The Floating Outfit 61

by J. T. Edson

  “It’s as easy at that,” said Mark. “I don’t think.”

  “You never did,” Maisie smiled. “What else do you know, Dusty?”

  “Not much,” the small Texan admitted.

  In addition to weighing the bullet, he had discussed the matter of the .44-40 caliber revolver with Cauldon and learned of one such weapon in Backsight. Although Dusty never seriously considered its owner a suspect, he still intended to check the matter until learning that he did not need. While Eddy Last owned a Merwin and Hulbert revolver chambered to take the Winchester bullet, he proved to have a perfect alibi. The previous night had been the occasion of a weekly poker game involving a number of prominent citizens and which always continued into the small hours of the morning. From midnight until half past four in the morning, Last never left the table. As the game was held in the saloon’s bar-room, nobody could have taken the gun from under the counter and used it without being seen by the players.

  “Which puts Eddy in the clear,” Maisie said. “Not that I thought he shot Biscuits. Is there another gun in town that will take the .44-40?”

  “Not that Thad knows,” Mark answered. “And he supplies most of the ammunition used in the area.”

  “Who could have done it?” Maisie groaned.

  “I don’t know,” Dusty replied. “But I sure as hell aim to find out.”

  Chapter Ten – You’ve A Chance To Earn That Bounty

  “LOOKS LIKE THERE’RE some more new folks in town,” Mark remarked as he and Dusty rode along Backsight’s main street shortly after noon on the day after their arrival. “Can’t recollect seeing any of them with Caldwell’s party.”

  “Or me,” Dusty answered.

  Early that morning Dusty and Mark had ridden out to the Raines ranch house where the small Texan attended to the business which brought him to Arizona. Leaving Doc Leroy to handle the remaining details, Dusty and Mark returned to Backsight for neither of them felt happy about leaving the town without a peace officer within its bounds.

  Three wagons stood before the Alamo Saloon and the building’s doors stood open, the shutters which covered the windows since its late owner departed had been removed. Several young women, clad in the colorful, bustle-rumped dresses their kind wore for travelling, stood by one wagon and some ten or more men worked at unloading another.

  While approaching the saloon, Dusty studied the men. First he looked over the tall, handsome, well-dressed shape of Donglar and then examined the big, hard-looking man at his side. Both wore gambler’s clothing, but the second man’s were slightly cheaper quality and he had a good gunbelt with a pearl-handled Civilian Model Peacemaker in a fast-draw holster at his right side. A casual glance showed no sign of Donglar being armed, but Dusty formed no judgment until he had had a chance to make a closer inspection.

  “Can’t say I reckon much to his choice of hired help,” Mark stated as they rode by the saloon, having also picked out Donglar as the boss of the party.

  “Or me,” Dusty answered. “Let’s go collect our badges and then tell him how things stand in town.”

  “Be best,” agreed Mark.

  The unloading had gone on during the time it took Dusty and Mark to put their horses in the civic pound and collect the badges they had not troubled to wear while visiting Colonel Raines. Walking towards the Alamo, they saw the nudges and looks directed their way by various members of the saloon crowd. All work ended as the workers waited to see how their new boss handled the local law. Setting down a chair he had been about to take into the building, one of the men, a bulky hard case bartender who doubled as a bouncer grinned and muttered something to his particular pards among the crowd.

  Seeing two men—two obviously capable men—wearing law badges came as a shock to Donglar, but he controlled his emotions and his face held a welcoming smile as he watched the Texans pass his wagons and step up on to the sidewalk before him.

  “Good afternoon, Marshal,” he greeted. “My name is Baxter and I’m the new owner of the Alamo.”

  “That’ll please Eddy Last,” Dusty replied.

  “My business rival?”

  “You might say that, although there was never much rivalry between Eddy and the last owner. He and Eddy got on real well together.”

  “Then I hope that we’ll be just the same.”

  While speaking, Donglar looked both the Texans over with the same interest they had shown in him. At first he had felt puzzled at why Dusty and not Mark wore the marshal’s badge. On close examination he saw beyond Dusty’s lack of inches, felt the small Texan’s latent strength and wondered who the other might be.

