Trigger Fast

by J. T. Edson

  In the lead Dusty rode with fear in his heart. The dynamite had gone off at the Lasalle place and his amigo, a man as close as any brother, might even now be dead, blown to doll-rags by the Double K hired killers.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE HIT AT LASALLE’S

  ‘I’LL see that five thousand dollars and up another five,’ Freda Lasalle announced calmly, after studying the three kings in her hand once more.

  The Lasalle’s sitting-room looked bright and cheerful enough. Lasalle sat at the side table, reading a book and throwing his amused gaze at the high stake poker game at the dining table where his daughter backed feminine intuition against the skill and knowledge of the other two. Female intuition did not seem to be all it was cracked up to be for Freda owed Mark and Morg Summers about five hundred thousand dollars so far.

  ‘I sure can’t see how you always get the cards,’ she objected, after the betting as her three kings fell before Mark’s low straight.

  ‘Unlucky in love, lucky at cards,’ Mark answered.

  An over-done snigger greeted his words, coming from Freda who reached for the cards. The game only started to stop her worrying about the fate of her friends and the non-arrival of Dusty, Rusty and Doc. On his ride to the herd Rusty had missed Lasalle’s place and so none of the occupants knew what might have kept Dusty away. At last Mark insisted they played cards, needling Freda into the game to prevent her worrying.

  To Morg Summers the night could go on for ever. He now held the position as official hand of the Lasalle spread and Freda seemed very friendly. Morg wondered how things stood between the girl and Mark Counter, felt just a little jealous and decided he did not have a chance against such a handsome and famous man’s opposition. However he got the idea that Mark would be riding out as soon as the trouble came to an end and felt better about things.

  The redbone hound sprawled before the empty fireplace for Mark would not allow a fire. Suddenly the dog raised his head, looking towards the front door and letting a low growl rumble deep in his throat.

  ‘Douse the lights!’ Mark snapped, thrusting back his chair. ‘Get to your places. Move it!’

  His very urgency put life into their limbs. Morg blew out the lamp on the table and Lasalle doused the other. They could all hear the horses now, a fair sized bunch of them by all accounts. It looked like Tring had returned and meant to make up for his last visit and so brought plenty of help.

  ‘Hit the back, Morg!’ Mark ordered. ‘George, take that side and watch the barn. Fréda, keep well down, gal. Don’t none of you start throwing lead until I give the word.’

  For once Freda did not make any comment to Mark’s orders. She knew when to have a joke and when to obey fast, without question. Mark had been in charge of the preparations for defending the house ever since they returned from town. He threw all his considerable knowledge into the matter. First he scouted around and found a secluded draw about two miles from them and on the side away from Double K. Into this went all the ranch’s remuda along with Dusty and Mark’s horses and their pack horse. Then, although he ached in every muscle and bone, Mark looked the house over and found but little needed attending to, beyond dousing the dining-room fire and making sure all the weapons were fully loaded.

  Now the attack had come. The riders were on top of the slope and coming down towards the river. Suddenly shots thundered out, lead smashed into the house but its walls kept them out. The window panes shattered and bullets raked the room, but so far all the shooting came from the front.

  Mark’s matched guns were in his hands as he flattened on the wall by the window. He looked back across the room, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. From the look of things the opening volley hit nobody. He could see Lasalle’s shape by the side window looking out towards the barn and outbuildings, holding his Le Mat carbine ready for use. Morg had already taken his place in the hands’ bedroom and so would be clear. That only left Freda.

  ‘Mark!’ whispered a scared voice at his side, a voice trying to hide its fear. ‘I’ve brought your rifle. Papa and Morg are in place and ready. Why did those men start shooting?’

  Before Mark could make a reply the Double K men came sweeping down the slope and into the water. He guessed that whoever had charge of the raid thought the occupants of the houses were all asleep and hoped to startle and confuse himself and his friends. The men knew of the hound’s presence and that a chance of moving in silently was unlikely to succeed. So they hoped to startle, suddenly waken the people in the house and rush in on them before they recovered.

