A Horse Called Mogollon (Floating Outfit Book 3) Read online

  When the girl had called Loncey Dalton Ysabel an Indian, she had come very close to the truth.

  Born in the village of the Pehnane—Wasp, Quick-Stinger, Raider—Comanches, the black-dressed youngster had been raised as a member of that hardy fighting tribe. His mother had died giving birth to him and his father, a wild Irish-Kentuckian, had spent much time away from the village on the family business of smuggling. In the traditional Comanche fashion, it had fallen on the boy’s maternal grandfather, Long Walker, a chief of the Dog Soldier war lodge, to educate him and the chief’s French-Creole pairaivo—favorite wife—saw to his welfare.

  Long Walker had carried out his work well. viii By the time the boy had ridden off upon his first war trail, he was competent in all those matters a Pehnane brave-heart needed to know. Skilled beyond measure in matters equestrian, he could read and follow tracks barely visible to the eyes of less capable men. He had few peers in any race at locating hidden enemies and was equally adept at concealing himself from hostile eyes. He could handle a variety of weapons adequately and had attained prominence in the use of two kinds. With a rifle he could throw lead super-accurately under any conditions. His skill in wielding a bowie had won him the Comanche man-name Cuchilo, the Knife.

  All in all, the Ysabel Kid—as he had come to be known—had led a checkered life. Riding the smuggling trails with his father, he had learned lessons that were to be of use in later years. Although the Ysabels had enlisted in Mosby’s Raiders, the Confederate States’ Government had soon found a better use for their specialized talents. They had spent the remainder of the War delivering supplies, run into Matamoros through the U.S. Navy’s blockade, across the Rio Grande into Texas. While carrying out those duties, the Kid had earned a reputation for being a real bad hombre to cross. Like Dusty, Cabrito—to give him the name spoken in awe by border Mexicans—had twice become involved in the affairs of the Rebel Spy. ix

  Bushwhack lead had ended Sam Ysabel’s life and, while hunting for the killers, the Kid had met Dusty. In addition to avenging his father, the youngster had helped the small Texan to accomplish an important mission. With his quest ended, the Kid had decided that smuggling no longer interested him. So he had accepted Dusty’s offer to join the OD Connected. Not as an ordinary cowhand, but as a member of the floating outfit, the elite of a tough and very capable crew. The larger ranches often made use of floating outfits, six or so top hands who roamed the more distant ranges instead of being based at the main buildings.

  Along with another member of the floating outfit, Dusty and the Kid had been sent by Ole Devil Hardin to assist the Schells in gathering horses for the OD Connected’s remuda. There were plans afoot to build up the War-ruined economy of Texas x and, to take a full part in them, the ranch would need the extra mounts for its hands. In addition to acquiring their own horses, Dusty, the Kid and Mark Counter were also helping the Schell family to fill an army remount contract. Their presence had been of the greatest use, especially as Colin Farquharson and Jeanie had earned the enmity of a murderous Mexican bandido family. That problem had been attended to, the first two hundred and fifty horses were on their way to the Army, and the remainder of the mustanging party headed to their next area of operations.

  ‘Right sorry I scared off that manada, Jeanie-gal,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Anyways I saw another about three miles north of here. It’s a manada de hermanos. About thirty of ’em, some good ’n’s in it.’

  ‘There’ll not be one to come up to Mogollon,’ Jeanie pointed out sadly.

  Listening to the little girl who had captured his heart, Colin swore to himself that she would have the horse called Mogollon as his gift at their wedding. As Jeanie had claimed, the stallion would form a mighty sound base on which to found their bloodline when they quit mustanging and settled on a ranch to raise horses. Mainly, though, his wee Jeanie wanted Mogollon and that was all the inducement the young Scot needed.

  With the blind impulsiveness of a young man in love, Colin gave small thought to the enormity of the task he set himself. While Felix Machado and the other mesteneros had taught him much about their trade, adding to his inherited flair for horse-management, he could not pretend to know the mustanging business as thoroughly as had Jeanie’s recently-dead father.

  If Trader Schell, rated by many as the best mustanger in Texas, had failed to find a way to capture Mogollon, it seemed unlikely that Colin could hope to do better. Yet the challenge of the situation aroused his fighting Scottish blood. Just as the knights of old went to perform difficult tasks to satisfy their ladies, so Colin intended to make the capture and training of Mogollon his quest.

