"Good afternoon," she said, her voice pleasant and hinting at good breeding.

  "Howdy, ma'am," Mark replied, removing his hand from the Colt's butt and wondering what brought her to the barn at such an inopportune moment.

  "I came to ask the owner to prepare papa's buckboard," she remarked as she drew nearer. "Is he here?"

  "Gone to the races, most likely," Mark answered. "I reckon most everybody's out there."

  "So it seems," smiled the girl. "Aren't you going?" "I'm waiting for somebody."

  Even as he spoke, thoughts rushed into Mark's head. There he was, waiting for the possible arrival of a dangerous criminal, and he allowed a girl to come in, walk up to him like they had known each other for years. So would nine men out of ten. She looked so sweet, innocent and harmless that any suspicions seemed stupid. Yet two men died. Skilled fighting men, one a master with a sword and the other a peace officer who took no chances when dealing with men. Both would relax if faced by such a woman as the blonde.

  At that moment Mark heard the sound of feet approaching the stable and a voice called, "Ina, we've done the first!"

  Involuntarily Mark turned his head towards the door. Then he heard a low hiss from the blonde and swung towards her. The change on the girl's face jolted Mark worse than would any male threat. Instead of the look of placid interest, her features twisted into lines of savage ecstasy such as he had never seen before, horrifying in such a setting. Already her right hand had entered the muff and emerged holding a wicked-looking, clipped-point knife of the kind once supplied as an accessory to a muzzle-loading rifle.

  Even then, against a man, Mark might have drawn and shot, but his attacker being a woman froze his normally lightning-fast reactions. Sheer instinct caused him to jerk back as the knife's eight inch blade licked towards him. He felt a burning pain between two of his ribs, his feet struck something on the floor and he fell backwards to crash his head into the side of a stall. Through the pain-mists which whirled stronger and deeper, Mark heard a woman's voice. One deeper, huskier and more seductive in tone than that of the blonde.

  "Two in a week, Ina," it said. "That's going some, even for you."

  Then everything went black for Mark.

  The two men in the county office were bored and not a little riled at being assigned to that duty when their more fortunate companions spent time among the crowds watching the various events.

  "It's all 'cause I licked the marshal's neffy," stated the elderly deputy. "That's why he—."

  A knock at the door interrupted his words. Exchanging glances, the deputy and the Ranger reached towards their guns. Leaving his chair, the deputy went to the window which offered him a view of the rear door. He saw two quietly-dressed women by the door, the younger supporting her companion. From their appearance, the visitors belonged to the class known as `good' women, as opposed to their sisters who worked in saloons; although the tawny-haired younger had the kind of figure best suited to a dancehall frock.

  "I'll go see what's up," the deputy stated.

  "Sure," agreed the Ranger. "We don't want to rile the tax-payers."

  "Or the tax-payers' wives, which's a danged sight worse," agreed the deputy.

  On opening the door, he found that the girl justified his long-range judgement as far as shape and features went. Her face held an appealing expression that showed the need for a big, strong man's aid.

  "My aunt's caught an attack of the vapours, sir," she said, supporting the bigger woman. "Why the town's so empty that I just didn't know where to turn for help. So I knocked on your door hoping there'd be somebody inside."

  "You'd best bring her in, miss," the deputy replied.

  "Here, let me help. It's all right, Ranger. Just a sick lady needing a sit in the shade."

  Had the deputy been more observant he would have noticed the bigger woman's right hand come from the reticule gripped in her left as he spoke.

  "Th—there are more of you here?" she gasped without looking up.

  "Just the two of us, ma'am," replied the deputy. "Sheriff and Ranger captain allowed somebody'd best keep guard on things here."

  "How shrewd," the woman said as her companion and the deputy helped her into the room. "I do hope the banks are also protected."

  "They sure as he—sure are, ma'am," the deputy assured her. "Three fellers in each and all with shotguns. Your money's safe there."

  "My isn't that a relief."

  While she spoke, the woman allowed the deputy to lower her into a chair. They were in the office which contained the safe and the woman's eyes darted towards it, then up at her companion.

