The Floating Outfit 61

by J. T. Edson

  “No,” she smiled.

  “I sure feel it,” Waco grinned and lifted Louise into his arms ready to move on again.

  At that moment Waco became aware of a fresh sound. Hooves drummed ahead of them somewhere, although as yet the riders had not come into sight. The sound gave the youngster small comfort. Any riders in the area were almost sure to be members of the Whangdoodle crew.

  Ahead the draw widened out, its bottom fairly clear, although the sides had a fair sprinkling of bushes and rocks on them. Normally Waco would have swung away from such an area, but he wanted to cross if only to find suitable cover from which to make a stand. Carefully scanning the sides of the draw, he walked forward.

  “I wonder what they were shooting at,” Louise whispered.

  “Hope it was each other,” Waco replied, “Happen they—”

  A shot crashed from up the side of the draw and slightly behind Waco. Pain ripped into him, a cruel, burning agony which tumbled him forward and caused him to drop the girl. Even as Louise’s horse-riding skill came into play and broke her fall, she twisted around and saw Waco sprawling on his right side. Beyond the stricken Texan, Billy and his companion rose from the bushes where they had hidden on seeing Waco’s approach. Grinning at each other, they started down the slope. With the Texan either dead or badly injured, they expected no further trouble. The hooves came closer and Billy wanted to reach his victim before any other member of the crew arrived to share the credit.

  Although the two young men thought they had an easy task on their hands, with Waco wounded and helpless, they reckoned without the courage and spirit of the girl. Louise Ortega came from a race of fighters, the kind who did not mildly let anyone abuse them. Reaching forward, she jerked Waco’s left side Colt from its holster. With the gun gripped in both hands, Louise swung it up and lined it. Flame lashed from the five-and-a-half-inch barrel and Billy’s companion reeled backwards, face a mask of blood.

  Even as Billy sprang forward, he saw the Colt turn his way, its hammer drawing back under the girl’s thumb. Cold fear ripped into him, but he could not halt his advance. Louise squeezed the trigger, but only a dry click rewarded her. Back at the ranch, Waco had fired off four shots from the Colt and followed the safety precaution of carrying his revolvers with an empty chamber under the hammer. Nor could Louise lay hands on the fully loaded right-side Colt, for Waco lay on it and pinned it to the ground.

  Ignoring the thunder of approaching hooves, Billy walked forward. He saw from the weak movements that Waco was only wounded and decided to finish the Texan off before dealing with the girl. Leering sadistically, the young man halted, feet braced apart. While Louise desperately tried to free Waco’s second revolver, Billy lined his gun down at the helpless form of the young Texan.

  Chapter Fifteen – I Helped Design The First Of Them

  ENTERING THE BISMAI Cafe. Backsight’s Wells Fargo telegraph operator looked across the room to where Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and Doc Leroy sat eating a late breakfast. Crossing to the Texans’ table, he held out a buff-colored message form to Dusty.

  “This just came in from Yuma, Cap’n,” he said. “Figured you’d want it now.”

  “Thanks,” Dusty answered and read the message.

  “Will there be any answer?” the man asked.

  “Not right now,” replied Dusty, passing the paper to Mark.

  “It could be Baxter,” Mark commented, after reading the answer to Dusty’s message of the previous night. “Or a couple of dozen other fellers.”

  “What do you aim to do about it, Dusty?” Doc inquired when he had read the description of the man who engineered Anthea Considine’s escape and compared it with the appearance of Baxter, the saloon-keeper.

  “I reckon we’ll go to the Alamo and let Baxter settle it for us,” Dusty said quietly.

  Having seen the arrival of the operator, and guessed at his mission, Maisie deserted the cash desk and joined the Texans. She took and read the message, thinking how inconclusive it was, then her eyes went to Dusty as he stood up.

  “You’re going to see him?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Not yet,” Dusty answered. “Happen there’s a whole heap of shooting, you can get some of the townsmen to lend us a hand. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but it might.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Maisie promised.