  Returning to his waiting horse, Colin silently swore by all the sacred oaths of the Clan Farquharson that Jeanie would own and ride Mogollon on the day she became his bride.

  Chapter Two

  The man who had recently quit Beatrice, the Vicomtesse, de Brioude’s bed was not her husband. Watching the door close hurriedly behind him, she smiled and rose languidly from the mattress which had served as a love—or lust—couch.

  Five foot eight in height, the Vicomtesse had a marvelous body. The black silk tights she drew on clung to her magnificently developed legs and hips like a second skin. Above them, her waist swooped in and her stomach showed not an ounce of surplus fat. Then her nacreous torso widened to accommodate two melon-like breasts which jutted forward so firmly that their nipples pointed to the front. Topping the voluptuous body, she had a full-lipped, sultry, beautiful face framed by shoulder-long black hair.

  Directing her languorous gaze towards the door, Beatrice gave an annoyed sniff. Instead of concentrating on the pleasure at hand, her bedmate had spent the past hour worrying about the Vicomte coming and catching them; ignoring her repeated claim that Arnaud would never leave a card game until it ended. Taken with his inexperience—pathetically juvenile considering he was over twenty years old—1st Lieutenant Charles Lebel’s concern that Arnaud would return had tended to make their liaison far less satisfactory than she had hoped. On being allowed to rise, he had hurriedly climbed into his uniform and almost fled from the hotel room.

  Without adding to her attire, she crossed to the window and looked down at the dusty, wheel-rutted main street of Fort Sawyer. She liked little of what she saw. Brownsville had been dull and boring enough, but her present location was even worse. A chuckle broke from her as she saw Lebel leave the hotel. With such a French sounding name, he ought to have been a far better lover. Perhaps, as he was to command the de Brioudes’ military escort during their hunting expedition, she might be able to help him improve his technique. Tall, dark-haired, handsome, he had a fine, virile body under his uniform. Certainly he was the best prospect of all the men who would be accompanying herself and her husband.

  Watching Lebel cross the street, Beatrice chuckled even more. He had drawn up and knotted his yellow bandana to conceal the marks left on his neck by her teeth. Then the chuckle died away as she noticed something which jolted her attention from the young officer.

  ‘Mon Dieu!’ breathed the Vicomtesse, but the tone and the glow that sprang into her eyes was neither pious nor reverent. ‘Now there is a real man.’

  Probably the same sentiments would have occurred to the majority of women: even if they did not utter them with such heartfelt vehemence and immediately start to plan how to lure the man who had attracted the comment into bed.

  Striding by Lebel, the object of the Vicomtesse’s attention exceeded the lieutenant’s six foot by a good three inches. Under a white Stetson, its band decorated by silver conchas, curly golden-blond hair topped a tanned, classically handsome face. A tight-rolled blue silk bandana dangled its long ends down a tan shirt that, like his brown Levi’s trousers, had been made to his measure. That tremendously wide-shouldered, lean-waisted giant frame could not have been clothed so perfectly from the shelves of a general store. His trousers’ legs hung outside fancy-stitched high-heeled boots produced by the same masterly hands which had made his gun belt. Of brown le
ather, the latter carried a brace of ivory-handled Army Colts, in the fast-draw holsters tied low on his thighs.

  Gripped in his left hand by its horn, a heavy range saddle bearing his bedroll, a coiled rope and a booted rifle, rested upon his right shoulder as if it weighed five rather than over fifty pounds. Eagerly Beatrice’s eyes roamed over him, stripping away his clothing in her imagination and feasting her gaze on the immensely powerful body that must surely lie beneath them.

  With a sense of ecstatic elation she observed that the blond giant was turning and walking towards the building in which she stood. For the first time since her arrival, she found herself regarding Fort Sawyer’s finest hotel with something like favor. A dandy-dresser like that handsome blond would certainly make use of the place if he planned to stay in the town. Which meant that she would be saved the trouble of going to find him and could all the quicker come down to serious matters.

