Trigger Fast Read Online Free Page B

asked in a tough voice.
    ‘We’re in, boy,’ Dusty answered, sparing him hardly a glance. ‘You, hombre , get afork your hoss and take your pards off with you.’
    Tring wasn’t fixing to argue. He bent and took up his hat, placing it on the bald head. Tomorrow would be another day. The Texans would be riding on soon and he would return. Freda Lasalle was going to wish he had not when he came back. Or maybe Lasalle would pull out in a hurry when he heard what had happened — or what might have happened had not those three interfering Texans been on hand.
    So Tring turned to collect his horse. His backers did not want trouble, he could read that on their faces. Only the fool kid wanted to make fuss, bring off a grandstand play.
    Full of brash conceit and over-confident both in himself and the ability of the others to back him, the young hard-case took a pace forward.
    ‘Listen, you!’ he said to Dusty. ‘Our boss sent us to do a job, and we aim to do it, so you can smoke off afore you get hurt.’
    Dusty did not even look at the young man, but threw a glance at Tring as the bald man mounted his horse.
    ‘Call him off, hombre ,’ Dusty said gently, ‘or lose him.’
    Tring made no reply. He watched the young gun-hand, wondering if he might be lucky and give the rest of them a chance to cut in.
    ‘Listen, you short-growed ru—!’ began the youngster.
    He stopped faster than he started, and without finishing his speech, for a very good reason. Dusty Fog glided forward a step. His right fist drove out and sank with the power of a mule-kick into the youngster’s stomach. The young gunny’s hand started moving towards the butt of his Army Colt as Dusty stepped forward. He failed to make it. The hand which he meant to fetch out the Colt clutched instead at his middle as he doubled over croaking in agony.
    Instantly Dusty threw up his fist-knotted left hand, smashing it full under the youngster’s jaw, lifting him erect and throwing him backwards into the horses. Then the gunny slid down into a sitting position. Through the spinning pain mists and bright lights which popped before his eyes he saw Dusty standing before him and again tried to get out his gun. Dusty jumped forward, foot lashing out in a kick which ripped skin from the gun-hand, brought a howl of pain from the youngster and sent the Colt flying.
    Bending forward Dusty took a double handful of the youngster’s shirt and hauled him erect, shook him savagely, then let him go. The youngster’s legs were buckling under him as Dusty’s right fist lashed up at his jaw. Mark Counter winced in sympathy as the blow landed. The youngster went over backwards, crashing down and made no attempt to rise.
    Dusty looked at Tring, his eyes cold and hard.
    ‘You always let a boy do your fighting?’ he asked.
    ‘Boy played it on his own,’ snarled Tring, hating backing down but not having the guts to take Dusty up on it. We ain’t after fuss with you.’
    ‘Fussing with a gal’d be more your game,’ drawled Mark. ‘Wouldn’t it?’
    Never the most amiable of men, Tring still managed to hold down his anger and resentment at Mark’s words.
    ‘The boss made these folks a fair offer for their place,’ he said. ‘He wants more land to build up his holding. We just figured to toss a scare into the girl and her pappy. Didn’t mean her no real harm.’
    Freda watched everything, still holding Bugle’s collar. She wanted to say something, take a part in the drama being played out before her. Dusty did not give her a chance for he clearly aimed to handle the entire affair his own way. She went back to shove Bugle into the house then came towards Dusty.
    ‘We aren’t selling,’ she said.
    ‘You hear that?’ asked Dusty.
    ‘I heard it!’ Tring replied.
    ‘We’ll be going up the trail today. But we’ll be coming back this way and if these folks aren’t here and unharmed, hombre , you’d best be long gone or I’ll nail your hide to the door.