A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3) (29 page)

When the footsteps became
audible, Stagge gripped the upper end of the handle in both hands.
One blow from that stout piece of timber would be enough to render
the
‘
Vicomte’
unconscious, if not dead, and the fire would do the rest.
People would assume that a falling beam or something had struck him
down when they found his body. By that time, Stagge would be on his
way to the border and, as long as she behaved herself, accompanied
by the
‘Vicomtesse’.

Nearer came the footsteps.
Stagge tensed, crouching and holding the handle like a batsman
awaiting the pitcher
’s delivery of the ball. In the light of the solitary
lantern left burning to illuminate the interior, the killer could
see well enough for his purposes. Two, three at most, more steps
would bring ‘de Brioude’ through the door.

Then the
‘Vicomte’
entered. Looking neither right
nor left, he increased his pace slightly. Silently Stagge stepped
into position. He swung the handle with all his strength, aiming it
at the back of ‘de Brioude’s’ skull—and missed.

Almost as if expecting the
attack,
‘de
Brioude’ suddenly bent his knees and ducked beneath the whistling
arc of the missile. Displaying an equal agility, he bounded
forward. On landing, he pivoted on one foot and lashed a kick in
Stagge’s direction with the other. Luck saved the killer from
taking the impact on his groin. His uninterrupted impetus caused
him to spin around. Instead of ‘de Brioude’s’ foot reaching his
testicles, it caught him on the hip.

Yelping in pain, Stagge stumbled
and dropped the pick-handle. Twisting his head, he saw for the
first time that
‘de Brioude’s’ left hand gripped a heavy double-barreled
pistol. Fury blasted through Stagge as the implications of the
discovery hit him. For ‘de Brioude’ to have arrived armed, taking
care to conceal the weapon, Beatrice must have warned him of the
trap. In which case, Stagge was to have been the male body found in
the burned-out barn and not her husband.

Darting towards Stagge,
‘
de Brioude’
swung around the pistol. The killer threw up his left arm to
protect his head. Steel met bone with a vicious thud and Stagge’s
arm dropped limply to his side. Crying out in pain, he reeled
hurriedly away from his assailant. At any moment, he expected the
Frenchman’s pistol to line and roar out its load at him. Instead,
‘de Brioude’ advanced with his hand drawing back to hit
again.

In a flash of inspiration, the
killer realized why
‘de Brioude’ did not shoot. To do so would bring the other
men from the cook-shack and ruin the scheme to make the French
couple’s enemies believe they had perished in the fire. Stagge need
have no such concern. With ‘de Brioude’ dead, Buck-Eye—Stagge still
did not know of the lanky man’s desertion—and the rest would
willingly share his property. That could include the
‘Vicomtesse’
for all the killer
cared.

Across flashed
Stagge
’s
right hand, going under his jacket. Recognizing his peril, ‘de
Brioude’ staked all on a desperate leap. With the old pistol
swinging wickedly towards his head, Stagge completed his draw and
planted a .31 ball between the Frenchman’s eyes. The blow collapsed
in mid-delivery and ‘de Brioude’ spun around. Even as he fell,
there was a crash and the rear door flew open.

From delivering a
karate
kick that served as
well as any key, Dusty plunged into the barn. He saw ‘de Brioude’
going down in the rag doll-limp manner of a man shot in the
head.

Cocking the small revolver,
Stagge turned it in Dusty
’s direction. Drawing his right side Colt as he
finished his entrance in a rolling dive, Dusty aimed and fired as
he landed. His aim proved just as accurate, and fatal, as Stagge’s
at the Frenchman. Hit in the head by Dusty’s bullet, Stagge joined
‘de Brioude’ on the floor of the barn.

At the cook-shack, the Kid had
just reached the front door when he heard the shooting at the barn.
Forgetting about giving the signal, he ducked his shoulder and
charged at the door. Crashing in, he lined his Winchester at waist
level towards the men around the table. Windows shattered and other
doors opened forcibly as the rest of the Kid
’s party displayed an equally shrewd
judgment of the changed situation. With weapons lining from all
sides, the occupants of the shack could do nothing but surrender.
To have tried otherwise would have asked for certain death and they
were just sober enough to know it.

‘
Disarm
them, Felix, Mark,’ Tam Breda ordered. ‘Bernardo, go find out what
the shooting’s abou—’

The scream of a woman in mortal
pain chopped off the peace officer
’s words.

Never had
Beatrice Argile been in such a
complete, savage, uncontrollable rage as while she rushed, knife in
hand, towards Libby Schell.

After outwitting the police in
Europe
’s two
most civilized countries—the Argiles had operated half of their
time in England—and evading the efforts to trap them made by two
powerful criminal organizations, they had been foiled and defeated
at the hands of a bunch of half-primitive country
bumpkins.

What was more, Beatrice could
blame it all on that fat old woman who cowered in terror before
her. If Libby Schell had not interfered in the affair of
le beau
Counter at Fort
Sawyer, none of this would have happened. Beatrice and her husband
would have continued with the hunting expedition until sure that
they were not followed by their enemies, or until whoever came had
been killed by Stagge, then settle down somewhere in the United
States and live as the
Vicomte
and
Vicomtesse
de Brioude. Instead, goaded by hatred, Beatrice
had insisted on following the blonde and Counter to Kerr County
where she had seen and set her heart on owing the horse called
Mogollon.