  “You’re fixing to run gambling in here, Mr. Baxter?” asked Dusty.

  “Faro, chuck-a-luck, vingt-un and a few more things,” agreed Donglar and nodded to the man at his side. “Mr. Edwards here’s going to handle that end of the business.”

  “I’d like to look over the games before you start using them, Mr. Edwards,” Dusty requested.

  “Reckon it’s any of your business what kind of games I run?” Edwards asked.

  “It is while I’m wearing this badge.”

  “How long do you reckon you’ll be wearing it?”

  “Long enough, Mr. Edwards,” Dusty said quietly. “Unless maybe somebody takes it away from you,” Edwards pointed out.

  “I’ve yet to meet the man big enough to do it,” Dusty warned.”

  “I didn’t catch your name, Marshal,” Donglar put in.

  “Never threw it. But it’s Dusty Fog.”

  Only a supreme effort prevented Donglar from showing the surprise he felt. A low rumble passed around the crowd and Donglar could read no sign of disbelief among his employees. Certainly Edwards did not doubt the small Texan’s identity, for he seemed to have lost all his aggressive truculence and stood subdued, awaiting the next move in the game.

  “I’ve heard of you,” Donglar said, studying the man on whose head he placed a bounty of five thousand dollars. “But I didn’t know that you lived here.”

  “Just holding down the marshal’s office for a spell,” Dusty replied. “And I’ll be in to look over the games, Mr. Edwards. Let’s go eat, Mark.”

  An air of tense expectancy rolled through the assembled crowd as they took note of the town’s geography with respect to the group on the sidewalk. As he turned, Dusty found a further challenge to his authority awaiting him and his way to the Bismai blocked. Tilting his chair on its hind legs, back against the wall of the saloon and feet elevated to the hitching-rail, the hard case lounged at his ease. Between Dusty and the seated man, Geordie by name, one burly, town-dressed rough-neck perched his rump on the hitching-rail and a second leaned negligently against the wall.

  “You gents are blocking the sidewalk,” Dusty pointed out, almost mildly.

  Without offering to move, Geordie turned his eyes to look Dusty up and down, then dismissed the small Texan with mocking indifference.

  “I’m comfortable and there’s plenty of room on the street.”

  A low snigger ran through the crowd, but Dusty did not need its incentive to tell him what he must do. In a Western town, a peace officer needed to keep the respect of the citizens and he could not do that if he allowed people to laugh at him. Unless Dusty showed straight off that he aimed to stand no nonsense, he would receive nothing but trouble from the Alamo staff; they looked that kind of folk. He must teach Geordie, and the onlookers, a sharp lesson, one which they would not soon forget.

  “You’ve got until I reach you to move,” Dusty warned.

  “Happen you’re figuring on shooting me if I don’t,” Geordie sneered, “I’d best tell you I don’t wear a gun.”

  In so saying Geordie hoped to save himself. From what he had heard, Dusty Fog would not throw down on an unarmed man and Geordie figured he could take the small Texan any other way, even without the backing of Preston and Dink. So he remained seated, basking in the knowledge that his boss gave tacit approval to his actions, and the warm glow of being the center of a
ttraction.

  While Mark stood fast, Dusty advanced steadily towards the still-seated Geordie. Even having seen Dusty in action on many occasions did not dull Mark’s pleasure as he waited to see how his many-talented friend aimed to handle the current situation. Apart from moving slightly so he stood with his back to the saloon and in a position to prevent any interference from the people on the street. Mark made no attempt to assist the small Texan. Unseen by the blond giant, a big, burly man appeared at the saloon’s doors, looked out and read the implications of the situation. Easing open the doors, the man prepared to lend assistance by keeping Mark out of the game.

  Nearer and nearer Dusty came to where Geordie sat, passing between Preston on the hitching-rail and Dink by the wall as if they did not exist. Geordie remained in his seat, tense and ready, although relying on his companions to side him.

