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  Studying the pair when he joined the stagecoach, Waco concluded only one thing prevented them from being completely convincing in their disguise. The hands of each were far too clean and soft for the type of people they were supposed to be.

  Wanting to lessen the chance of their complicity being suspected, the blond had ridden to Red Rock on horseback accompanied by Cromaty and another of the cowhands enrolled as a member of the proposed force of peace officers. Brought to the vehicle on its arrival, apparently in a drunken stupor, he was loaded aboard by his companions. Then, looking so vacant such blatant indiscretion appeared believable, the lanky cowhand had requested Toby Winkler—the shotgun messenger replacing Benjamin Eckland until he was recovered from his injuries—to “make sure good ole Davey-boy gets off safe at Marana, ’cause he’s toting five hundred dollars belonging to his boss.”

  Once on board, Waco had continued to behave as if sleeping off excessive drinking by sprawling along the center seat which had been lowered. He was helped in his pose by being held in position with the knees of Doc, Franks and Glendon at the rear and Belle, who had agreed to let the “married couple” have the window places, in front. As had been the case throughout the journey so far, there was only desultory conversation such as might occur between travellers with little or no common interests. However, while passing through the woodland about a mile beyond the boundary between Pinal and Pima Counties, having either recognized something or seen a signal which had escaped the attention of the other passengers, the little blonde had let out her realistic sounding comment.

  “What?” Crowther gasped, displaying an equally well simulated alarm. Then, leaning out of the window he had asked to be allowed to sit next to on boarding the vehicle, he raised his voice. “Driver! Driver! For god’s sake, stop!”

  “Why?” demanded Walter Tract from the box, impressed by the suggestion of dire urgency in the speaker’s voice.

  “I—It’s m—my w—wife!” the male Summer Complaint answered, contriving to appear close to panic stricken. “S—She’s s—starting to have the baby. Please, for god’s sake, stop right now!”

  “Well I’ll be damned!” the driver ejaculated, not entirely without a trace of satisfaction in his voice, as he started to haul back on the ribbons and apply the brake. “I’ve finally got it happening to me!”

  “Which being, I surely hope you, that fancy French gal, or one of them fellers inside knows how to haul the little sucker out should it conclude not to come natural-like!” Winkler replied. “’Cause I’ve never so much’s seen one being born and ain’t ’special keen to do it now.”

  Such was the feeling of awe experienced by bachelors in particular where the female process of giving birth was concerned, neither Tract nor the guard gave a single thought to the kind of precautions they would have taken—particularly in an area offering so many places of concealment on either side of the trail—if there had been a request for the stagecoach to be halted for almost any other reason. As it was, regardless of the sentiment he had uttered, Winkler lay the Greener shotgun behind him on the roof of the vehicle and swung down from the box with alacrity. Showing an equivalent dearth of wariness, the driver descended just as quickly from the other side.

  “This is a hold up. I’m Belle Starr!”

  The words were shouted in a feminine Southern drawl from the right side of the vehicle, as the two employees of the Stage Line were turning toward the doors.

  Reaching for the Colt holstered on his right thigh, Winkler was intending to dart around the rear of the stagecoach when he saw a movement from the corner of his eye. Looking more closer, he discovered that two masked and armed men were moving forward from where they had been hidden behind nearby trees. Their attire, weapons and the shoulder long black hair of the taller warned him that they were part of the gang which had carried out the earlier hold up. Even without being covered by the revolver and Winchester Model of 1873 carbine they were respectively carrying, mindful of his responsibility to avoid putting the passengers in jeopardy, he would not have attempted to complete his draw. Instead, he raised his hands to shoulder level in a sign of surrender.

