The Floating Outfit 15

by J. T. Edson

  Unfortunately there was in San Antonio at that moment a man of driving, forceful personality. One with sufficient influential backing to force the sheriff into a thorough investigation and quite capable of taking control of it himself. During the period he held a law badge in a tough Montana gold mining town, vii Dusty Fog showed considerable skill in all aspects of a peace officer’s work, including the investigation of murders. The Rio Hondo gun wizard would not calmly accept the bare appearances.

  If Murphy hoped to build up a big start through his false trail, he must try to make sure that Dusty Fog was not around to interfere. The obvious method, killing the small Texan, might be one answer, but Murphy did not even consider such a possibility. More than one man had tried to kill Dusty Fog and failed. The penalty for failure was death. No, Murphy had a better idea, one much safer yet which he felt sure would be successful.

  Returning to San Antonio, Murphy visited Finwald’s store where he purchased a hundred foot of stout Manila rope, a saw, hammer and spike-clamp. The latter, looking like an overgrown paper-staple, was used by builders for temporarily securing two pieces of wood together. Loading his purchases on to the waiting horse, he left town once more. Eight miles from San Antonio along the San Garcia trail lay the Lone Elk stagecoach relay station. While employed by Wells Fargo, its owner augmented his salary in a number of ways which would not meet with the company’s approval. For a financial consideration, the agent agreed to send a message over the telegraph wires to Dusty Fog. Maybe he even believed Murphy’s story that the message was no more than a practical joke being played on the killer’s war-time commanding officer. Spending the night at the relay station, Murphy reminded the agent not to send the message until noon—so that he could be in San Antonio to see the result of the joke—and rode back in that direction.

  Back at the tree, the killer went to work. First he began to cut into the trunk with the saw about two foot above the ground. When the blade sank almost out of sight in the wood, Murphy took the spike-clamp and drove its points into the trunk above and below the saw. Carefully he continued to cut until seeing the tree quiver and strain against the grip of the clamp. Pulling free his saw, he stood back and studied his work for a moment. As the tree stood on a slope, it would fall downhill and so he did not need to do any branch-trimming to ensure it went in the right direction. Securing one end of the rope to the clamp, he backed off up the slope towards a large clump of mesquite some seventy-five feet from the tree. He had sufficient rope left over to lead among the bushes and fasten its other end on to his horse’s saddlehorn, while keeping himself and the animal hidden from the trail. All was now ready and all Murphy had to do was wait.

  Time dragged by slowly, but a man in Murphy’s line of work learned the value of patience. At last he saw a two-horse wagon come into sight from the direction of San Antonio. Waiting only long enough to make sure that Sandy and Sarah McGraw rode on the wagon, Murphy went to his horse. Swinging into the saddle, he lashed the rope securely to its horn. By crouching low over the horse’s neck, he could keep out of sight and turned his horse so that he was able to see the tree. While his range of vision was necessarily restricted, he saw enough to be able to judge his moves correctly.

  At last the wagon approached the bend and started to turn. Murphy suddenly thrust his spurs into the horse’s ribs and the animal lunged forward. Snapping tight, the rope jerked the clamp from the tree’s trunk. Freed of restraint, the tree quivered for a moment before tilting over and falling down on to the wagon. Murphy heard a startled yell from Sandy, followed by Sarah’s scream and the sound of splintering timber.

  Standing in the livery barn which had housed their horses during the stay in San Antonio, Betty Hardin completed saddling her mount. She looked to where her two cousins also made preparations for their departure.

  ‘Well, Sandy and Sarah are off to their new home,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe we should have gone along with them,’ Red remarked, drawing the double girths of his low-horned Texas saddle tight about the body of his claybank viii stallion.

  ‘Sandy didn’t want it that way,’ Dusty pointed out, making the final adjustments to his paint’s rig. ‘Anyways, there’s been no sign of that killer around town or I’d’ve insisted he let us at least send Kiowa and Billy Jack along.’

  ‘Do you really think young Finwald hired him, Dusty?’ Betty asked.

  Before Dusty could reply, a boy entered the barn. Hero-worship showed on the youngster’s face and he clearly felt that his social standing improved due to delivering the buff-colored telegraph message form to the famous Dusty Fog.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t get it to you sooner, Cap’n,’ he stated breathlessly. ‘Only I took it to the hotel and they told me that you’d already left.’

  ‘Thanks, boy,’ Dusty answered, taking a fifteen cent piece from his pocket and exchanging it for the paper in the youngster’s hand. ‘Here’s a long bit for your trouble.’

  ‘Gee thanks, Cap’n,’ enthused the boy.

  Opening up the form, Dusty read its message.