  "Can we do anything for you, ma'am?" asked the Ranger in concern, walking by the girl and towards the woman.

  "I'm fine," she replied, her right hand slipping into the reticule which rested on her lap, coming out and driving towards the inside of the deputy's thigh.

  Shock and agony passed across the old timer's face as he felt burning pain blaze through his leg, followed by something hot and wet gushing down it. Even as he tried to straighten up and draw his gun, the woman's left hand slipped from the reticule's strap and clamped hold of his throat. Such was her strength that the deputy might have been hard-pressed to resist, even without his life blood gushing out of the severed great saphenous vein and femoral artery.

  Sudden realisation hit the Ranger and his hand dipped gun-wards. Behind him, the tawny-haired girl slid a knife from her reticule and thrust savagely. Clearly she knew more than a little about using a knife, or achieved a lucky hit, for the blade drove in just right to catch the Ranger's kidneys. Unmentionable pain tore through him, numbing his limbs and choking off his cry for help. His legs buckled and he crumpled in a dying heap on the ground.

  "Not bad," the big woman, whom Danny knew as Miss Cosethorpe, remarked as she wiped the knife clean on the dead deputy's shirt. "Ina's a good teacher."

  "What about the other places?" asked the girl, ignoring the last comment.

  "We can forget them. Three guards would be too many for us to manage. It's lucky I thought to have you knock, Tawny, or we'd've warned them. Let's take a look at that safe."

  "Can you open it?" Tawny inquired after the woman crossed to and examined the safe's door.

  "If the bank at Brownsville'd been this easy, you wouldn't've had to sleep with the banker and make an impression of his keys."

  "I got well paid for it," sniffed the girl.

  Opening her reticule, Miss Cosethorpe took out and spread open a roll of cloth to show a set of tools such as lock-smiths used. Telling the girl to watch out of the window, she set to work on the safe's lock. After putting away the knife, Tawny drew a short barrelled Webley Bulldog from the reticule and held it in a competent manner while standing by the window. Ten minutes ticked by and the girl heard her companion let out a low hiss of satisfaction. Turning, Tawny saw Miss Cosethorpe pull open the safe's door. Tarrant County had never felt the need for a more modern and stronger safe, as it only rarely held much of value, and now paid the price for the negligence.

  "Not as much as I hoped for," Miss Cosethorpe remarked, taking out pads of money to-slip into pockets built into her skirt. "It'll cover our expenses and leave a good bit over."

  "We'd best go get Ina afore she starts tossing matches around," Tawny replied, also hiding money in her skirt. "I don't know which she likes more, lighting fires or sticking a knife into somebody."

  "She's got her uses," answered Miss Cosethorpe.

  "Reckon that Ranger she killed told anybody about her?"

  "If he had, they'd've been around asking questions before now. Lord! After all that time he still remembered her."

  Ignoring the bodies of the men they murdered, the two women prepared to leave. While Miss Cosethorpe locked the empty safe, Tawny opened the door and made sure they could leave undetected. Such was the careful design of their skirts that neither gave any sign of the money she carried.

  Nobody saw the two women leave and lock the office, or walking through the streets to the Bayswater livery barn. On their arrival, they found the blonde girl standing over Mark and Tawny said the words he heard just before lapsing into unconsciousness.

  "He's not dead," Miss Cosethorpe said, looking down at the blond giant.

  "Shall I finish him off?" asked the blonde girl eagerly. "Drag him into a stall and leave him," replied the big woman calmly. "He'll bleed to death before he's found." "How about us?" Tawny inquired.

  "We'll do like we planned. Go back to the hotel and—."

  "Somebody's coming!" Tawny hissed, gliding to stand by the side of the door and slipping the Webley Bulldog from her reticule.

  At the same moment Miss Cosethorpe heard the sound of approaching feet and pulled a stubby Remington Double Derringer from a holster strapped to her wrist.

