.44 Caliber Man Read Free Page A

The kilt’s not worn by women.’
    Remembering how
the young Scot had dealt with a loafer who made opprobrious remarks
about his appearance in Brownsville, April felt that she had better
intervene. Sure the Scot had proved capable of defending himself
with his fists but she doubted if the Texan would fight with his
bare hands.
    ‘ I’ve heard that you can tell which family a man belongs to by
the color of his kilt,’ she remarked. Is that right?’
    ‘ It’s true enough, ma’am,’ the Scot agreed and tapped the kilt
with his left forefinger. ‘This is the tartan of the Clan
Farquharson. My name is Colin Farquharson, of Inverey.’
    ‘ You’re a tolerable long ways from home, friend,’ the Kid
commented, trying to remember where he had heard the
name.
    ‘ Aye,’ Colin agreed. ‘A kinsman of mine came home singing the
praises of Texas, so I thou—’
    The crack of a
rifle shot, mingled with the scream of a horse in pain, chopped off
the young Scot’s words. Lurching violently, the coach came to an
abrupt halt. The body pitched and rocked against the thorough
braces, the tough straps of heavy leather which connected and
supported it above the draught and running gear.
    Taken by
surprise, the Kid and Jeanie were thrown off their seats and across
the coach. The Kid landed on top of Colin and Jeanie collided with
April. Outside another shot sounded and one of the men on the roof
gave a croaking cry. Before the Kid could untangle himself from
Colin, the left side door of the coach jerked open.

Chapter Two
    After halting
to pick up the Kid, Temple kept his team moving at a steady trot
along the Fort Sawyer trail. With over six miles separating them
from their destination, neither the driver nor Simcock discounting
the possibility of danger. The guard stayed alert, although he left
his shotgun in the boot, studying each clump of mesquite, bushes,
hollows in the grounds, draws and ridges for signs of lurking
enemies.
    For all that,
the attack when it came took them both by surprise. At that point
the trail ran straight, with fairly open land on either side.
Despite this careful scrutiny of places behind or among which a man
might hide, Simcock saw nothing to disturb him. All in all the
terrain did not lend itself to laying an ambush. There were rocks
and other places that could conceal waiting men; but none
sufficiently large to hide their horses. There was a draw maybe
half a mile from the trail where mounted men might wait. If it
should hold a gang, Simcock figured they would be no great danger.
Between his shotgun and the Ysabel Kid’s rifle, the owlhoots would
pay dearly for trying to rush the stagecoach.
    Simcock was
still thinking on those lines when a rifle cracked from among a
clump of mesquite about a hundred yards to the right of the trail.
So well hidden that the guard failed to detect him, the man shot
accurately. Raked through the neck by the bullet, the offside lead
horse went down screaming. Instantly everything was in a state of
confusion. Dragged off balance as its mate went down, the near
leader almost fell. The off wheeler reared on its hind legs, trying
to avoid running on to the stricken animal ahead. Even as the coach
swayed violently, Temple’s training sparked off an automatic
reaction. Booting home the brake, he hauled back on the reins in an
attempt to regain control of the team.
    Only by
catching hold of the handrail and bracing his feet against the
sloping front of the driver’s box as the coach slammed to a halt
did Simcock avoid being thrown from his seat. During the violent
lurch of the body, Simcock caught a movement from the corner of his
left eye. He turned his head to look closer as the thorough braces
returned the body to its normal position. At first he thought that
his eyes were playing tricks on him, for what he took to be a rock
not far from the left side of the trail began to move.
    Agitating
briefly, the rear part of the ‘rock’ began to rise. It proved to be
a blanket