The Floating Outfit 10

by J. T. Edson

  The Kid rolled over, lead kicking dust-spurts behind him. He rolled right up to his feet, his rifle lining up and beating a rapid tattoo. On the false front boards of the Buffalo House a line of holes formed, creeping nearer to the buffalo-hunter. The eighth hole sent splinters flying into the man’s face. The Kid’s rifle sights lined as the skin-hunter stepped back in an involuntary movement. The rifle kicked back against the black shirt and a skin-hunter went down dead.

  The skin-hunters on either side of the street leapt out, guns coming up. Mark cut down on the one nearest to him, the long-barreled Army Colts throwing lead into him. The man slumped forward, dropping his short carbine. The other spun round, his gun fell from his fingers and he clutched up at his shoulder. Dusty rode nearer, his smoking Colts lined and ready. The skin-hunter turned and ran, staggering from the pain of his wound. For an instant, he was close to death. Dusty’s Colt lifted and lined, the V notch in the hammer lip and the low, white brass foresight covering the man’s back. At that range, Dusty could hardly have missed. Then the Texan holstered his guns and turned the paint to head back along the street.

  The Ysabel Kid lowered his smoking rifle and, for the first time, noticed the fighting screams of his white stallion. He whirled round and yelled: ‘Back off, Thunder! Back off there, hoss!’

  The white backed away, nostrils flaring and angry snorts blowing out loudly as it pawed and stamped the bloody ground. The skin-hunter wasn’t a pretty sight, the white stallion’s flaying hooves had shattered his head almost to a pulp.

  ‘Kid, Snenton coming out!’ Sam Snenton wanted to come out of the Texas House and took this elementary, but necessary precaution. The Kid had seen one enemy come out of the Texas House; he wouldn’t wait to argue if the door opened again to let out some other unheralded figure. Even after his yell, Snenton found the Kid’s rifle lined on the door when he came out.

  ‘Howdy, Sam. Nice company you keep in thar.’

  Snenton stepped out, looked down at the bloody remains of Rut and twisted his face wryly. ‘Moxel’s in the Buffalo House,’ he said as Dusty and Mark rode back. ‘Sorry about this. They had two in my place. Didn’t get a chance to warn you until just afore you stopped.’

  ‘Them two in your place, weren’t but the one came out,’ Mark pointed out. ‘The other one still inside?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘He going any place?’ the Kid inquired.

  ‘Nope—tangled with Hop Lee’s cleaver.’

  The Kid grinned. He vaulted on to the hitching rail and tried to see into the Buffalo House. Climbing down, he shook his head. ‘Can’t see a thing in there.’

  ‘Both got a scattergun, and they’ll cut down any man who goes through that door,’ Snenton put in. ‘Rut and his pard talked some.’

  Dusty swung down from the paint. He looked at the Buffalo House and called: ‘Moxel, your hired men are all dead. Come out and see how you stack against a man who’s facing you.’

  In the saloon, Moxel licked his lips. He still stood at the bar for he had been sure that his gun-trap couldn’t fail. Crossing the room, he looked out of the window, the three Texans were still on their feet; Snenton was also there. Moxel knew that his men were all done. He hefted the shotgun and moved to stand with his back to the far wall. Cocking the hammers of the heavy weapon he yelled: ‘Come in here, and git me!’

  ‘I’ll do just that,’ Dusty shouted back and started forward.

  Mark lunged forward, enveloping his small pard in a grip which gave Dusty no chance to struggle. ‘Hold hard, boy!’ Mark growled. ‘Try any of Tommy Okasi’s tricks on me, and I’ll toss you through the Texas House wall. This is for us all—you can’t lick two scatterguns.’

  ‘Mark’s right, amigo,’ the Kid agreed. ‘You always keep telling me not to rush in, head down and pawing dirt.’

  Dusty stood still; he knew better than try and break Mark’s grip on him. The big Texan was fully aware of the tricks Ole Devil’s Japanese servant, Tommy Okasi, taught Dusty; but holding him like that was fairly safe.

  ‘All right, you pair of wet hens. What do we do?’

  Mark let loose. He looked round and his gaze stopped on the large water-barrel which stood before the Buffalo House. The barrel was supposed to be kept full of water, in case of fire. ‘Is that full?’ he asked.

  Snenton shook his head; he was a member of the Dodge City Fire Department and knew Schieffelin. ‘I told him to get it filled a week back, but I’d bet he hasn’t.’