  Despite the easy manner in which he discarded the idea of trouble, Dusty knew the danger which lay ahead. “Baxter” had men to back him and, given an opportunity, a good place from which to make a fight. Like most buildings in town, especially those erected in the days before the Raines’s train arrived, the Alamo had been strongly built to withstand visits by marauding Apaches. The saloon’s walls would just as easily hold off the law enforcement officers in the event of a fight.

  Another point Dusty kept constantly in mind. While the description could fit “Baxter,” it also covered a number of other men for it had only general terms. So the Texans could not burst into the saloon painted for war, but must enter the Alamo with guns holstered and play the game as the cards fell.

  Just as the three Texans left the eating house, they saw a rider approaching. Sudden apprehension bit into each of the trio as he recognized the Ysabel Kid, riding alone and leading four horses including an exceptionally fine paint stallion. For all his relief at the sight of a useful addition to his fighting strength, Dusty felt anxiety as he watched the trail dirty, gaunt, unshaven Kid bring the horses to a halt.

  “Where’s the boy?” Mark asked.

  “Went over to Fernandez’s old place to see what he could learn,” the Kid answered, swinging from the saddle of his mount. “We heard that somebody was hiring guns up this way and reckoned the new owner out there’d be the most likely. So the boy went over to see if he could get hisself hired.”

  “He’ll be all right, as long as he uses his head,” Dusty said.

  “Trust the boy for that,” Doc went on.

  “You going someplace, Dusty?” the Kid inquired.

  “To the Alamo. After we’ve tended to our business there, we might be riding to the Whangdoodle.”

  “If the boy’s there, we’ll have to move easy,” Doc remarked, helping the Kid secure the horses.

  “That figgers,” answered Dusty. “What’ve you been doing, Lon?”

  While drawing his rifle and accompanying the others along the street, the Kid quickly told of his actions after leaving them. Knowing the need, he went into detail of the more important visits made in the search for the man who placed the bounty on Dusty’s head. By the time they reached the doors of the saloon, Dusty felt sure that he guessed correctly and “Baxter” was the man he wanted.

  Crossing the sidewalk, Dusty led the way into the saloon. At that early hour only a few of the visiting hired guns and members of the saloon’s staff were present, scattered about the room. All eyes went to the Texans and silence dropped among its occupants.

  At the bar, where he stood checking a list of supplies, Donglar laid aside his pencil and stiffened slightly. A signal brought Edwards to his side and alerted the rest of the room to be ready for trouble. Outwardly it might have been a normal casual visit by the town’s peace officers to a saloon, but Donglar’s every instinct warned him of impending danger. For all that, Donglar gave no hint of his concern as Dusty and Mark walked towards him; even though he read a certain significance in the way the other two Texans remained standing on either side of the main entrance.

  “What’s this, Captain Fog?” Donglar asked cheerfully. “A social call, or another check on my gambling games?”

  “Neither, Mr. Baxter—or should I say ‘Father Donglar?”’

  “I don’t follow you, Captain,” Donglar purred, but he did.

  “About that bounty you put on my scalp, mister,” Dusty said in a carrying voice. “Do you have the guts to try for it yourself?”

  Now Dusty had the attention of every man in the room. The hired guns knew
of the reward, although none of them cared to take the risk of trying to collect it, and wondered if the small Texan told the truth when he claimed the saloonkeeper sent out the wanted posters. Behind the bar, Geordie—still smarting under his defeat at Dusty’s hands, gave a glance at the sawed-off ten gauge which lay on the shelf beneath the counter. Casually Geordie inched along to where he could reach down and grab the deadly weapon.

  “You’ve gone way past me now, Fog,” Donglar stated.

  “And you’re a liar,” Dusty drawled, but Donglar did not make the expected reply to the supreme insult of the West.

  “You started the dodgers from Pasear Hennessey’s place and the man who collected had to go there. When he got there, he was to be sent to Dougal’s, then on to Frenchy Latour’s saloon—only I don’t need to go on, do I?”