  Looking over his shoulder, Tract also refrained from trying to arm himself. He found he was staring into the muzzle of the Winchester carbine, this time held by the second “half breed,” which had killed Maurice Blenheim. At the other side of the bulky trunk of a white oak tree where they had concealed themselves, was the “blonde” who made the announcement. However, she now wore a masculine black shirt, Levi’s pants, moccasins and was bareheaded. Although she had not displayed any weapons on the previous occasion, she now held the Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver which—the driver was unaware—had been dropped on the porch of the ranch house by Doc Leroy on the evening the loot from the previous hold up was taken from the Summer Complaints. There was, Tract noticed, no sign of the “white outlaw” who had supported the “half breed.”

  “Sit where you are, all of you!” Crowther commanded. Having withdrawn his head after making the request for the stagecoach to be halted, he had reached behind his back beneath the jacket. Bringing out the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker he had carried there unsuspected—or so he believed—as he was speaking, he went on, “Stay put, you men, or ‘Frenchie’ there gets gut-shot!”

  “By my ‘husband,’ or by me!” Fiona supplemented, thrusting her right hand into what appeared to be a pocket but was actually a slit allowing access to the interior of the carefully padded gingham dress and extracting another of the short barrelled Peacemakers. Pointing it at Belle and drawing back the hammer with both thumbs, she continued, “So you’d all best do as you’re told!”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am!” Doc drawled soothingly, seeing the suggestion of alarm which came to the face of the lady outlaw as the weapon was fully cocked in such an inexpert fashion. “That’s some baby you’ve had!”

  “Isn’t it?” the little blonde giggled, being of an ebullient nature and regarding the hold up as little more than an enjoyable game.

  “Send them out one at a time, Josie, Vince!” Sarah Siddenham called brusquely. “And don’t be all day about it—you-all!”

  “Sure, ‘Belle!’” Crowther assented, remembering the instructions to establish the “identity” of the “blonde” leader of the gang beyond all doubt. “You heard the lady, drummer. Get up and haul your ass out of here!”

  “Ladies first, damn it!” Fiona protested. “Get up and let us through, St—Vince!”

  “Sure!” Crowther grunted and rose, pressing himself back against the wall of the stagecoach’s body.

  “All right, ‘Frenchie,’” the little blonde commanded, too excited to notice how calmly the other female passenger was accepting the situation. “Push by that drunken sot and get out!”

  “Whatever you say, madame,” the lady outlaw replied in her thick French accent and started to obey.

  The two Summer Complaints failed to appreciate it in their inexperience, but they were putting themselves in particular in jeopardy by their behavior. Neither Fiona nor Crowther was able to maintain an adequate covering of the three men occupying the rear seat as “Frenchie’s” departure was being made. However, although Doc and Glendon—even Franks to a lesser degree—were offered opportunities which the first two were fast enough to have made the most of, all remained passive.

  “Where the hell’s all that fancy jewellery you-all allowed she wears?” Sarah asked, as Belle preceded Fiona from the vehicle.

  “She said she’d taken the advice she was given and hid it with her ‘travelling money’ in her bags,” the little blonde replied, the lady outlaw being clad in the plain black two piece costume and white blouse she had worn on the night she met Pierre Henri Jaqfaye, unadorned by the excellent quality costume jewellery which he had supplied. “I’ll wrestle you for the pick of it.”

  “You-all watch what you’re doing!” Sarah snapped, knowing how irresponsible the excitable little blonde could be even in situations of grave danger w
hen a serious attitude was necessary. “Move toward the back of the coach, ‘Frenchie!’”

  “Whatever you say, ‘Miss Starr!’” Belle answered, her accent wavering a little due to annoyance.

  “Come on out, you fellers!” Sarah instructed, as the men from the other side of the vehicle appeared escorting the shotgun messenger. “Come easy and with your hands empty. My other two boys are covering you-all and ‘Frenchie’ with their rifles from where you-all can’t see them, so don’t try anything!”

  “’Scuse me, Miss Starr, ma’am!” Tract put in, before the order could be obeyed.

  “Well?” Sarah asked.

  “Iffen I shed my gun, can I go stand by the heads of the lead team?” the driver requested. “Last time, they come close to bolting when some shooting started.”

