’s punishing blows. Suddenly Beatrice changed her tactics. Throwing her right arm across Libby’s left shoulder, she jerked the blonde forward. Up swung Beatrice’s right knee, colliding with Libby’s belly. Clutching at the stricken area, the blonde let out a croaking cry and nausea threatened to overcome her.
Allowing her assailant to stumble away, gagging and crouching almost double, Beatrice turned and dived into the bedroom. Sobbing for breath, Libby staggered and almost fell. Sheer guts alone kept her on her feet. Battling down an inclination to collapse in an effort to lessen the torment, she stared at the door through which her enemy had disappeared. Nor did Libby have long to wait before she learned why Beatrice had not followed up her advantage. Face distorted with rage, blood dribbling from her nostrils to splash on to the bosom bared by her ripped-open blouse, the ‘Vicomtesse’ appeared again. Blade extending below it, her right hand gripped a knife. Mouthing French obscenities, Beatrice rushed across the room. Up swung the knife, ready to drive its spear-point down into the near-helpless Libby.
~*~
Having adorned Laura’s drugged, unresisting body with Beatrice’s jewelry, Stagge dragged her into a straw-filled stall. Leaving her as if she was no more than a piece of dead meat, the killer gave thought to his other preparations. From the look of the barn, it would blaze as if made of the so-called ‘Greek fire’ incendiary compound use by both sides during the War. Once set alight, little would remain of the building.
An old pick handle lay by one wall. Picking it up, Stagge hefted it and decided that he had found the ideal weapon for dealing with ‘de Brioude’. Better by far than trying to pistol-whip the man with his Colt Wells Fargo revolver. While the short-barreled gun served his purposes better than would a heavier weapon most of the time, it made a poor club. Pick-handle in his right hand, he went to the front entrance. On coming in, he had opened only the left side of the twin doors. Concealing himself behind the right door, he strained his ears to catch the sound of ‘de Brioude’s’ approach.
