Trigger Fast Read Online Free

he would be outside and facing them.
    ‘Go on, Preacher!’ yelled the youngest of the bunch, a brash, tall youngster in his late teens and who clearly considered himself the hardest rock ever quarried. ‘Get off and push!’
    This brought a roar of laughter from the others and a snarled curse from Tring. He often boasted of his horse’s strength and pulling power, so did not intend to allow the animal to make him a liar.
    Tring spurred his horse cruelly. Steel shod hooves churned up dirt as it threw weight against the taut rope, trying to tear the corral’s post from the earth. The man cursed savagely as the post held firm. He raked his struggling horse from neck to rump with sharp-rowelled petmakers, but to no avail.
    From behind Freda came the crash of a shot. The rope split and the horse, suddenly relieved of the strain, stumbled forwards, throwing its rider over its head. Tring’s companions turned to see who dared interfere with the Double K.
    The small Texan stood in, the doorway of the house, smoke rising lazily from the barrel of the Army Colt in his right hand. He looked at the hostile group of eight hard-case riders.
    ‘I’m taking cards,’ he said. ‘The name’s Dusty Fog.’
    With that the sleek Colt pinwheeled on his finger and went back to the holster at the left side of his body. He stepped forward, passing the girl, to halt between her and the men.
    Only it was not a small, insignificant cowhand who passed her. Now he seemed to have put on inches, and to exude a deadly menace. Never again would Freda think of him as being small.
    He faced the men, hands thumb-hooked into his belt, eyes watching them, daring any of them to make a move.
    Snarling out incoherent curses Preacher Tring sat up. He had lost his hat and his head was completely bald, which added to his general air of evil. He forced himself to his feet and looked at the small Texan. From the expression on Tring’s face, Freda thought he would grab out his gun and shoot down this impudent stranger who came between him and his desires. In the heat of the moment Freda clean forgot about the other two men and did not wonder why they failed to stand alongside their boss at such a moment.
    ‘Easy Preacher!’ a man spoke hurriedly, urgently. ‘He’s speaking true. That there’s Dusty Fog all right. I saw him when he brought the Rocking H herd to Dodge against Wyatt Earp’s word.’ 1
    Not until then did Freda fully realize who her small guest really was. She could hardly believe her eyes or ears as she looked at the small Texan called Dusty Fog.
    She’d heard the name often enough, but never pictured the famous Dusty Fog as anything but a handsome giant, a hero of the same kind she read about in books. In the War Between The States she, and almost every other southern girl, dreamed of Dusty Fog as their knight in armour. He had been the boy-wonder, the Confederate Cavalry captain who, at seventeen, made the Yankees wish they’d stayed at home and who carried a fighting cavalryman’s reputation as high as that of Turner Ashby or John Singleton Mosby.
    Since the War his name rose high as a cowhand, a trail boss who ranked with Charlie Goodnight, Oliver Loving, Stone Hart, the pick of the trail bosses. It had been Dusty Fog and his friends who tamed the bad Montana mining city called Quiet Town, 2 after three lesser men died in the trying. He was the segundo of the great OD Connected ranch in the Rio Rondo country. He had ambidextrous prowess with his matched bone handled guns. His speed of drawing those same guns and his accuracy in shooting were all legends. Now he stood before Freda Lasalle, a man of five foot six at most, a man she had dismissed as nobody and hardly spared a second glance.
    Tring also thought of all he had heard of Dusty Fog and liked none of it. The small Texan stood alone, facing eight of them — or did he stand alone — where he was two other men were likely to be.
    The tall, handsome blond stood at the corner of the