  ‘Good that’s all we want. Let’s go. Real Army tactics.’

  The Kid looked puzzled; he had never been an officer as had the other two, and his sole tactic in the Army had consisted of shooting faster than any Union soldier he came across. ‘What the hell’re you getting at?’

  ‘It’s called diversion, then attack, amigo,’ Dusty explained.

  They crossed the street and halted just in front of the Buffalo House sidewalk. Mark stepped forward and looked into the barrel; it was empty. He bent and lifted the heavy object, his muscles writhing and bulging as the weight came up. ‘Ready?’ he gritted through his teeth.

  ‘Willing and able,’ Dusty replied, stepping forward on to the sidewalk.

  The Kid ducked under the hitching-rail and stepped up on to the sidewalk. He flattened himself against the wall by the far window. Lifting his old Dragoon, he prepared to take action.

  Mark tensed, lifted the barrel up over his head and threw it right through the window. The entire pane of glass shattered and, from the dark interior of the saloon, three shotgun blasts boomed out. The barrel hit by three heavy charges of buckshot burst, staves flying in all directions.

  From the directions of the shots, Dusty knew where the men stood in the saloon. Two shots came from the rear wall—that man’s gun was empty—but only one had been fired from the bar. Dusty knew the bar-dog might still have one more shot in his weapon, but that didn’t halt him.

  The batwings burst open. Dusty came through in a flying dive, his old bone-handled Colt guns out ready. In his flashing dive across the room, he saw the bar-dog behind the bar; and, backed against the wall, stood a big burly man in buckskins. The bar-dog saw, too late, what the thing which smashed the window was, and he swung his shotgun round. Dusty landed on the floor and threw over a table, blocking him briefly from the man at the bar.

  Moxel dropped his shotgun and clawed at the Colt in his belt. Dusty rolled over on the floor; he fired his first shot while his right shoulder was still on the floor. The second roared as he rolled on to his stomach; and a third as he went over to his left side. Moxel slammed back into the wall as the first bullet hit him. He tried to lift his gun but two more shots hammered lead into him. Slowly, he slid down the wall, his guns dropping from his hand.

  Len, the bar-dog, jerked his shotgun round, then the other front window smashed. The Ysabel Kid’s old Dragoon boomed from the broken pane, throwing its charge at the man behind the bar. Len felt as if a red-hot anvil had struck his arm. He spun round, the shotgun falling and crashing as it struck the ground, sending the nine-buckshot charge tearing harmlessly into the roof. The bar-dog stared numbly down at the smashed, mangled remains of his arm.

  Mark followed the barrel through the window. He fired fast at the man who came from the back room, short Webley Bulldog gun throwing lead at Dusty.

  The lead slammed into the floor near Dusty’s face. He rolled over, thumb easing back the hammer of the Army Colt. He held his fire; Mark’s bullet beat him. Schieffelin, the owner, hit the wall, blood oozing from a hole in his shoulder. He dropped his gun and screamed at the Texans not to shoot him.

  ‘You all right, Dusty?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Likely live!’ Dusty got to his feet, holstered his guns and rubbed the trickle of blood from his cheek. ‘Splinter nicked me.’

  Schieffelin looked up at the tall, powerful Texan who had crossed the room and now towered over him, ‘Don’t hurt me again, Texas,’ he moaned. ‘Get me a doctor.’

  ‘Get one for yourself,’ Mark rep
lied. ‘You aren’t hurt bad. Allow you bar-dog needs a doctor more than you.’

  The Kid entered the saloon and walked to the bar. He looked over it with detached interest. Mark joined him, looked over at the smashed, torn arm and growled, ‘You danged Injun. Damned if I don’t buy you a civilized gun!’

  The Kid grinned; he was used to this reaction when he used his old Dragoon and a soft, round lead ball. ‘You do that.’

  The three Texans walked from the saloon together. From houses, stores and the other places where they had been hiding, men and women poured out to view the remains of Moxel’s gang.

  Sam Snenton and his wife came from the sidewalk before the Texas House. ‘Moxel’s dead?’ it was a statement not a question. ‘He was the man who gunned your wrangler, and Ben Holland. Moe, one of his gang, told us in there. He’d been drinking, and talked more than he aimed to.’