  It was a real smart plan. Except that Mark and the others were fully awake and ready.

  Suddenly Mark swung around towards the shattered window. He brought up his right-hand Colt, thumbing four rapid shots into the darkness, firing into the brown without taking sight. He heard a yell and guessed some of the lead took effect. The attackers yelled their surprise. He heard the frantic churning of hooves in water as they brought their horses to a halt or tried to change directions. Mark grinned and darted to the other window, beyond the door.

  ‘Pour it into them, Dusty!’ he yelled, firing three more shots, and trying to make out his two amigos were with him.

  He heard the crash of his rifle from the window just vacated and twisted his head in time to see Freda flatten herself back against the wall. The girl once more showed she had courage and could think for herself. She guessed at what he tried to do and lent a hand.

  The riders came ashore and fanned out, riding along the side of the house towards the barn. Lasalle cut loose with the old Le Mat, turning four of his nine bullets adrift towards the men. He did not think he had managed to hit anyone but his little effort caused a rapid swing about and dart to cover.

  Not all the men had headed for the barn, a few went the other way but Mark already had thought of this and was by the other side window which stood open. He lined his right-hand Colt and used its last two loads on them. This time he saw a man crumple over, cling to his saddlehorn and turn his horse away.

  ‘Freda!’ Mark snapped. Watch ‘em, gal. I’ll reload.’

  It took some time to strip foil from a combustile cartridge, nick the bottom to ensure the percussion cap’s spark of flame struck powder, and place it in the chamber of the Colt, turn the chamber, work the loading rammer and force it home. Mark had done the drill so often he could manage it in daylight or dark, but he felt satisfied with himself that he remembered to have the spare loads laid out on the table, along with an open percussion cap box. He loaded both his guns and even as he did so fresh developments came.

  The men from Double K, being met with a hot fire on three sides of the house, took stock of the situation. From the guns, and the yell they heard, it looked like Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and Lasalle were all in front and, unless Dune called it wrong, the Ysabel Kid had left for Bent’s Ford. So it appeared the defenders had committed an error in tactics and left the rear unguarded. With this in mind a group of men moved in, swinging behind the barn, leaving their horses and running off across the range, meaning to come in at the rear.

  ‘Hey, Freda!’ Morg’s voice came in an urgent whisper. ‘Bring me some shells for my rifle, please.’

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ she answered.

  ‘It’s no use you-all trying to make me jealous, gal,’ drawled Mark. ‘I’m allus true to one gal — at a time.’

  ‘She doesn’t show very good taste, whoever she is,’ replied Freda hotly, but in no louder voice than Mark used. ‘I wouldn’t be your gal, Mark Counter, not even if you were the last man in the world.’

  ‘Gal,’ replied Mark, his teeth gleaming in a grin as he watched her back off from the table, keeping down. ‘Was I the last man in the world I’d be too busy to worry.’

  Freda gave a snort and thought of a suitable answer, although she doubted if her father would approve of it. She collected a box of bullets and headed for the bedroom to find Morg standing by an open window and looking out. He had his rifle in his hands, but her ten
gauge lay on the bed by his side.

  ‘Hi, there,’ he greeted. ‘Sure is quiet back here. Say, has that mean ole Mark been abusing you again?’

  ‘He sure has. Whyn’t you act like a knight in shining armour and go in there to demand satisfaction.’

  ‘Me?’ grinned Morg. ‘I’m satisfied already. Who wouldn’t be? Got me a starlit night, a real pretty gal to talk to and — hand me up the scatter, gal.’

  None of the speech had been in a loud tone, but the last few words came in an urgent whisper. Freda took up the shotgun, exchanging it for the rifle he offered her. Then she peered through the window and watched the dark shapes moving by the back-house and coming towards them.