  In a fever of eagerness, anticipation and excitement, Beatrice ran to the bed and started to dress. A glance in the dressing table’s mirror told her that she needed to give her face some attention. With the adjustments made, she slipped into a white silk blouse, feeling its cool embrace against her naked torso and leaving its flounced front open just a shade lower than could be termed decorous. A divided skirt of soft doeskin came next, ending just below the tops of her calf-high black riding boots. To emphasize the slender contours of her waist and set off her hips and bust to their best advantage, she drew tight the decorative silver buckle of a wide black leather belt. Deftly she adjusted a scarlet silk band about the rear of her head to hold her glossy hair tight behind her ears then allow it to dangle loose on her shoulders. Finally she donned a pair of black leather riding-gloves to hide her wedding ring from the blond’s view.

  Satisfied that she presented a picture no red-blooded man could ignore, Beatrice left her room. When the big blond failed to appear in the passage, she went down the stairs. Preparing to give a cough, or some equally attention-drawing sound, she came into sight of the entrance hall and its reception desk. What she saw brought her to a halt and tightened her full lips into angry lines. While she had been dressing, it appeared that another woman had beaten her to her quarry. Not, the Vicomtesse told herself, that the other would be a serious challenge as a rival.

  Two inches shorter than Beatrice, and at least ten years older, the woman had shortish, curly blonde hair. If the Vicomtesse had been charitably inclined, she would have admitted that the other carried her age well. Her face was good-looking showing strength of will and a sense of humor in its lines. Although firm-fleshed and without flabby fat, the gingham dress worn by the blonde did nothing to help her buxom figure.

  Making sure that she did not come into sight of the desk, Beatrice listened to what was being said at it. Much to her delight, she saw the chubby, jovial clerk handing over two room keys, but his words robbed her of most of her pleasure.

  ‘Seventeen for you, Mrs. Schell, and I’ll put you in Fifteen, Mr. Counter.’

  While that placed the giant four doors from the de Brioudes’ rooms, the buxom blonde would be between them. Beatrice’s hope that the woman would be his mother ended and her thought that they might be strangers faded away.

  ‘I saw you bringing them hosses in this morning,’ the clerk continued. ‘They looked a real fine bunch.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Mrs. Schell answered cheerfully. ‘What do you say, Mark?’

  ‘Why sure, Libby,’ replied the blond giant, in a deep voice that sent shivers of anticipation through the listening Vicomtesse. ‘They’re real good.’

  ‘Too good for a bunch of Yankee fly-slicers,’ sniffed the clerk.

  ‘Maybe,’ Libby Schell said. ‘But they’re paying cash money for ’em, ’stead of notes-of-hand on cattle that can’t be sold ’cept for hide and tallow.’

  ‘Likely,’ admitted the clerk, knowing that the Schell family had supplied horses to more than one rancher who could only promise to pay in cattle. ‘Front!’

  A bellhop darted from the rear of the building. Like almost every boy in Texas, he wanted to be a cowhand and could recognize a magnificent example of that hard-riding, hard-playing fraternity when one stood before him. So he studied Mark Counter with an air of hero-worship.

  Although Mark would achieve considerable prominence as a member of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit, at that time he was practically unknown. During the War, he had been a 1st lieutenant in Bushrod Sheldon’s cavalry and his taste in uniforms had brought him into conflict with numerous senior officers. He had gained a reputation as a peerless bare hand fighter, possessed Herculean strength and could handle his matched Army Colts with considerable precision. Due to his being so much in Dusty Fog’s company, he would never receive his full acclaim as a gun fighter. Dusty always declared that Mark ran him a close second in matters pistolero.

  Son of a wealthy Big Bend ranch owner, Mark had helped Dusty and the Kid on the important mission in Mexico. Like the Kid, he had accepted the Rio Hondo gun wizard’s offer of employment. Guessing that being a member of the floating outfit would offer opportunities for good companionship, fun and excitement, he had decided against going home. There were two older brothers at the R-over-C, so his presence would not be required. A top hand in all aspects of cattle-work, Mark had proved an asset to the OD Connected.

  Suddenly the bellhop’s eyes swiveled from Mark to the stairs. Following the direction of the boy’s gaze, Libby, Mark and the clerk looked to where Beatrice made her appearance. Ignoring the frank, adolescent scrutiny of the bellhop and the clerk’s equally thorough study, the Vicomtesse made a hip-swiveling promenade to the desk. While she took pleasure in having males of any age looking at her with approval, she had bigger fish to fry. Directing a quick, suggestive glance from under her eyelashes at Mark, she turned her gaze to the clerk.