  “Do it!” Sarah authorized. “Only, if you-all fancy trying anything smart while you’re taking that hawg-leg out, just mind what I said would happen to ‘Frenchie!’”

  Watching the driver remove his revolver with obvious disinclination to use it as an offensive weapon, the self-appointed yet no less efficient leader of the Summer Complaints felt a half conceived thought nagging at her. However, she was prevented from trying to bring it to completion. Instead, she swung her attention from the disarmed Tract as he did as he suggested to the open right side door of the stagecoach.

  Rising and keeping his hands held so there was no suggestion that he might be contemplating hostile action, Doc walked by Crowther. Using part of the money taken from the Summer Complaints, he had had the black cutaway coat he was wearing tailored so it offered a similar access to his ivory handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker as would his ordinary jacket. In spite of that, he had no intention of taking action until the time was more suitable. Jumping to the ground, he went to where Belle and Tinkler were standing.

  Showing a caution equal to that of the pallid featured Texan, although each was offered a similar opportunity to render Crowther hors de combat at least temporarily due to his negligence while being passed, first Franks and then Glendon quit the vehicle. Dropping to the ground, each in turn went toward the rear of the stagecoach.

  “Miss Belle Boyd!” the lady outlaw called, as the foreman was emerging, having scanned the surrounding terrain with eyes trained to locate hidden enemies and having drawn conclusions from the scrutiny. “Please ask your three hidden outlaws to be very careful with their revolvers. I would not wish to be shot, even by accident.”

  “Don’t let it worry you any, ‘Frenchie,’” Sarah replied, so engrossed in keeping watch upon her companions rather than the victims of the hold up—as she never trusted them to perform any task adequately—she failed to notice the discrepancies in the request. “They’ll not bother you none, so long as those jaspers with you behave.”

  “Then I hope they will behave properly,” Belle declared, being willing to bet she had achieved her purpose.

  From what she could see, the lady outlaw was convinced the rest of the Summer Complaints had shown an equal lack of perception. Like Sarah, none of them commented upon her having being wrong with regards to the number and weapons of the “hidden outlaws.” Nor, it seemed, had they noticed how she had used the name of Belle “the Rebel Spy” Boyd instead of her own.2

  Everything, Belle told herself, now depended upon whether the male “victims”—Waco in particular—drew the correct conclusions from what she had said!

  And upon the Summer Complaints not having called upon Deputy Sheriff Jackson Martin to play a more active part in their latest robbery!

  If this was the case, the peace officer had concealed himself so well he defied being located!

  By doing so, Martin would supply the Summer Complaints with a most potent ace in the hole!

  The deputy could, in fact, turn the tables completely against the lady outlaw and her companions!

  Chapter 16

  TWO BELLE STARRS ARE ONE TOO MANY

  INSIDE THE STAGECOACH, JUST AS OBLIVIOUS AS Sarah Siddenham and the rest of his associates that he had heard an opinion being given, Stanley Crowther stood eyeing Waco disdainfully!

  Since his arrival in Arizona Territory, the Summer Complaint had frequently suffered humiliation when brought into contact with cowhands due to their disinclination to accept unproved his belief that he was a person of greater intelligence and capabilities than themselves. Such incidents, bruising his over-inflated ego, had left him with a considerable bitterness and antipathy where they were concerned. His one attempt to assert himself had ended so painfully and quickly, he had never had sufficient courage to try again. However, finding himself with one of the disrespectful breed apparently at his mercy, he realized he was being granted an opportunity to take at least partial revenge.

  “Come on, you drunken son-of-a-bitch!” Crowther growled at the recumbent and unmoving blond haired Texan, nudging him with a knee. “Wake up, god-damn you!”

  When the words and jolt produced no effect, the Summer Complaint gave a grin of delight. Satisfied he was safe from reprisals while doing so, he tucked the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker into his waist band, this time at the front. Grasping the breast of the open necked shirt with his right hand, he intended to raise the head and shoulders of his seemingly defenseless victim and bring a return to consciousness by slapping the tanned face.