  Even as he listened, Donglar knew he must fight for his life. If the Texan knew so much, he had enough evidence to make an arrest. Once held, Donglar knew it would be an easy matter to have the Warden from Yuma come over and identify him. However, Donglar did not make his move immediately. All too well he knew the fear Dusty Fog’s reputation inspired among his men. They would not back their boss in a fight while the deadly Rio Hondo gun-wizard lived. If Donglar expected help, he must take Dusty Fog out of the game.

  On four occasions during the past three years, a similar situation faced Donglar and he could guess how the men before him would react. He wore his gun, but still in that high and awkward-looking holster. As before, it seemed that the Texans disregarded Donglar as a factor; confining their attention to Edwards, who wore his weapon in a conventional rig the potentiality of which they readily understood. If Dusty Fog died, his friends were likely to be frozen by shock for the vital moment necessary to enable the saloon crowd to get into action. It only remained for somebody to supply the necessary ingredient to bring the whole pot to a satisfactory, from Donglar’s point of view, boil.

  “You wouldn’t be trying to push me out for Eddy Last, now would you?” Donglar asked, setting up an excuse for defending his property.

  “You know I’m not. I’m arresting you for assisting a prisoner to escape from the Territorial Penitentiary,” Dusty answered, then went on with an additional charge brought out by a piece of information in the telegraph message. “They found the two old men you killed, so I want you for murder, too. And then there’s the attempted murder of Town Marshal Randel right here in Backsight.”

  “My my!” Donglar sneered. “Haven’t I been a bad boy? Do you think you can make any of the charges stick?”

  “I aim to have a try.”

  “You’ll have to take me first,” Donglar pointed out.

  “Which shouldn’t raise me any sweat at all,” Dusty answered.

  “You’ve taken it, Fog!” Donglar thought and made his move.

  Dropping his right shoulder slightly caused Donglar’s coat side to swing away from his body. Around circled his right hand in a lightning fast move aimed to draw the Merwin and Hulbert revolver from that awkward-appearing—but ideally placed for use with a short-barreled weapon—holster.

  On each other occasion when Donglar found need to throw down on a man, his speed from the apparently wrongly-placed rig took his victim by surprise. Too late he saw the error of his thinking and realized that Dusty had not disregarded him as a dangerous factor in the game.

  An instant after Donglar’s shoulder began its preliminary move, Dusty’s left hand crossed to the white butt of the right side Colt and slid it from leather. Even so, fast as he moved, Dusty would have died had he been using a lighter, less powerful weapon. Donglar’s gun was out and swinging up into line, its hammer drawing back, when two hundred and fifty grains of lead tore into his body and the agonizing shock threw him backwards. Incredulity mingled with the pain on Donglar’s face as his numbed fingers opened and allowed the gun to drop, then he went to the floor.

  Part of Donglar’s conclusions had been correct. Mark’s attention stayed on Edwards, for the blond giant left Dusty to handle the saloon-keeper. Since seeing the speed of Mark’s draw, Edwards had given much thought to whether his own speed exceeded that of the big Texan’s. His question received its answer as his gun cleared leather, for a bullet from Mark’s right hand Colt drove between the gambler’s eyes and tumbled him lifeless to land at his boss’s side.

  The opening moves in the deadly affair came so fast and unexpected that none of the crowd fully understood until too late what was happening. In a way, Donglar’s draw took his men unprepared for none could say how well he might handle a gun. Geordie recovered first among the saloon employees. Dipping down his hands, he started to bring the shotgun over the bar. Across the room, the Kid’s rifle flowed to his shoulder, lined and spat, its lever blurring to replace the expended round with a loaded bullet. With the shotgun lifting, the Kid shot the only way he dared. Striking Geordie between the eyes, the bullet passed through his head, bursting out at the rear and shattering a bottle on the shelf behind him.

  “Down!” Doc snarled, his Colt flickering out to line on Geordie’s friends.

  Only half-rose and with hands far from their guns, Preston and Dink sank down once again. They had witnessed the speed with which Doc drew and knew that such ability only rarely went without an equal skill at planting home lead with accuracy.

  “Anybody else want to take it up for Baxter?” asked Dusty, his left-hand Colt augmented by the right, both making an arc around the room.

