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“You done good, no matter why,” the driver praised. “There’s some young ’n’s’s would’ve hoisted out that hid-away gun you’re toting and started to make smoke regardless. Which, with yahoos as jumpy as that bunch look to be, would’ve gotten more than just you made wolf-bait happen you know what that means.”

  “I know what it means,” Franks admitted, pleased with the confirmation of his assessment where the outlaws were concerned until another thought struck him. “You know I’m armed?”

  “Ben told me you was,” Tract explained. “He’s better’n fair at seeing guns’s folks think’re hid away out of sight and sneaky-like, although he never mentioned that Blenheim feller was toting.” Looking to where the shotgun messenger was just starting to stir, watched dispassionately by the second long haired outlaw, he went on with a mixture of anger and grudging admiration, “God damn it though, young feller, that gal must pack a punch like a son-of-a-bitching knobhead mule kicking way he went down when she hit him.”

  “I’d say, from the way he dropped, she has a set of brass knuckles under the gauntlet,” Franks assessed. “Good as she swung, I doubt whether her hand alone would be hard enough to do it. From what I learned while boxing at college, the way she hit his jaw, she would have broken her knuckles without some form of protection for them.”

  “I’ll float my stick along of you on that,” the driver conceded, deciding there was more to the young passenger than met the eye. “Do you know who she is?”

  “No.”

  “She’s—!”

  “Hey, you pair!” the woman called, before Tract could deliver the information. “Now you have the horses calmed down, let’s be having you-all back here.”

  “You heard the lady!” growled the outlaw who was keeping watch over the driver and the young passenger. “Get moving!”

  “How’s about letting me go take care of Ben there?” Tract suggested, jerking his right thumb in the direction of the shotgun messenger.

  “You can do what the hell you like with him after we’ve finished with you and pulled out,” the outlaw with the Winchester replied and gestured with the weapon. “But, right now, do what you’re told.”

  “All right, Frenchie,” the woman said, as the driver and Franks joined the surviving pair of passengers. “You-all can shell out now.”

  “As you wish, mademoiselle,” Jaqfaye replied, reaching almost daintily into the left side of his jacket. “Or is it ‘madame’?”

  “Last time good ole Calamity Jane was asked that,” the blonde answered, “she said, ‘I’m not a madam, I’m just one of the gals.’”

  “Would that have been after she beat you in that fight in Butte, Montana, ma’am?” Franks inquired, with what appeared to be an innocent and respectful eagerness.

  “You’ve got real sharp ears, smart-ass,” the woman stated. “But you-all have gotten it all wrong. It was m—Belle Starr who gave Calamity Jane the licking.”

  “That would have been the time in Butte, Montana, ma’am?” the youngest passenger asked in the same interested fashion.

  “Where else would it have been, smart-ass, w—they only locked horns the one time,” the woman replied, then turned her attention back to Jaqfaye. “All right, Frenchie, put it up for lil ole me.”

  “Of course, mademoiselle,” the Frenchman assented, his manner nonchalant. “Here you are.”

  “You-all are coming across way too easy, Frenchie,” the blonde claimed. “Give me your carbine and check him out, Max. I reckon he’d sooner have you do it than me.”

  “Do you think he’s got one of those money belts on?” inquired the man who had kept watch on Franks and Tract, surrendering the Winchester.

  “Find out,” the blonde commanded, glancing at the weapon she accepted and, giving a hiss of annoyance, working its lever to charge the chamber.

  Having kept the Frenchman under observation, Franks could see he deeply resented the implication of being a homosexual and was struggling to keep control of his temper. As Max stepped toward him, he darted a glance to where his walking stick was leaning against the front wheel of the stagecoach. For a moment, he reminded the youngest passenger of a cat preparing to spring. Then, giving a particularly Gallic shrug of resignation, he spread open his arms.

  “Nothing!” Max announced disgustedly, at the conclusion of the search.

  “Nothing?” the woman repeated.

  “I have an establishment in Tucson, as well as at Phoenix, so keep bank accounts in each place,” Jaqfaye explained, lowering his arms. “Therefore, I do not need to carry large sums when travelling from one to the other.”