  ‘Captain Fog. Alamo Hotel. San Antonio. Dusty. Return home immediately. Ole Devil.’

  ‘What is it, Dusty?’ Betty demanded, seeing her cousin’s lips tighten.

  ‘Read it,’ he suggested, handing over the paper. ‘We’re going to do some fast riding, Cousin Red.’

  ‘Grandfather never sent this!’ Betty stated flatly after reading the message and passing it to Red. ‘He never calls you anything but “Dustine”, Dusty.’

  ‘I’ve heard him call Dusty something else,’ grinned Red. ‘Me too.’

  ‘You both probably deserved it,’ Betty snorted. ‘Any ways, he never signs anything “Ole Devil”.’

  ‘It’s maybe a joke,’ Red said in a tone that implied he did not believe the suggestion.

  ‘The boys might play jokes, but they’d not ride out to the nearest telegraph station to send it,’ Dusty replied. ‘Where’d be the nearest place they could send a message, boy?’

  ‘Lone Elk station out on the San Garcia trail, Cap’n,’ the youngster replied, his chest swelling with pride at being called upon to assist the Rio Hondo gun wizard. He could see that his information meant something to his audience.

  ‘Let’s ride, Red!’ Dusty barked, taking hold of his saddlehorn and vaulting astride the paint’s seventeen hands’ high back.

  ‘Look after our gear until we come back,’ Betty instructed the barn’s owner, nodding to the loaded packhorse. ‘I’ll come with you, Dusty.’

  ‘You go to the Bull’s Head and collect Billy Jack and Kiowa,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Bring them after us along the San Garcia trail.’

  ‘Yo!’ answered Betty without arguing.

  ‘Reckon that message’s from the feller who tried to kill Sandy?’ asked Red as he and Dusty rode from the barn.

  ‘I’d bet on it. Who else would want us on our way home that badly?’

  ‘Nobody I can think of offhand.’

  With that Red stopped speaking. Side by side the two cousins, each superbly mounted, set their horses moving at a good pace. Once clear of the town, they allowed their mounts to pick up speed. Three days resting in the livery barn, with grain feeds, made the horses eager for exercise and they strode out fast along the San Garcia trail.

  Neither Dusty nor Red wasted breath in talking until they came into sight of the wagon. Instead they concentrated on conserving their horses’ energy without slackening off their pace. At last they saw Sandy’s wagon ahead, approaching a corner on which grew a single tree.

  ‘They’re all ri—!’ Red began.

  Even as he spoke, the tree quivered and began to tilt over in the direction of the passing wagon.

  ‘What the hell!’ Dusty ejaculated, for he could see no reason why the tree chose that particular moment to fall.

  Then he caught sight of Murphy as the killer burst out of the bushes and galloped up the slope. Telling Red to go see to the wagon, Dusty swung his paint off the trail in the direction of the f
leeing man.

  While guiding his racing claybank towards the wagon, Red studied the situation. Spooked by the tree’s collapse, the team horses reared and plunged, dragging the wagon towards the edge of the trail. From the trailing reins, Red concluded Sandy no longer was in any condition to control the team. So they must be halted—and fast—before they went over the edge of the slope and the wagon’s weight drove them downwards to destruction.

  There was no time to do more than glance at the wagon’s box in passing. Red saw, however, that the main weight of the tree had hit the canopy. Seeing the danger, Sandy had flung himself on top of Sarah, bearing her down and covering her with his body. They both appeared to be pinned to the seat by at least one branch, so Red could expect no help from that source.

  Reining in his claybank, Red left its saddle and landed alongside the team horses. Carried forward by his impetus, he swung to face the frightened animals and lunged to their heads. Powerful hands clamped hold of each horse’s reins, strong but reassuring as he fought to bring them under control. Avoiding the slashing hooves, he felt himself forced back until his heels struck the springy grass at the side of the trail.

  Hooves thundered, drawing closer, and a familiar voice yelled, ‘Stay with it, Red!’

  Up tore Betty accompanied by Billy Jack and Kiowa. Leaving their horses at a run, the two men lit down ready to help Red halt the wagon. While Billy Jack ran forward to lend a hand with the horses, Kiowa flung himself at the wagon’s brake. Riding by on her fine-looking roan, Betty gathered up the three men’s horses and led them back in the direction of their owners. Once stopped, the range-bred horses could be trusted to stand without needing tying to anything, their trailing reins being the only inducement they needed. So Betty dropped from her saddle and ran towards the wagon.

  Even with Billy Jack lending his capable assistance, Red could not have halted the horses in time had it not been for Kiowa hauling back on the brake handle. With the back wheels locked immobile, the drag of the wagon’s bulk reinforced the two men’s efforts and brought the team to a standstill.