  Walking towards the barn, Dusty Fog looked around him at the sights of the deserted town. After watching a couple of races, he had decided to relieve Mark for a time and strolled back. His eyes went to the front of the barn, through the open doors, to something which lay on the floor. With sickening impact he realised that the things were a pair of male legs clad in very familiar trousers and boots. Instantly Dusty's left hand flashed across to draw the right side Colt and he plunged forward ready for trouble.

  As he passed through the doors of the barn, Dusty saw the beautiful blonde girl and Miss Cosethorpe bending over Mark's stretched out frame. With his training and serious thought on the matter, Dusty could claim to be the finest practical revolver shot and most deadly gun-fighter in Texas. When he entered the barn, he came ready to shoot if necessary. But seeing women before him caused him to hesitate, even though one of them lined a Remington Double Derringer at him and the other still grasped a knife red with his friend's blood.

  That hesitation gave Miss Cosethorpe her chance. The wicked little hideout gun spat out its .41 calibre load and Dusty felt a shattering impact against his stomach. Leaping forward as the small Texan doubled over, Tawny swung her

  Webley and crashed its gun butt against the back of his head. While the Stetson partially halted the blow, it sent him crashing down on to his face. The Colt in his hand, held cocked and with the trigger drawn back, cracked, but its bullet did no more than churn up the ground.

  "Let me kill him!" purred Ina, making delicate, almost beautiful gestures with the bloody knife.

  "There's no time now," Miss Cosethorpe answered. "I hit him in the guts and he's as good as gone even if Tawny hadn't split his head. Somebody might have heard the shot. Let's get the hell out of here!"

  For some time after the women left, Dusty lay doubled over in agony on the floor. Then slowly he dragged himself to his knees. Face twisted in the pain which knotted his guts and sent waves of hideous nausea through him, he dragged himself up by gripping the side of the door. For a moment Dusty thought he would collapse, but forced himself to stay erect. From the region of the pain, he guessed that the bullet must have caught him in the belly and knew that both he and Mark must receive medical aid in a hurry. Leaning against the door, Dusty managed to draw his right hand Colt, the other lying on the ground where he let it fall. Although every move caused him untold torment and agony, he gripped the Colt in his right hand and forced back the trigger as his left swung across to knock back the hammer. Using the method known as fanning, Dusty fired off three shots.

  Everything seemed to be whirling around, the ground heaving underfoot as if struck by an earthquake. Dusty wanted nothing more than to double over and sink to the ground, but he forced himself to continue standing. In the distance voices raised as men, attracted by the sound of the shots, tried to locate their source. With an effort Dusty managed to force back the Colt’s hammer and another shot rang out. Then he sank down, unable to prevent himself vomiting and finding mists swirling before his eyes.

  Feet thudded, drawing closer, yet very slowly it seemed to Dusty. He fought to stay conscious, wanting to warn the men of their danger. At last the entire Bad Bunch business came through as clear as daylight. So simple—and yet the last thing any man would think of.

  Approaching cautiously, one man from each of the banks appeared on the scene. Behind them, the other guards stood gripping shotguns in locked buildings, in case the shots should be a means of luring part of the various banks' defences away before a robbery attempt.

  "Cap'n Fog!" gasped one of Murat's Rangers, dropping to his knees and thrusting away his Colt.

  "In—inside—!" Dusty croaked, every word tearing pain through him. "M—Mark's there—!"

  "Who did it?" asked the man, while his companions dashed into the barn.

  "Wo—wo—!" Desperately Dusty tried to give his warning. A sudden surge of pain tore through him, the mists swirled thicker and he collapsed unconscious.

  "Get a hoss out!" the Ranger yelled. "Ride like hell for a doctor, there's one at the hoss-races."

  While one man obeyed, the other went to the rear door of the barn and looked out. He saw no sign of the two Texans' attackers and the ground was too hard to show tracks. Turning, he joined the Ranger.

  "Lord!" the man breathed. "I'd hate like hell to tangle with the jaspers who could do this to Dusty Fog and Mark Counter."

  Chapter thirteen - the woman's touch

  Although a small lamp threw out a feeble glow on the table by the window, the bed lay in comparative darkness. Opening his eyes, Dusty tried to sit up and gave a low groan as the pain tore through his lower body. Betty Hardin rose from where she had sat for the past hour and crossed to the bed. Typically, Dusty's first thought went to his amigo.

