caught the tell-tale smell of burning hide, he might have ridden right by the place without noticing anything. Instead he looked down at the three shapes around the fire. All wore cowhand clothes, although Gooch could only see two faces, the other having a wide-brimmed hat that effectively shielded the features. The two Gooch could see, he identified as young cowhands who worked for the Bench J; a brace of cheery, happy-go-lucky youngsters typical of hundreds across the length and breadth of the Texas range country. Although both of them wore holstered Colts, Gooch did not figure them as dangerous with the weapons—even if he aimed to give them a chance to fight. The third figure was smaller, not more than five seven, and slim under the wolf-skin jacket. Gooch studied all three noticing first that the slim, boyish third member of the party did not appear to be wearing a gunbelt.
Bending, the third figure thrust a running iron into the flames of the fire where a second iron lay heating. One of the other pair released a freshly branded calf and stripped the slicker from around its head.
“Go get another,” said the third cow thief, nodding to where half-a-dozen calves stood hobbled.
Excitement appeared to be affecting that one, making his voice almost as high pitched as a soprano woman’s. Gooch gave little thought to the voice, being more concerned with deciding what course of action to take and which of his armament best suited his purpose. The single-shot Sharps would not serve, nor the bowie, so he must handle things with his Colt. At that range, with his targets illuminated by a fire, he figured to be able to down all three. If he knew them, they would panic when the first one went down, giving him a chance to tumble the other two before they could make for the trio of horses standing at the far side of the clearing. He reached down a big right hand, drawing the 1860 Army Colt from its holster.
“I don’t like this,” the taller of the trio stated, standing with his back to Gooch—although he did not know of the bounty hunter’s presence.
“Nor me,” the second cowhand went on. “Buck Jerome’s been a good boss.”
“Shucks, he’ll not miss a few head, and anyways you know you can slap a brand on any unbranded critter you see,” the third member of the party answered.
“Sure,” agreed the second rider. “Only this bunch were with Bench J cows.”
“So?” snorted the third cow thief. “That doesn’t mean they had Bench J mammies. And anyways, how’ll you and Dora ever save en——”
The words ended unsaid as flame spurted from the darkness of the bush-dotted slopes around the basin. Caught in the middle of the back by a .44 caliber soft lead round ball—so much more deadly in impact and effect than a conical bullet—the tallest member of the trio pitched forward and just missed the fire as he fell. Just as Gooch figured, the second cowhand showed shocked indecision for an instant before trying to turn and draw his gun. By that time Gooch had cocked the Colt on its recoil and, before the young cowhand completed his turn or made his fumbling draw, fired again. Lead ripped into the cowhand’s head, dropping him in a lifeless heap on the ground, his gun still in leather.
At which point Gooch saw that his plan had partially gone wrong. Instead of being in a state of panic, the third member of the party acted with speed and a show of planned thought. Spinning around, the figure left the fire and sped toward the horses in a fast, swerving run. Twice Gooch’s Colt roared, but his bullets missed their mark. With a bound, the escaping cow thief went afork one of the horses. Range trained, the horse had been standing untied, its reins dangling before it. Scooping up the reins, the cow thief set the horse running, crashed it through the surrounding bushes like they were not there.
Still holding his Colt, Gooch turned and vaulted into his saddle. Knowing its work, the roan leapt forward, racing down the slope and across the open ground. A glance in passing told Gooch that he had earned four hundred dollars and that if not already dead the two cowhands soon would be. Knowing he could safely leave them where they lay, and find them there on his return, Gooch gave his full attention to riding down the last member of the trio.
Through the bushes and out on to the open range tore the horses, one ridden by a cow thief with the fear of death, the other carrying the same death in human form, wearing range clothes instead of a night-shirt and toting a .44 Army Colt in place of the more conventional scythe. For almost half a mile Gooch chased the cow thief, his roan closing the gap with every raking stride, although the other’s mount was not exactly slow. While the bounty hunter held his Colt, he did not attempt to shoot. Gooch knew the folly of trying to shoot from the back of a running horse, at least over anything but short range. Sure, he had two loaded chambers left, but recharging a percussion-fired revolver could not be done from the back of a racing horse, and he had no wish to approach the other when holding an empty gun. So he aimed to get closer in and cut loose from a range where he could not miss; or if the worst came to the worst, take the fleeing rider from the ground and using his heavy caliber rifle.
Once the fleeing cow thief twisted in the saddle and looked back, gauging the distance between them and guessing there was no chance of outrunning that big roan. Turning to the front again, the rider reached up with a hand to open the jacket and do something else that Gooch could not see. The bounty hunter grunted, not unduly worried, for he knew shooting backward from a galloping horse to be, if anything, even less accurate than firing in a forward direction. However, a man did not care to take chances on catching a stray bullet; he could be killed just as long, permanently, dead by a blind-lucky shot as through one taken after careful and deliberate aim.
Before the bounty hunter could make his move, either to start using the Colt or stop the roan, dismount and make use of his Sharps, he saw what appeared to be a stroke of bad luck take the fleeing rider. Ahead of the cow thief stood a noble old cottonwood; the spreading branches of which no stealer of cattle ought to look on without a shudder and thinking of the hairy touch of a Manila rope around the neck. However, the rider appeared to be mighty insensitive to atmosphere, for the horse’s course took it under the low, wide spread branches of the tree.
Suddenly the cow thief jerked backward, apparently struck by a branch, and slid over the horse’s rump to crash to the ground. Gooch brought his roan to a halt, gun held ready for use as he studied the shape on the ground. Swinging from his saddle, Gooch advanced and the shape moved slowly, rolling on to its back. Gooch’s Colt had lined at the first movement, its hammer drawn back ready and his forefinger on the trigger. Before he could send lead crashing into the near-helpless shape, he saw something that made him hold his fire and brought a broader sneer than usual to his lips.
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