  Suddenly Dusty stepped in, bent, caught hold of the rung between the chair’s legs and heaved towards him. Too late Geordie tried to bring his legs off the rail. He gave a yell as the chair slid out from under him and went crashing to the hard boards of the sidewalk with a bone-jarring thud.

  Seeing his friend’s humiliation, Preston prepared to take revenge on the small Texan who laid Geordie low. Over a period of years, Preston and Dink had perfected a system for handling such a situation and they went into it without any need for discussion or thought. Thrusting himself from the hitching-rail, Preston raised his right foot ready to deliver a stamping forward-kick into Dusty’s side, propelling the unexpecting victim into Dink’s waiting arms.

  Even as the opening moves were made by the main characters of the scene, the burly man lunged forward and enfolded Mark in a bear-like hug from the rear. He clamped his grip around Mark’s arms, pinning them down with the intention of rendering the blond giant immobile and open to any treatment other members of the watching crowd might care to inflict. However none of the others moved, their attention remaining on the attack launched by Preston against Dusty. Not that the burly bouncer cared, figuring he could hold his fancy-dressed captive without any great straining of his milk.

  Having known that Preston and Dink aimed to cut in, Dusty was alert and ready to counter their play. Good fortune had placed a mighty effective weapon in the small Texan’s hands, one he felt more than compensated for the odds being against him. The chair had been cheaply-made and unsuited to such rough handling, so the separating rung parted company with the two legs under the pressure of Dusty’s pull and Geordie’s weight, remaining in Dusty’s hands almost like the chosen instrument of providence. While hunting a wanted man, a Chicago detective-lieutenant visited the Rio Hondo and enlisted Dusty’s aid. viii In return for services rendered, Lieutenant Ballinger taught Dusty how to handle a police baton with devastating effect. The separating-rung was almost the same length and weight as the baton and offered possibilities that Dusty grasped instantly. Long experience had taught him the psychological effect—even though he had never heard the term—a dramatic handling of such a situation possessed. There were a number of ways in which Dusty could have dealt with Preston’s attack and the small Texan elected to use the one he figured to be most spectacular.

  Pivoting around even as Preston moved, Dusty took a short step to the rear. With the rung gripped at its ends between his hands, Dusty brought his arms up in a sweeping scoop that caught Preston’s raised leg just on the ankle from underneath. Rising on his toes, Dusty heaved the caught leg upwards. Preston wailed as he lost his balance and pitched over backwards. In falling, his head struck the hitching-rail and he lost all interest in the affair.

  The speed of Dusty’s attack took Dink as much by surprise as it had Preston. Never a quick thinker, Dink carried on with the prearranged plan by advancing ready to fell the victim as Preston’s thrusting kick propelled him into range. Unfortunately Preston failed to do his part. Instead of being sent helplessly towards the waiting Dink, Dusty remained a free agent and capable of objecting to the other’s future plans.

  Twisting away from Preston, Dusty advanced and went under the blow Dink launched at his head. The small Texan’s left hand released the rung and he thrust upwards with his right, driving the free end between Dink’s legs. Sick agony knifed through Dink as he felt the rung’s tip drive home. Even as the man reeled back, hands clawing at the place Dusty stabbed, the small Texan struck again. Around and across whipped the rung in the snapping, flick-of-the-wrist motion Ed Ballinger claimed to be more effective than a wilder swipe. Caught across the side of his jaw, Dink spun around, tripped over Geordie’s feet and landed upon the other man preventing him from rising.

  While Dusty held the center of the stage, Mark handled his assailant almost unnoticed; which was a pity as the blond giant gave out with a remarkably good display in his own right.

  Actually what Mark did looked simple—until one considered the bulk and heft of the man holding him. Slowly Mark began to spread out his elbows from his sides. At first the bouncer could barely believe the evidence of his senses as he felt his grip broken and arms forced apart. Too late he became aware of the enormous muscles under Mark’s costly shirt. Desperately the man tried to clamp down his hold once more, but felt the inexorable power forcing his arms further and further open. At that moment the bouncer knew how the man who caught the tiger by the tail felt when he realized he could not let go.