  Gripping the shotgun Morg rested its barrels on the window ledge and drew back the hammers. The double click must have sounded loud in the still of the night, the group of men out back came to a halt for a moment. Then, apparently deciding the clicks to be imagination they moved forward, their weapons glinting dully in their hands.

  Morg now had a problem. Never had he been in such a spot and he had never turned lead loose at another man. He did not want to shoot at the men, to kill without a warning. Then an idea came to him.

  ‘She’s loaded with nine buckshot, gents!’ he called. ‘Hereby I lets her go! Yahoo! Hunt your holes, you gophers!’

  His first words brought the men to an uneasy halt. The rest of his speech had the effect of making the men turn about and head for cover. He aimed low and cut loose with both barrels. A man yelled, staggered, but reeled on. Morg knew some of the lead had gone home but that the man he hit was not seriously hurt.

  He passed the shotgun to Freda who whispered she would reload for him. At the shot, lead slashed from all sides at the house. A bullet smashed into the window frame, showering broken glass and splinters which caused Freda to cry out and twist around. Morg gave an angry growl, grabbing his rifle to throw shots at the spurts of flame around the building.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  The concern in his voice brought a thrill to Freda, a thrill she could hardly explain even to herself. Before she could answer the firing died down and Mark’s voice came to her.

  ‘How’s it going back there? Is the roof still on?’

  Why shouldn’t it be?’ Freda replied, running a hand across her face and knowing the flying splinters missed her.

  ‘I heard you fire that fool shotgun off!’

  It took Freda a moment to catch Mark’s meaning. She wished she could find a real smart answer. Then she remembered Morg’s question and turned to him, seeing he watched her.

  ‘I’m all right thanks, Morg. How about you?’

  She laid a hand on his arm, he released the rifle with one hand to reach and trap the hand, holding it gently.

  ‘Lord!’ he said. ‘If they’d hurt you I’d—’

  Freda bent forward, her lips lightly brushed his cheek. This was not the action of a well brought-up young lady. She and Morg met for the first time that afternoon, sure he had taken on to ride for her father but that did not mean he took on for any other reason than he needed work. All those thoughts buzzed through Freda’s head after her impulsive action.

  ‘There’s nothing between Mark and me,’ she whispered.

  ‘There’s no gal any place waiting for me,’ Morg whispered.

  Then they kissed, oblivious of everything. Two young people who suddenly found themselves in love. Then Morg gently moved her away from him and swung to the window. Any man who tried to harm Freda was going to get lead and would need to kill him first.

  Unaware of romance blooming in the back of the house Mark Counter moved from front to the left side of the dining-room, watching through the windows, letting the Double K men do the shooting, saving his lead for when it would be needed to break an attack.

  He flattened by the side of the window which looked out across the range. Men darted forward, coming towards the house. Then a shout from the other side reached his ears although he could not make out the words. The approaching party came to a halt and took cover rapidly.

  Mark’s fighting instincts warned him something was in the air. The men had been moving in undetected, or at least without warning that they had been detected. Yet they had taken cover in a hurry. This was not the actions he would expect of an attacking group coming in to their objective unsuspected. Anything unusual in an attack worried Mark and made him the more alert.

  ‘Freda!’ he called. ‘Freda!’

  The second word brought her to his side. She realized that he no longer sounded easy-going and friendly.

  ‘Go and warn both your pappy and Morg to be ready for something to start. That bunch out there have something tricky on their minds.’

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘I wish I knew, gal.’

  The coldness of his voice made her feel as if a chilly hand laid itself on her. She knew Mark had guessed what the smart move might be — and that it was something terrible.

  After delivering Mark’s message to her father Freda returned to the bedroom and told Morg. He gripped her hand in his.

  ‘Are you scared?’ he asked.

  ‘Not now I’m with you.’

  At the right side window Lasalle knelt watching the barn into which a fair part of the attacking force went. Due to Mark’s prompt action on returning from Barlock they would find little to destroy and would not burn the building until after the attack. A lighted barn blazing merrily would make them much too easy targets for the defenders, so the barn and other buildings were safe during the attack.

