A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3) (25 page)

‘
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 Schel
l’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
manadero
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.

Colin had benefited from seeing
how Peet
’s
gelding responded to the land beyond the rim. Slowing Mogollon, he
brought it to a halt instead of trying to follow the hunter over.
Taking one look at the slope, Colin reached the conclusion Peet had
expected. Mogollon was far too valuable to be endangered by
descending into the valley. However, the hunter had been way out
with his second opinion.

Dismounting and allowing the reins to
dangle, ground-hitching Mogollon, Colin plunged over the ridge.
Before him lay the sort of terrain over which he had roamed and
played most of his life. Down went the Scot, keeping his footing
with the ease of a bighorn ram on a mountain. Bounding from rock to
bare ground, skimming over cracks and avoiding treacherous places,
Colin made far greater speed than the man he pursued. In fact Peet
had as little chance of leaving Colin behind as the gelding had had
of out-running Mogollon.

Turning as he reached the floor of the
valley, his attention attracted by falling stone which he had not
dislodged, Peet received the shock of his life. That fancy-dressed
dude was coming down the incline as if on level ground.

‘
God
blast you!’ Peet screeched, grabbing at his holster and finding it
empty. From there, his hand flashed to and started to snatch the
tomahawk from its slings. ‘I’ll—’

That moment of forgetfulness
ended the hunter
’s chances of escape.

‘
Càrn
na cuimhne!’
Colin bellowed and the valley’s sides flung back the slogan
in ringing echoes.