  ‘Could you please tell me, m’sieur, if I can hire a horse to go riding?’

  ‘Sure can, ma’am,’ the clerk replied, hardly able to tear his eyes from where Beatrice’s nipples made twin hillocks against the material of the blouse. ‘Go to the livery barn across the street. You can’t miss it.’

  ‘Will the horse be trustworthy, m’sieur?’ the Vicomtesse continued, flashing a radiant smile at Mark. ‘I mean, one I can manage without difficulty.’

  If it was possible for five foot eight inches of lascivious femininity to look and sound fragile, or in need of protection from the evils of the outside world, Beatrice came close to doing it. Unfortunately the clerk ruined the whole effect.

  ‘How about your husband, ma’am?’

  ‘My husband?’ countered Beatrice, trying to make it sound like the clerk had made a mistake about her marital status.

  Although he sensed that somehow he had said the wrong thing, the clerk went on, ‘Ain’t he going riding with you, ma’am?’

  Ever since the gorgeous woman had made her appearance, Libby Schell had been watching her. Studying the by-play without showing any noticeable interest in it, the blonde waited to see which way it was going. Despite having married young and spent much of her life roaming the Texas range country with her husband, she had acquired considerable knowledge of human nature. So she recognized Beatrice as being a walking mantrap and admitted that the beautiful foreigner was supplied with a perfect bait for the prey.

  Libby glanced at Mark, guessing that he was the one Beatrice’s words had been aimed at. Like the clerk and bellhop, the blond giant examined the newcomer with considerable enthusiasm.

  ‘Well,’ Libby mused. ‘If Mark can’t handle hisself around a married woman, he deserves all the grief he’s likely to—’

  ‘M’sieur le Vicomte has business matters to hold his attention,’ Beatrice explained, the harsh timbre underlying the seductive tone telling Libby that the clerk’s references to her husband had been unappreciated. ‘He cannot accompany me.’

  ‘Maybe Lieutenant Lebel’ll be able to go with you?’ suggested the man behind the desk. ‘He’s only just left—’
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  ‘He has his duties to perform!’ Beatrice gritted, for the clerk was going from bad to worse in his desire to be helpful. ‘I merely plan to take a short ride, if to do so will be safe.’

  ‘It sure will, happen you tell the owner to give you a steady hoss and don’t go too far off, ma’am,’ answered the clerk. ‘Country hereabouts’s been real quiet since the Flores gang got wiped out by—’

  ‘Hey, sonny,’ Libby put in, sensing that she and Mark might become involved in the conversation by virtue of their part in the ‘wiping out’ of the Flores brothers’ gang. ‘How about showing me to my room?’

  ‘Huh?’ grunted the boy, dragging his gaze reluctantly from the gently pulsating front of the white blouse. ‘Oh! Yeah! Sure thing, Mrs. Schell.’

  Bending over, the boy took hold of Libby’s carpetbag and looked at Mark’s saddle which lay alongside it. Although he raised the bag with no trouble, the bellhop faced a problem. One of his duties around the hotel was to carry the guests’ baggage to their rooms. While a sturdy youngster, he knew that he would be hard-pressed to tote the saddle even without the added burden of the carpetbag.

  ‘Best let me take that, amigo,’ drawled Mark, and swung the saddle effortlessly on to his right shoulder.

  Two sets of eyes followed Mark’s actions, but with vastly different interests. The boy displayed admiration over the ease with which the blond giant hoisted up the load. Running the tip of her tongue across her lips, Beatrice contemplated the pleasures that might come her way if she played her cards correctly.

  ‘Perhaps it would be better if I waited for an escort,’ the Vicomtesse purred and eyed Mark suggestively. ‘But I had so set my heart on taking a ride—’

  When the big blond showed no sign of volunteering her services as the escort, Beatrice turned and made for the stairs. She went with an undulating gait that set her breasts bobbing and caused the cheeks of her rump to grind against each other in a fluid manner observable beneath her skirt. Eagerly the bellhop followed her and the new guests trailed along at a more leisurely pace. That was how Beatrice wanted things. Let M’sieur le beau Counter compare her with the fat old hag at his side and the Vicomtesse would find him the more susceptible on their next meeting.