Although she did not realize it,
assuming the identity of the
Vicomtesse
de Brioude had been Beatrice’s worst mistake. The
treatment she had been accorded since the transformation differed
greatly from when she had posed as a maid. On the long boat journey
and since arriving in the United States, people had done everything
she asked and almost fallen over backwards in their eagerness to
please her. So Beatrice had grown accustomed to being allowed her
own way and enjoyed it. Colin Farquharson’s refusal to sell
Mogollon had infuriated her, continuing the train of events which
had led her to disaster and ruin.

The sound of shooting from the
barn reached Beatrice
’s ears without lessening her determination to kill Libby
Schell. For all his habit of gambling at every opportunity, she had
considered Arnaud a better prospect than Stagge. By pretending to
agree to it, she had learned the killer’s scheme for escaping. Then
she had secretly modified it. Collecting her husband from the
cook-shack, she had brought him to the house. When he had heard
what Stagge planned, Arnaud collected one of his—or the
Vicomte
de Brioude’s—pistols
and went to reverse the arrangements by making the killer the
victim. The pistol had been unloaded and meant to be used as a
club. Which implied that the firing had been done by Stagge—and
another person.

Most likely the second shooter
belonged to the Schell woman
’s party, for the blonde would never have come
unescorted. Somehow they had arrived undetected by Buck-Eye, or he
had deserted and fled on hearing them coming. Prison awaited
Beatrice, of that she felt certain, and with it, reports in
newspapers circulated in France. When she was released, her enemies
would know where to find her. She might find them waiting for her
on her release—but Libby Schell would not live to see it
happen.

Swinging the knife high above her
head, Beatrice started to deliver a downwards, killing
blow.

Libby Schell came from a sturdy, hardy
fighting stock which did not give up without a struggle, no matter
how great the odds. Filled with nausea, winded and a little dazed,
she had watched Beatrice charging at her. Retaining her appearance
of beaten incomprehension, she mustered up all her reserves of
strength. Although she had to exert every grain of her will-power,
she forced herself to remain inactive until the correct
moment.

Placing her left hand on the
right so that their thumbs formed a V, she flung them up. She
trapped Beatrice
’s wrist from underneath and with the knife’s blade
pointing between her arms. Instead of trying to halt the thrust,
Libby jerked downwards. By drawing back her torso, she avoided the
attack. Almost scraping the front of Libby’s bosom in passing, the
knife’s spear-point continued to descend until it spiked into the
upper inside part of the
‘Vicomtesse’s’
right thigh. The combined impetus of
Beatrice’s blow and Libby’s pull caused the blade to sink hilt-deep
into her flesh, cutting the femoral artery in passing.

A hideous scream burst from the
Frenchwoman. So horrible did it sound that Libby released her hold
and staggered away. Trying to withdraw the knife, while blood
spurted from the wound. Beatrice reeled. Then she dropped to her
knees and sank forward, fainting through loss of blood and
pain.

For once in her life, Libby came
close to hysterics. Staggering to the side door by which she had
entered, she heard the front entrance smashed open.
Tam Breda rushed in,
caught Libby in his arms and hustled her out of the
room.

Half an hour later, having
regained her composure, Libby sat in the cook-shack and listened to
her companions
’ stories. All the ‘de Brioudes’ hired men had been
questioned, without adding much to what was already known, and
released under orders to leave Kerr County by the shortest,
quickest route. Sent for by Dusty—using a sullen but obedient
Sergeant Heaps as the messenger—the Kerrville doctor had arrived
and was at that moment ministering to Laura.

‘
And
it’s all over,’ Major Aarhorte commented. ‘There’ll be a few
important folk relieved about how it came out.’

True to his promise, the major had
brought up his men when the shooting started. Their services had
not been needed, except to help with the cleaning up and removal of
the bodies.

‘
Sure,’
Dusty agreed. ‘The “de Brioudes” couldn’t’ve been deported without
the newspapers getting hold of the story. It would’ve embarrassed
everybody who’d been taken in by them.’

‘
Are
you all right, Mrs. Schell?’ Inspector Fontaine inquired, studying
her bruised, still somewhat pallid face.

‘
I’ll
do,’ Libby assured him and gently touched her swollen, discolored
left eye. ‘If a peace officer’s wife has to go through things like
this, I’m not sure I want to be one.’

‘
There’s your chance, Tam!’ whooped the Ysabel Kid. ‘Get to
running for the hills afore she changes her mind.’

‘
If he
tries, I’ll break both his legs,’ Libby threatened. ‘And yours, you
blasted
Pehnane,
for suggesting it.’

Two weeks later, on the eve of
what would be a double wedding,
Tam Breda stood with his arm around
Libby’s waist and watched Jeanie mount Mogollon. Gathered along the
corral’s fence, Colin, the floating outfit and the
mesteneros
waited to see what
happened. With a deft swing, the girl lowered herself astride the
saddle. At first Mogollon snorted and fiddle-footed, but Jeanie had
been around so much with Colin that it accepted her.

‘
Damned
if it’s right,’ growled the Kid, nudging Colin
in
the ribs.

‘
What?’
asked the Scot.

‘
Seeing
a she-male riding a man’s war-hoss,’ the dark youngster explained.
‘Which ole Mogollon sure don’t look too happy about it, neither.
That’s the worst of being catched and all tamed down, man or
beast—’

‘
He’s
smart enough to know when he’s well off,’ Colin declared,
interrupting the Kid’s views on how being ‘catched and all tamed
down’ affected man or beast. ‘No more roaming the range, being
chased and harassed. He’ll have a good home, female company and
somebody to take care of him when he’s old and worn
out.’

‘
Is
that Mogollon you’re talking about,
amigo,’
Dusty inquired, ‘or you?’

‘
Both,
I reckon,’ Colin admitted and watched with pride as his wife-to-be
rode around the corral on the horse called Mogollon.

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