  Silence fell, not even a loud breath breaking it, after Dusty issued his challenge. Seeing their boss stretched out on the floor, the saloon’s staff knew they had nothing to fight for. The same applied to the hired guns, only even more so, for Donglar had not hired any of them and they fought only when paid to do so.

  Moving slowly, Donglar raised himself from the floor, a hand pressed to the wound. He knew he must be dying, yet wanted to learn how he came to fail to take Dusty by surprise.

  “You—knew about—my holster,” he gasped, looking at the small Texan. “But I didn’t think anybody in the West had seen one.”

  “I helped design the first of them,” Dusty replied and motioned Doc Leroy forward.

  In the days when Lieutenant Ballinger of the Chicago Police Department learned how to fight with a gun, Dusty acted as tutor and after much experimentation produced an identical holster to the one worn by Donglar. While the holster found favor among Eastern detectives, who required to hide their weapon under a jacket, men out West preferred the traditional pattern. Seeing a detective’s holster while visiting Chicago, Donglar recognized its potential and went to the trouble of mastering its use. Until he met Dusty Fog, no man who faced him realized the danger such a rig presented—until too late.

  Doc needed only one glance to know nothing he could do would save Donglar. In fact Doc felt surprised that the man had sufficient strength to ask the question. Even as Doc began to kneel ready to do the little he could, Donglar’s eyes glazed over and he sank back to the floor.

  “It’s over, Dusty,” Doc said, straightening after closing Donglar’s eyes.

  “Like you say, Doc,” Dusty answered, “it’s over.” His eyes went to the hired guns who sat in strained attitudes around the room. “There’s no work for you around here. The man who put the bounty on my head is dead.”

  “Spread the word when you leave,” Mark went on. “And leave before nightfall, every last son of you.”

  “We’ll be around to see anyone who don’t leave,” the Kid promised.

  “How about us, Cap’n?” asked Preston.

  “Your boss’s dead. I’ll ask the local judge to rule on what happens to the place.”

  “Sure,” grunted Preston and rose. “We’ll start cleaning up if we can.”

  “Get to it,” Dusty confirmed and turned to leave the room followed by his three friends.

  A small crowd of local men was gathering as the Texans emerged from the Alamo. Looking around, Dusty saw Thad Baylor approaching and when the gunsmith arrived said: “
I had to kill Baxter inside.”

  “We all know that you had good reason to, Captain,” Baylor replied and the crowd rumbled its agreement. “Can we do anything for you?”

  “Sure. Go inside and take over until the law decides what to do with the place.”

  “How about Baxter’s men?”

  “I’ll come in with you.”

  Although several of the saloon’s employees had hoped to enrich themselves before leaving town, none raised any objections when Dusty told them that the gunsmith would act as manager until Baxter’s affairs were settled. Already the hired guns finished their drinks and made for the doors, meaning to ride on in search of other employment.

  Having disposed of the saloon problem temporarily, Dusty rejoined the other three outside. Before any of them could say a word, they saw Maisie burst out of the Bismai, followed by a tall, freckled-faced, pleasant-looking young man in range clothing. All saw the expression on Maisie’s face and expected trouble even before she reached them.

  “It’s Louise!” she said. “Terry here just came in. He says that she rode over to the Whangdoodle visiting.”

  “What’s this all about, Dusty?” Terry Ortega demanded distractedly.

  “The Considine woman’s at the Whangdoodle,” Dusty answered. “If Louise falls into her hands—”

  “We’d best ride, and pronto!” Mark stated.

  “You never said a truer word,” Dusty replied.

  “I’ll need a hoss, Dusty,” the Kid said. “Even Thunder’s been pushed so hard that he’d slow you down.”

  “Come with me to the livery barn, Lon,” Maisie ordered. “We’ll get the best mounts it can offer.”

  “We?” asked Dusty.

  “I’m coming along with you,” the woman answered determinedly. “It was Baxter who shot Biscuits, wasn’t it?”

  “We didn’t prove it, but it sure looks that way,” Dusty agreed.

  “Then he did it at her orders, which means I’ve a score to settle with her. Besides, you’ll need a woman to handle her.”