  "How—how's Mark?" he asked.

  "He's alive," the girl answered. "Badly cut, but only the flesh between the ribs. Lon thinks he must have been pulling back as whoever did it cut, and the knife didn't go right in."

  "Thank God for that!" Dusty breathed. "How about me?"

  Each word took an effort, for his head throbbed and his raised hand told him that bandages covered the top of his skull. Walking to the side table, Betty picked up Dusty's gunbelt and brought it to the bed.

  "You're the luckiest cuss alive, Dusty," she told him, holding the belt out. "The bullet hit the buckle and doubled you over."

  Studying the almost doubled condition of the stout buckle, Dusty felt as if a cold hand touched him. An inch higher, or lower, and the bullet would have torn into his body. As it was, the .41 bullet caught the buckle and slammed it into his mid-section with the power of a mule-kick.

  "It sure made a mess of that," Dusty said, trying to sound better than he felt.

  "Somebody tried to make a mess of your pumpkin head," snorted Betty. "If you hadn't been wearing your hat—."

  "Maw always tried to teach Danny and me to take our hats off around women," Dusty interrupted. "I never learned."

  "What's that mean?"

  "The Bad Bunch are women."

  "Now you take it easy, Dusty boy. Your head's not broken, but it still caught one hell of a crack."

  "Damn it, Betty!" Dusty barked, trying to sit up. "I tell you it was women who did this—"

  Gently Betty placed her hands on Dusty's shoulders and he felt too weak to struggle against her. So he lay back on the pillow and the girl nodded her head.

  "That's better. I'll go tell Belle and Lon you've woken up.

  "Is Jules here?"

  "No. He's down at the County Offices. They were robbed and the two guards killed. Take it easy, Dusty. I won't be long."

  Watching Betty leave the room, Dusty put a hand on his stomach and winced. Women! He should have thought of that possibility and had even less excuse for not doing so with a girl like Belle Boyd around to remind him of just how dangerous a member of the `weaker' sex could be.

  Everything fell into place. Beau Amesley, a Southern gentleman of the old school, would never allow a man other than one he knew and trusted approach him under the conditions he faced that night in Brownsville; but seeing that pretty, well-dressed blonde girl, he suspected nothing until too late. Much the same applied to Prince. While he would be ready to throw down on a man, such a beautiful girl

  "A face like an angel!"

  As the words from so long ago came back to him, Dusty jerked up in bed. The movement drove nausea through him to lie back again until the spasm passed. To take his mind off the pain, he tried to think.

  Could the blonde possibly be the girl abducted from the massacred Quaker village at the end of the War? It hardly seemed likely—yet she had an innocent, almost angelic beauty. Maybe she only looked like the Quaker girl. Yet if Prince saw her, he could have left his work of following McKie and gone after her. With his normal alertness relaxed, he would prove easy meat, although no man would have found him so.

  "Where're my clothes?" he asked as Betty appeared followed by the Kid and Belle. "I've got to—."

  "They're in the cupboard—and staying there," Betty answered.

  "Damn it, Betty, I have to see Jules—"

  "You lie back and do like Betty says," ordered the Kid. "Do it, Dusty, or so help me, I'll hawg-tie you down. And you're weak enough for me to be able to do it, even if the gals don't help."

  "Which we will," warned Belle. "You'll be neither use nor ornament in your condition, Dusty."

  More than the threat, a wave of dizziness caused Dusty to lie back. When it passed, he looked at his cousin and friends.

  "That's better," Betty smiled. "First time I ever saw any of you floating outfit yahoos show good sense."

  "I treats that remark with the contempt it deserves," growled the Kid. "Now Dusty, what's up?"

  "Who shot you, Dusty, is what he means," Belle went on. "A woman—"

  "That figures," the Kid said. "I didn't reckon any man could."

  "I know this sounds crazy," Dusty continued, ignoring the comment. "But I reckon the Bad Bunch are something to do with Hannah's guerillas."

 

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