  “Looks like we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got from you in that case,” the woman answered. “Now it’s your turn, smart-ass.”

  “I’m like M’sieur Jaqfaye, ma’am, only poorer,” Franks asserted, extracting his wallet with his left hand. “All I have is here.”

  “This isn’t much for a smart-ass young feller who’s travelling, only you won’t have bank accounts scattered around,” the woman said pensively, watching the young man while Max tipped the contents into the hat held by Tommy Crane and tossed the wallet on to the ground. “Anyways, I’m not from Missouri, but I still have to be shown. Give him a going over.”

  “He’s toting a gun!” Max yelped, on commencing the task, jerking free the Colt Storekeeper Model Peacemaker.

  “He’s not breaking any laws by carrying one,” the blonde replied disdainfully and showing no concern over what might have proven a costly omission in failing to have the passengers searched. “How about more money?”

  “None I can find,” Max admitted a few seconds later, having tossed aside the short barelled revolver and run his hands over the clothing of its owner.

  “Now that’s strange!” the woman purred, looking straight at Franks’ face as she had ever since ordering the search. “I’ve still got this feeling that he’s carrying more than we’ve laid hands on.”

  “All right,” Max said. “Let me stick the carbine under his chin and give him a count of five to tell us where it is.”

  “And what will you do if he keeps quiet, shoot him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how the ‘something’ will he tell us?” the woman snorted. Stepping closer, she placed the muzzle of the carbine under Jaqfaye’s chin and went on, “I’m counting to five, smart-ass, then I’ll spread his brains all over the range I’m so sure you’ve got more money hid away. If that doesn’t work, I’ll do the same with the driver. One! Two!”

  Looking at the Frenchman, Franks was impressed by the way in which he was behaving. If he was lacking in masculinity, it certainty did not extend to physical courage. It was not, the young man felt sure, fear which caused him to stand like a statue. His face was impassive and only a slight tightening of the lips showed he appreciated his deadly peril. It implied he did not doubt the threat would be carried out. For all that, he made no attempt to speak, whether to ask for mercy or suggest a surrender to the demand.

  “Three! Four!”

  “All right, you win!” Franks acceded, his belief being strengthened that there was more to the Frenchman than met the eye. “It’s in my carpetbag in the front boot.”

  “Take him to fetch it, Max!” the woman ordered, stepping away from Jaqfaye. “Haven’t you finished, Tommy Crane?”

  “Yes I have!” the long haired outlaw affirmed, displaying the money belt he was holding between the tips of his right fingers and thumb.

  In the earlier stages of the conversation between the blonde and the passengers, Franks had contrived to keep Tommy Crane under observation. It had become increasingly apparent that he found the task to which he was assigned most distasteful. He had handled the corpse hesitantly and with care, clearly being disinclined to touch it. On having removed the money belt from beneath the shirt of the dead man, finding his hands had become stained by blood, he had shown what was obviously revulsion and, going to the edge of the trail hurriedly, wiped them clean on the grass. Stepping back as soon as
he had handed over the belt, he rubbed his palms vigorously against the legs of his trousers and gave a sigh of relief.

  “Hey!” ejaculated the outlaw who had acted as spokesman, gazing across the range. “Where the hell as Fio—Fred got to? S—He should be coming by now.”

  “Here he is,” the woman replied, laying great emphasis upon the second word, as she turned to look in the same direction. “All right, Tommy Crane, get up on the box and empty the guns.”

  Having been compelled to divert his attention from the long haired outlaw by the need to unload his carpetbag from the luggage boot beneath the driver’s box, Franks found the comments sufficiently intriging to decide he would see what had caused them. He discovered that a rider leading four saddled horses was coming from one of the clumps of woodland which, unbeknown to him, had been studied with misgivings by Benjamin Eckland prior to the hold up.

  Shorter than the woman and the male outlaws, the newcomer appeared to be very stocky in build. This, Franks concluded, could be due as much to clothing as physical characteristics. A low crowned black Stetson was pulled down sufficiently to hide the hair inside it and a bandana covered almost all of the face. Worn despite the heat, with the exception of black gloves and Levi’s trousers tucked into smallish brown riding boots, a voluminous yellow “fish” slicker concealed whatever lay beneath it.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the spokesman yelled angrily, as the newcomer brought the horses to a halt some thirty yards away.