  Then Mark stopped spreading his arms, stepped forward, turned and caught the amazed bouncer by the right wrist, gripping it between his two hands. Bracing his legs apart, Mark started to swing the bouncer around. Taken by surprise at Mark’s terrific strength, the bouncer could not even make a token effort at defense. Such was the blond giant’s power that he turned the bouncer and sent him crashing face first into the wall of the building. The impact caused the walls to vibrate and the bouncer stood for a moment, then slowly reeled backwards to collapse to the sidewalk.

  After dealing with his man, Mark swung back to see if Dusty needed any assistance. A movement from the crowd on the street brought Mark’s right hand Colt from leather and gave Donglar, who happened to be watching at that moment, an inkling of the blond giant’s ability in that line.

  Thrusting and rolling Preston aside, Geordie jerked himself into a sitting position. Humiliation and fury filled him as he thought of the way he had been handled. Not far from his right hand lay a means to avenge himself. He snarled a low curse and stabbed the hand towards Preston’s holstered Colt, then froze before his fingers covered half the necessary distance.

  Like a flash Dusty’s left hand crossed and drew the right-side Colt, thumb-cocking it as the bore lined on Geordie’s favorite belly. Never had any of the watching crowd seen such speed. Those who had secretly doubted the small Texan’s claim to be Dusty Fog reversed their opinion and knew he spoke the truth. Donglar, having seen both Dusty and Mark produce a weapon, changed his mind. On seeing Mark, Donglar doubted if he would witness an improvement in speed—until he watched, or came as close to watching as possible—how Dusty fetched the bone-handled Colt from leather.

  “Don’t try it!” Dusty warned unnecessarily, for Geordie had lost any desire to draw the gun.

  With the start of the trouble a small group of Backsight citizens made their appearance and converged on the scene. Donglar watched the locals gather and knew what he must do. If his men had succeeded in their intention of roughing up the two Texans, he would not have needed to worry what public opinion thought of him. Having seen his men go down in defeat, he knew he must make amends. Already the citizens scowled and muttered ominously, darting angry glances at the newcomers.

  “That’s enough, Geordie!” Donglar snapped, hoping to give the impression that his man could carry the affair further. Then he turned his attention to Dusty and continued: “There wasn’t any need to be so rough, Marshal, the men were only funning with you.”

  Maybe there would be some of the crowd who disliked lawmen on principle and regard Dusty’s actions as overzealous. If so, Donglar failed to locate them in his quick s
crutiny of the local citizens’ faces.

  “Trouble being that I’ve a lousy sense of humor,” Dusty answered. “They should have told me so—before they started.”

  “I suppose the boys thought that you was jumping a little too hard on us,” Donglar said. “Some lawmen do tend to favor the old hands in the area.”

  “Likely,” Dusty replied.

  “I’ll fire them all, if you want. It’ll leave me short-handed, but I don’t want any fuss with your office.”

  “No need to do that,” Dusty drawled. “Way I see it, any outfit coming into a new town’s got the right to try out the local law—once.”

  “Just ask them not to make a habit of it,” Mark continued. “Next time, somebody might get hurt.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Donglar promised.

  “I reckon it won’t,” Dusty replied and tossed aside the chair rung, then holstered his Colt. “Let me know when you’re set up Mr. Edwards, so’s I can look over the games.”

  “I’ll do that,” Edwards agreed sullenly.

  “Though you might,” said Dusty. “Let’s go and get that meal, Mark.”

  None of the saloon crowd made any attempt to interfere as the two Texans walked away. Watching Dusty and Mark depart, Donglar felt as if a cold hand touched him. While he had heard Anthea Considine talk about Dusty Fog, he discounted most of her stories about the Texan’s brilliance. After seeing Dusty in action and talking with him, Donglar wondered if Anthea might not be right when she claimed the small Texan was the most dangerous man she had ever met.

  “You’ve a chance to earn that bounty, Edwards,” Donglar remarked, remembering certain boasts made by the other.

  “Reckon I could get it done,” Edwards answered.

  “You’d better pick higher than that bunch,” sniffed Donglar, indicating the sprawled-out hard cases. “Get them inside and tend to them.”