  Nursing the Le Mat, feeling the weight of the Army Colt in his waistband, he watched for the first sign of his attackers. He wished he could take time out to reload the fired chambers, but still had a fair few shots left and a load of grapeshot in the lower barrel, just waiting to be used.

  Lasalle was no longer the defeated, tired man who rode to his ranch that morning, ready to call ‘calf-rope’ and run. Now he stood firm, grimly determined to fight for his home, to defend it with his last breath.

  A small group of men eased out of the barn, moving cautiously towards the house. Lasalle watched them, wondering if his best move would be to open fire now, or let them come in closer and make sure he hit at least one of them. He did not want to kill, but knew it might be necessary to get himself clear of this mess. He knew they did not suspect he watched them, or they would not be advancing so openly on him.

  Just as he decided to throw a warning shot, the group halted. He saw a flicker of light, a glow as if a man had turned around and lit a match, shielding the flame with his body. Apparently one of the men had lit a cigarette or cigar, for something glowed redly in the darkness.

  In a flash Lasalle knew something to be dead wrong. He knew that in the heat and madness of battle men often did strange things like singing, praying, crying or shouting. But they did not stop to light cigarettes. Nor did men sneaking up on a night attack against a defended building.

  Resting the barrel of the carbine on the window he took a careful aim. Drawing back the hammer he fired a shot and saw the man holding the red, glowing thing rock under the impact of lead, then go down, dropping whatever he held so that it spluttered on the ground by him.

  Instantly consternation and pandemonium reigned amongst the party around the shot man. They yelled, shouted, and one bent, grabbing at the spluttering red glow on the ground. The others seemed to panic and not one of them thought to throw lead at the house. Lasalle aimed again, switching to the grape-shot barrel and touching off a shot, sending it into the body of the man bending to grab the thing from the ground.

  Then the others turned, racing away, not merely running, but fleeing in terror, discarding their rifles as they went. They left a man sprawled on his back and another crawling on hands and knees, screaming after them.

  ‘Dave! Stace!’ he screamed in a voice none of the others who heard it would forget. ‘Come back h—!’

  The rest ended in a thunderous roar and a sheet of flame
which ripped the night apart, turning it for a brief instant, into day. The house shook, the remaining window glass shattered in the explosion’s blast, but the walls held firm.

  ‘Get to the windows!’ Mark roared. ‘Pour it into them!’

  His words came not a moment too soon. Hooves thundered, feet thudded and men shouted as they raced towards the house. Freda dashed into the front room with Morg’s rifle in her hands. She reached the window and fired through it at the horsemen rushing up from the river. She heard the rapid crashing of Mark’s rifle, saw a man drop from his horse and fired again. From the bedroom sounded the booming roar of the shotgun. Her father’s Le Mat spat at the side and lead raked and ripped into the house.

  ‘Mark!’ Freda screamed, seeing a shape loom up at the window on the undefended side.

  Mark turned, levering two shots, the first struck the wall close to the window, the second slammed into the man’s face and threw him back from it.

  A man sprang from his horse, landed before Freda’s window and grabbed the rifle in her hands. She screamed, her finger closed on the trigger and flame lashed from the barrel. She saw the man reel back, smelled burning cloth and flesh, then screamed and fell to the floor in a faint.

  His rifle empty, Mark let it fall to the floor and brought out the matched Colt guns. Now he was at his most deadly for he could handle the Colts like twin extensions of his own arms. Flame spurted from the left gun, causing a rapid withdrawal from the side window just as a man tried to throw down on him. A sound before the house brought him around, throwing a bullet into the shoulder of a mounted rider and causing him to turn his horse and head away.

  Lasalle cut loose with his Le Mat, shooting fast and emptying the cylinder. Then he let the gun drop and drew the Army Colt to shoot again. He stopped one man with the Colt, which surprised him as he had never been much of a hand with a revolver.