  ‘Earp in on it?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ Snenton replied. ‘They never said. I wouldn’t spit in Earp’s eye, if his face was on fire, but I don’t figger him on a play like that. Way I see it was, Earp knew Ben was bad hurt and reckoned he’d never get back to Texas alive. That was why he put out the word. He reckoned to make a big play of it when Rocking H didn’t come up this season. I don’t reckon he’d got so far as hire Moxel to do the shooting.’

  ‘You’ve got more faith in him than we have,’ Dusty growled. ‘You might be right though.’

  ‘With Moxel and his bunch all down, there’s no way to find out,’ Sam Snenton replied, feeling relieved that the trouble was over. ‘Earp pulled out of town yesterday at noon, and Moxel hasn’t been in for a couple of days. Leave it lie, Dusty.’

  ‘Not quite!’ Dusty looked round at the citizens of Dodge. ‘Where at’s the Mayor? I’ve got things to say to him.’

  ‘Be up to the Long Branch, I reckon.’ Snenton answered and decided his judgment might have been out when he reckoned the trouble was over. ‘Do you want to see him?’

  ‘We do!’ Dusty sounded grim.

  ‘I’ll come with you.’ Snenton was one of the City Fathers and, whilst having an idea what Dusty wanted, didn’t want to miss hearing it. He turned to his wife, ‘You looking peaked, honey. Feeling all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She watched one of the undertakers who was coming along the street. Her face was pale and she kept her eyes from the victim of the Kid’s white stallion. ‘I don’t want to go back inside until—’

  ‘That’s right, honey.’ Snenton’s voice was gentle. ‘You stay out. Go shopping until after Hop Lee’s cleaned the place up.’

  Mark pulled an old boot from his saddle pouch; it was small and dainty. ‘Could you take this to the leather shop, Miz Selina. Tell Jenkins I want a pair of Texas style hand-carved boots making, stars and all, I want them ready for tonight.’

  Selina accepted the boot and looked at it, then at Mark’s large expensive footwear. ‘They look a mite small for you.’

  ‘Not him, they useta call him ole fairy feet,’ the Kid scoffed.

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Selina was pleased to have something other than killing and bloodshed to occupy her mind. ‘I don’t know if Jenkins can do it in the time.’

  ‘You ask him to try, just for us,’ Mark drawled, a grin flickering on his lips. ‘Tell him, if they aren’t ready, we’ll have Kiowa and Billy Jack come sing to him.’

  The Mayor and other civic dignitaries were gathered at their table in the Long Branch saloon. They looked up with well-simulated pleasure as Sam Snenton and the rest of the Texans entered. The City Fathers were not over-eager for this meeting; all could guess there would be some trouble.

  Dusty, Mark and the Kid halted in front of the table. For a time all was silent. Then Dusty spoke: ‘I’m trail boss for the Rocking H herd out there. The name is Dusty Fog. Last night my wrangler came here and was murdered. A year ago my kinsman, Ben Holland, was gunned down in this town. The man who shot both of them is still here. I’ve just killed him.’

  There was silence again. Dusty had thrown down the gauntlet, but not one of the Dodge City men wanted to take it up. ‘We’re real sorry about what happened,’ the Mayor said ingratiatingly. ‘And we should give you a vote of thanks. Moxel had just about frayed his cinch here. We—’

  ‘I didn’t finish.’ Dusty’s drawl cut off the words unsaid. ‘I hold this town responsible for what happened. The man who was suspected of gunning Ben was left to stay on here. Then, after he killed again, you tell us he’d frayed his cinch. Mister, you’re going to see how Texas men feel about it.’

  The men at the table looked at each other, not one spoke for a long time. They had seen their police force take it on the run from town and knew Dodge City was in danger of being painted with the Stars and Bars, then pulled apart board-by-board and scattered over the range.

  ‘Couldn’t you hold your men in, Cap’n Fog?’ one man asked nervously.

  ‘Why the hell should I?’ Dusty’s soft voice bit at the men like a bullwhacker’s whip. ‘You never played square with Texas men here. You’ve taken their money and, when they were broke, either had them jailed, or run out of town. Now you’re going to see riled-up Texans.’

  ‘But—but—!’ the mayor spluttered.

  ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. That boy who died today. I want him buried in the real graveyard, not in boothill. I want him to have a real headstone. On it you’ll put “Lil Jackie, the wrangler. He never lost a horse.” Will you do that?’

  The Mayor and council nodded their agreement. Headstones were expensive items in Dodge, but not so expensive as refusal would be. The City Fathers knew that Dusty’s word, once given, would never be broken.

  ‘We’ll do it, Dusty,’ Snenton promised.