  “It’s not that important, blast you!” the woman stated, before any reply could be made. “Have you-all unloaded those guns yet, Tommy Crane?”

  “Not yet!” the long haired outlaw answered with asperity, from the box of the stagecoach. Tipping the shells from the twin barrels of the shotgun he had broken open, he continued with no trace of his earlier guttural accent, “I’ve only got one pair of hands, you know.”

  “Then use them instead of talking, you stupid half-breed son-of-a-bitch!” the blonde ordered and returned her attention to the victims of the hold up. “If you know what’s good for you, you-all won’t try loading those guns until we’re well out of sight. Just let us see any of you-all so much as look like that’s what you’re figuring on doing and we’ll come back to give you-all exactly the same as that fat jasper there got.”

  “Here it is!” Max announced, waving the bulky carpetbag he had been given by the young passenger. “I’ll get—!”

  “Fetch the god-damned thing with us!” the woman interrupted. “We’ve wasted too much time already.”

  Backing away as she was speaking, followed by the spokesman and Max, the woman made for the horses. Dropping the shotgun and snatching up the Colt Peacemaker discarded by the driver, Tommy Crane tucked it into his waistband. Then, clambering down with haste, he scuttled rather than merely hurried after them. While this was happening, the second long haired outlaw looked to where Eckland was struggling dazedly into a sitting position. Swinging the right hand revolver he had unloaded, he laid the barrel with savage force against the side of its owner’s head. As the shotgun messenger subsided once more, he gave a laugh and, tossing down both Colts, strode rapidly to join the rest of the party.

  “Don’t try it!” Franks advised urgently, his anger at losing the carpetbag containing all his savings and other items of property he prized highly being swamped by hearing Tract rip out a profanity on seeing what happened to Eckland and make as if to go after the assailant.

  “You’re likely right, young feller!” the driver admitted bitterly, after a moment during which he appeared on the point of disregarding the counsel. “But I surely hope I meet the half-breed son-of-a-bitch some time when I’m packing iron. Trouble being, it’s not likely I’ll get the chance.” He swung his gaze from Eckland to each living passenger in turn and went on in tones of certainty, “That was Belle Starr, gents. Which being, she’ll have their get-away planned so god-damned well they’ll all be to hell and gone clear long afore we can set the law on their trail.”

  “Then let’s get going without any more delay!” Twelfinch demanded.

  “We’ll light out just’s soon’s it’s safe to do it, Senator,” Tract promised, his voice cold, watching the gang riding away at a fast trot. “And after I’ve ’tended to Ben there. While I’m doing it, you gents can be getting Mr. Blenheim loaded.”

  “Loaded?” the politician repeated, looking with a mixture of revulsion and alarm at the body. “You mean loaded inside with m—us?”

  “No!” Tract denied, making no attempt to conceal his annoyance and impatience. His tone became coldly challenging as he continued, “On the god-damned roof. But Ben’ll be riding inside—Happen you don’t have no objections, Senator?”

  “I—I don’t!” Twelfinch asserted, refusing to meet the savage gaze of the driver and suspecting any other decision would not be supported by Jaqfaye or the young man.

  “I’ll wrap the body in a tarp while you’re attending to the guard, Mr. Tract, if you have one,” Franks offered, although he had appeared to be on the point of making a comment when the driver mentioned the well known woman outlaw, Belle Starr. But he had refrained and devoted himself to watching the gang taking their departure. “Then, if these gentlemen will lend a hand, I’ll put it on the roof.”

  “I will assist you, m’sieur,” Jaqfaye offered, but the politician did not duplicate the sentiment.

  Instead, throwing a querilous glance across the range, Twelfinch inquired, “I—Is it s—safe for you to start moving about?”

  “Safe enough, I reckon,” the driver assessed, looking in the same direction. “By the time you’re getting the body on top, those son-of-bitches will be out of sight. But, to make sure, we’ll wait until they are afore we do anything.”

  “I agree with you, m’sieur,” the Frenchman said firmly.

  “And me,” Franks supported.