  Before Crowther could advance his scheme beyond gripping the front of the shirt, he received a shock similar to that which had so disconcerted Benjamin Eckland during the preliminary stages of the previous hold up!

  Cold as the blue of a Texas sky just before the eruption of a summer storm, the eyes of the intended victim opened!

  There was no suggestion of recovering dazedly from a drunken stupor in the gaze!

  As had been the case with Eckland, an appreciation of what was portended by the sight caused Crowther to jerk away!

  The Summer Complaint was no more successful than the shotgun messenger had been!

  Rising swiftly on either side of his right arm as he was releasing the shirt involuntarily, Crowther felt two powerful hands grasp the lapels of his jacket. As they started to jerk forward, Waco twisted his lower body and slammed the right knee into the small of Crowther’s back.

  Such was the speed, force and completely unanticipated nature of the attack, there was nothing the Summer Complaint could do to counter it!

  “It’s a trick!” the Texan bellowed, as his efforts were propelling the startled Easterner away from him. “Kill him!”

  Hearing the commotion, Sarah, Fiona Crenshaw and their male associates outside the stagecoach looked in its direction. At the sight of a shape coming through the open door at some speed, not one of them waited to make an identification. Believing Crowther had given the warning, every Summer Complaint acted upon it. Turning from the people they were covering, two Winchester Model of 1873 carbines and three assorted handguns bellowed almost simultaneously. Not all were pointed with anything approaching accuracy. In fact, only a blunt nosed .44 bullet1 from the shoulder arm which had killed Maurice Blenheim and one of more conventional shape, with a caliber of .45, discharged by Sarah found their intended—if incorrectly selected—mark. They were, nevertheless, sufficient. Caught in the chest and head while still falling from the vehicle, either injury being fatal, their recipient was dead before he arrived on the ground.

  A belated realization of what they had done caused the surviving Summer Complaints, with the exception of Fiona, to start returning their respective weapons to the previous alignment!

  Granted the diversion they desired, the intended victims of the hold up set about making the most of it!

  First into action was Doc Leroy!

  Coming out and crashing with such speed only one man was almost capable of equalling,2 the pallid featured Texan’s ivory handled Colt sent a bullet into the head of Dennis Orme as he was working the lever of the Winchester which had just killed for the second time.

  Slightly slower, but ahead of the others, Peter Glendon brought t
he Remington New Model of 1874 Army revolver from its cross draw holster. Although he did not intend such leniency, its bullet crippled the right arm of Thomas O’Carroll before the second carbine could be fired again.

  Lacking the competence of the men around him where fast gun handling was concerned, Jedroe Franks was nevertheless third into action. However, on twisting the Colt Storekeeper from its spring retention shoulder holster and throwing a shot at Kenneth Alan Taylor, he made an error in tactics which had proved fatal for more than one man in similar circumstances. Although the bullet grazed the Summer Complaint’s left side, eliciting a yell of pain and causing him to stagger a couple of paces, he still kept hold of his Colt. What was more, he showed indications of being willing to use it. Despite seeing this, having had time to think what he was doing instead of merely reacting by instinct to circumstances, the young Easterner could not bring himself to respond due to the realization that such an act would cause the death of another human being.

  Fortunately for Franks, neither Doc nor Glendon harbored such scruples. Each was aware of the danger. Knowing Taylor was behaving in the fashion of a cornered rat, both met the threat in the fashion of trained gun fighters. Turning, their respective revolvers thundered at almost the same instant. Killed instantly, the bullet sent by the Summer Complaint in his last moment alive was deflected just above the head of the young Easterner.

  While Toby Winkler was almost as competent as the slim Texan and the stocky foreman, his sense of duty prevented him from joining them in the drawing of revolvers!

  Instead, the shotgun messenger devoted his efforts to protecting what he imagined to be a female passenger who was defenseless and probably too scared to do anything in that line by herself!