In falling, the cow thief’s hat had gone from his head and the shirt under the thrown-open jacket appeared to have been torn apart to expose the flesh below. The first thing Gooch noticed was long hair trailing around the head. Hair far longer than even Wild Bill Hickok sported, and framing a beautiful, most unmasculine face. Next the bounty hunter’s eyes strayed downward, to the open shirt and what it exposed. Apparently the cow thief did not go in for wearing underclothing and what Gooch could see rising from the open shirt most certainly did not belong to any man.
Holstering his gun, Gooch walked forward and drank in the sight of those round, full and naked female breasts. Never a pleasant sight, his evil face looked even more so as he advanced on the moaning, agony-moving figure. While watching the trio by the fire Gooch had been aware that this third member of the party appeared to be the boss. Maybe she was the boss rustler of the area. Stranger things had happened and from what Gooch had seen of her in Caspar, she had the brains to be the big augur and nobody would ever suspect her. Only now she had been caught in the act and would bring in at least two hundred dollars same as the other two—dead.
Only before she died, Gooch figured he might as well pleasure himself a mite. He had a keen eye for a beautiful face and good figure; and, man, that gal on the ground afore him possessed both. Once dead, which she would be as soon as he finished his fun, the girl could not tell any tales of what happened before she met her end.
“Gal,” he said, dropping to his knees besides her and reaching down toward the open shirt front, “if you enjoy it, you’ll sure die hap——”
Which same concluded his speech, although he had not entirely finished it. Suddenly the girl jerked her right hand into sight, it having been hidden under her jacket, a Remington Double Derringer gripped firmly in her fingers. Taken completely by surprise, Gooch looked death in the face. Shocked horror crossed his features and wiped the leering lust from them. Even as he tried to force his brain into positive, cohesive thought, to lurch erect, grab out his Colt, try to knock aside the wicked, deadly .41 caliber hideout gun, do anything at all to save his life, the sands of time ran out for Bat Gooch.
The Derringer spat once, its bullet taking Gooch just under the breast bone and ranging upward. While the Double Derringer’s three-inch barrels, comparatively weak powder charge and large caliber bullet did not have great carrying or penetrative powers over a range of thirty yards, Gooch was well within its killing area. A tearing, numbing agony ripped through Gooch, stopping his hand even before it could claw out his gun. Again the Derringer roared, its second bullet slicing into Gooch’s body. Rearing to his feet, Gooch stood for a moment and then tumbled over backward.
Coming to her feet, the woman reloaded the Double Derringer and dropped it into her jacket pocket. Without a glance at the dying man, she buttoned her shirt and closed the jacket over it.
“I figured you’d fall for that, you lousy murdering skunk,” she remarked, picking up and putting on her hat.
Her horse had come to a halt a short distance away and she walked to it. Taking the reins, she set a foot into the stirrup iron and swung gracefully into her saddle. Ignoring Gooch as if he did not exist—and he no longer did except as a lump of lifeless flesh—the woman rode back in the direction from which she fled.
Back at the hollow, the woman showed no more interest in the two dead cowhands than she had for Gooch’s welfare. Swinging from the saddle, she stood for a moment and thought out the situation. First those half-a-dozen calves must be released. It was a pity they had only branded three of the animals. Alone she could not handle the branding of the others. Besides somebody might have heard the shooting and even now be riding to investigate. Shots in the dark on the Caspar County range would attract more attention under the prevailing conditions than normally and she had no wish to be caught. Being a smart woman, she did not regard the ranchers as fools, or figure they could not think things out. Maybe they might not be able to prove anything against her, but they sure would be suspicious to see her of all people riding the range at night and dressed in man’s clothing. She would be watched too carefully in future to carry on with this profitable side-line to her normal business and that was the last thing she wanted.
Taking up a knife one of the cowhands had tossed into the dirt so as to be handy for hurried freeing of the calves, the woman walked forward and released the unbranded animals. As she expected, they wasted no time in heading off through the bushes, blatting loudly and looking for their mothers. She collected the two dead cowhands’ ropes and with her own secured the three branded calves to her saddlehorn. After cutting the calves’ hobbles, she mounted the horse.
“Hard luck, boys,” she said, throwing a glance at the two shapes by the dying fire. “That’s life for you.”
And with no more sentiment than that, the woman rode away, leading the three calves behind her. She left behind two dead cowhands—and two running irons.
Chapter 2 SHE’S A MIGHTY SMART WOMAN
STANTON HOWARD, GOVERNOR OF THE STATE OF Texas, was a busy man who could quite well have done without the cow thief problem of Caspar County being dumped in his lap. Brought in after the Texans’ forcible ejection of Carpetbag Davis’ corrupt, vicious Reconstruction administration, Howard found enough work to last him a solid twenty-four hours a day—he could have worked twenty-six hours a day if that be possible and still find work to do in plenty the following morning.
The disbanding of Davis’ State Police had brought problems in its wake. For several years there had been little State law enforcement in Texas, Davis’ men being more concerned with lining their own pockets in the guise of elevating the Negro to the status of a citizen with equal rights. With the departure of the State Police commanders—or such of them who did not meet not undeserved fates on the end of a rope—the colored policemen slipped back to their homes, or wandered northward in search of a land flowing with milk and honey. In the place of the State Police, the Texas Rangers returned from their Davis-inspired removal. Honest men, many of whom could have earned far more than their Ranger’s wages in other, less dangerous walks of life, joined. The Texas Rangers asked little of its recruits other than loyalty, courage, ability to ride anything with four legs and hair and the knowledge of how to handle firearms.
However, with every Ranger working full time, Howard could well have done without receiving the letter from Caspar County. Yet one of the Governor’s most pressing duties was to appease those Texans—and there were many—who had developed a hearty hatred of authority as represented by Washington’s appointed head of the State. Knowing Texans, for he belonged to the Lone Star State himself, Howard could read between the lines of the letter. He smelled trouble in the air, far more trouble than one might expect from the theft of a few cows.
A jerk on the bell cord hanging behind him brought one of Howard’s hard-working secretaries into the well-furnished room.
“Get Captain Murat for me,” the Governor said.
Five minutes later the door opened and a tall, slim, dark man in his early thirties entered. Although Captain Jules Murat, commander of Troop “G,” Texas Rangers, wore town clothes, he carried himself with the swing of a horseman. One might almost imagine him wearing a plumed, cocked hat, a cloak over a Hussar uniform, a saber at his side instead of a brace of holstered 1860 Army Colts, for there was a Gasconading air about him, a hint of controlled, deadly recklessness. Tanned, handsome, very rich, Murat was still one of the best Ranger captains under Howard’s command.