Running Irons Read Free

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 trioby 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 asidethe 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