  ‘I’ll talk to the boys,’ Dusty said. ‘Let’s go.’

  The three young Texans walked out of the saloon, their boot-heels thudding across the sidewalk. Then, with a creak of saddle-leather, they rode out of Dodge.

  ~*~

  Thora and Billy Jack rode at the point of the herd. They were on either side of the big red lead steer. Billy Jack pointed ahead to the sprawling town by the shining metals of the railroad. ‘There she be, Miz Thora,’ he said proudly. ‘There’s been trail-end towns before, and there likely’ll be trail-end towns again, but there ain’t but one Dodge City.’

  Thora nodded soberly: she was still feeling the death of the young wrangler; it spoiled the drive for her, made her almost wish she had never brought the herd. ‘We should have sent more men,’ she said.

  ‘Dusty wouldn’t have wanted that,’ Billy Jack replied, ‘he’s the trail boss and it was him that let Lil Jackie go in. We don’t hold that against him, but that’s how he thinks.’

  ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Didn’t have to; I know how he thinks. Don’t you worry, the skin-hunter warn’t never born who could lick Cap’n Fog.’

  Thora managed a smile; Billy Jack’s face wasn’t quite so miserable as usual. ‘I don’t reckon there is. Say, I wonder where those old boots went.’

  ‘Did you lose a pair of boots?’ Billy Jack asked innocently. ‘You should take better care of your gear.’

  Thora glanced at him, but she couldn’t read the face. Billy Jack had taken the boots and given them to Mark with orders to get a pair of real Texas made-to-measures for the boss lady. ‘Look!’ She pointed. ‘It’s Dusty, Mark and Lon—they’re all right!’

  ‘Sure. Didn’t you reckon they would be?’

  Sixteen – A Trail Boss

  The shipping pens at Dodge. A crowd was waiting to welcome the Rocking H, first drive of the season. The Mayor and his council were assembled, and many other local citizens were there. All eyes were on the long line of cattle, the tall, tanned riders, handling the herd with such easy familiarity. And on a tall, tanned, beautiful woman who rode as well as any of the men. For a moment there was silence. Then as Thora chased, caught, turned and returned a reluctant steer back to the herd the cheers rang out.

  Thora�
��s face flushed in a blush as she saw the familiar stubby shape of Doctor Burglin standing talking to an affluent-looking cattle-buyer. She stopped blushing and smiled broadly when the fat, purple-dressed and much bejeweled madam of a downtown cathouse yelled a delighted greeting to Billy Jack, while showing off some of her pretty assistants in a rig.

  Dusty yelled: ‘Mark, Billy Jack, get ahead. Make a count.’

  Thora joined Dusty by the pens and watched the herd coming between the two counting men. The cattle-buyers surged forward and the local people cheered. A speech of welcome from the Mayor took her attention from the herd and she managed to say a few words of thanks for the greeting. Then she was having her hand shaken and requests made to buy her herd on all sides.

  Mark and Billy Jack came up, thrusting through the crowd. They halted before Thora. ‘Boss,’ Mark said, ‘at a rough guess I’d say three thousand, two hundred and fifty.’

  ‘Don’t make it no more’n three, two, forty-nine,’ Billy Jack objected. ‘I bet’s you’ve been using the Big Bend count again.’

  ‘That’s why I’m right. That Brazos count always ends up wrong.’

  ‘Brazos count?’ Thora looked at each man, wondering if there was something here she hadn’t learned.

  ‘Why sure,’ Mark’s solemn face should have warned her. ‘See, these Brazos hands, they count the horns and divide by two. Now us Big Bend men know that, when you do that you miss the muleys.’

  Thora frowned, ‘I’m being took, but I’ll bite. How do you do it?’

  ‘We count the legs and divide by four.’

  ‘Which same works real well, unless you’ve got four steers with a leg short each,’ she put in thoughtfully.

  ‘What difference would that make?’ Mark had been so sure he had put one over on Thora that he asked before he thought what she’d said.

  ‘It would make you one short in the herd.’ Thora turned before Mark could recover. Dusty was standing behind her, smiling as he listened.

  ‘Waal, Thora, that’s your herd to Dodge.’

  ‘Why sure. We left Texas with three thousand, two hundred and thirteen. I’d tell a man you’d fed us beef all the way north. I reckon I’m sprouting horns. You lost a few and you’ve made Dodge with more than you left Texas, Captain Fog, sir, you are a trail boss.’