  “And you, my young friend,” Jaqfaye went on. “I am greatly in your debt. There are many who would have allowed me to be killed.”

  “I suppose so,” Franks admitted, non-committally.

  “Do not worry about your losses,” the Frenchman said reassuringly. “I will personally refund all they took.”

  “That’s very good of you and I’m obliged,” Franks replied, his gratitude genuine. “But, damn it, I hate being robbed.”

  “So do I,” Jaqfaye seconded, his voice very quiet yet—to the youngest passenger at least—somehow as menacing as if he had screamed imprecations. “But, it is preferable to resisting, as M’sieur Blenheim proved. There is always another day.”

  “Let’s hope it isn’t long coming!” Franks said, thinking he would not care to be any of the outlaws who fell into the hands of the outwardly effeminate Frenchman. “Can we make a st—?”

  “Oh my god!” Twelfinch yelped, pointing, before the question could be completed. “Look there. Are they more robbers?”

  Chapter 4

  GO AFTER THE GANG

  ATTRACTED BY THE ALARM IN THE VOICE OF THE politician, Walter Tract, Jedroe Franks and Pierre Henri Jaqfaye did as he had requested!

  Two riders, one leading a big paint stallion, were coming slowly around the bend of the trail from which the driver and Benjamin Eckland had received their first sight of the woman!

  Although he did not answer what he considered to have been a most tactless question from Senator Paul Michael Twelfinch II, Tract was well versed in the ways of the West and he started to draw conclusions based upon what he could see.

  From the shape of each rider’s low crowned and wide brimmed J.B. Stetson hat and other signs, the driver assumed they were Texans. They wore the attire of working cowhands and showed signs of hard travelling. However, despite the fact that the man leading the paint was seated on the horse used to aid the deception by the woman, he did not believe they intended any mischief. On the other hand, while they exchanged glances and brief comments at the sight ahead of them, they did not increase the pace at which they were moving.

  Sitt
ing the poor quality horse with easy grace, the taller of the pair being in his late ’teens, was also the younger. Wide shouldered and lean of waist, he was blond haired, clean shaven and handsome. Tightly rolled and knotted about his throat, a scarlet bandana trailed its long ends down the front of his dark blue shirt and brown and white calfskin vest. Turned back into two inches wide cuffs, the legs of his faded Levi’s trousers hung outside high heeled and sharp toed riding boots with Kelly Petmaker spurs on their heels. Around his waist was an exceptionally well designed brown buscadero gunbelt carrying a brace of staghorn handled Colt Artillery Peacemakers in holsters capable of allowing them to be drawn with great speed provided the wearer possessed the requisite skill to utilize the quality.

  Tract assessed that the blond had the necessary ability!

  As well as lacking some two inches of his companion’s height, at around six foot, the second rider was also more slender in build. Like Franks, his features suggested a studious mien. However, while they were pallid, this was because his skin resisted tanning rather than because he led a sedentary and indoor life. His hair was black and a neatly trimmed moustache graced his top lip. With one exception, he was dressed in the same manner as the blond. Instead of wearing a vest, he had on a brown jacket. Its right side was stitched back to offer unimpeded access to the solitary ivory butted Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker in the holster of a black gunbelt of an equally competent manufacture.

  In the summation of the driver, here again was a capable gun handler!

  Having completed his study of the newcomers and drawn his conclusions about them, Tract gave his attention to the horses. The paint led by the blond and the equally large black stallion his companion was sitting were magnificent animals. Despite showing indications of having been ridden hard for some time, neither could be controlled by a man unskilled in matters equestrian. Although the former was favoring its right fore leg in a way which suggested why the youngster was using the much poorer specimen, Tract decided it had only thrown a shoe and was not suffering from an injury. Both saddles were low of horn and—as Texans said, instead of “cinch” had—double girths, after the fashion evolved in the Lone Star State. Each had a coiled lariat fastened to the horn, a tarpaulin wrapped bedroll strapped to the cantle and a Winchester rifle, butt pointing to the rear for easy withdrawal on dismounting, attached to the left side. On the opposite side to his lariat, the slimmer rider carried a black leather bag of the kind in which doctors kept the tools of their profession when travelling.