  ‘Get on to the box, you two!’ Betty suggested. ‘I can manage them now.’

  ‘Leave ’em to me,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘They’re still restless.’

  Realizing that Billy Jack spoke the truth, Betty did not argue. Skilled horsewoman though she undoubtedly was, the two big animals might prove too much for her should they take it into their heads to run again. So she followed Red towards the wagon box.

  After applying the brake, Kiowa swung up on to the wagon box. He slid the long-bladed bowie knife from its sheath at his left side and began to hack at the branch which still held Sandy and Sarah pinned. Although the girl wriggled and struggled, Kiowa could see no sign of movement from Sandy. Cursing savagely, the lean scout increased his efforts. Only the superb quality of the knife’s steel allowed it to stand up to such treatment. Wood chips flew as the shining steel bit into the branch. Then it separated from the tree and Red helped Kiowa raise it off the newlyweds.

  Almost before the branch went over the side of the wagon, Sarah wriggled from under Sandy. Although frightened, her main concern was for her husband’s welfare. Either when struck by the branch, or as the spooked horses jerked the wagon, Sandy’s head had struck the box hard enough to knock him unconscious. He lay limp and still, but Sarah retained sufficient control over herself not to move him.

  ‘How is it, Sarah?’ asked Red gently, standing on the box behind the girl.

  ‘I’m all right,’ she replied. ‘See to Sandy.’

  ‘We’d best get him off the box, I reckon,’ Kiowa put in.

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Red. ‘Reckon you can manage the team, Betty? It’ll take the three of us to do it.’

  By that time the two horses appeared to have recovered their normal placid natures sufficiently for Betty to control them. Relieving Billy Jack, Betty kept hold of the horses’ heads and remained alert for any signs of nervousness. None showed and the removal of the unconscious Sandy went by without incident. Between them, the three men carried their still burden to a safe place and set it down. Immediately Sarah was on her knees at Sandy’s side, fighting down her fears and the hysteria which threatened to make her burst into tears.

  ‘Billy Jack, you and Kiowa get the wagon free,’ Betty called.

  ‘Yo!’ replied Billy Jack and ambled over to obey.

  ‘Let me see to Sandy, honey,’ Betty said to Sarah, joining the other girl. ‘You go and sit on the grass.’

  At that moment they heard the distant sound of shooting.

  ‘Can you handle things, Cousin Betty?’ Red asked, staring in the direction of the sounds.

  ‘Well enough,’ she replied. ‘If you reckon that Dusty can’t take care of himself.’

  ‘I’d say he can, most time,’ Red answered. ‘Only there’re two rifles firing up there—and Dusty doesn’t have one with him.’ Saying that, Red raced to his patiently waiting claybank. He went astride the horse with a bound, scooped up the reins and started the animal moving, pointing it in the direction from which the guns still roared.

  Chapter Seven

  Taking his horse up the slope at an angle which he hoped would converge with the fleeing killer’s, Dusty noticed a patch of rough, uneven land dotted with prairie-dog holes ahead of him. To ride a horse across such an area at speed asked for disaster. A less knowledgeable man might have gone downhill in the erroneous belief that he helped his mount. Knowing that the conformation of a horse’s body lent itself better to climbing than descending at speed, Dusty swung the horse up the slope. He passed around the danger area, but in doing so lost ground on Murphy. Once clear of the prairie-dog village, Dusty settled his mount into a raking, mile-devouring stride.

  A hired killer often needed a good horse under him, so bought the best animal available. Murphy proved to be no exception to the rule, and his bay gelding possessed both speed and stamina. However the bay could not start to compare with the magnificent paint stallion between Dusty’s knees. Even without his weight advantage Dusty stood a better than fair chance of catching up to the killer in a long chase. Given his lighter weight and superior skill at riding, Dusty knew the chase must end successfully as long as nothing unexpected happened.

  Clearly Murphy believed he had the advantage, for he turned his bay down the slope and headed for the trail. Dusty calmly held to the high ground until he could see a safe way downwards. On finding what he needed, he used all his considerable skill to follow Murphy without crippling the paint or losing too much ground.

  The trail wound through a wide valley, the rock, bush and tree dotted sides of which frequently hid Murphy from Dusty’s sight. Not a pleasant thought when pursuing an armed and desperate man. However Murphy never even considered turning to make a fight. As Rosa Rio claimed, Murphy was more pistolero than valiente, preferring to take as few risks as possible in his line of work. Swapping shots with the Rio Hondo gun wizard, even from ambush, did not constitute a safe and easy way of living to reach a prime old age to Murphy’s way of thinking. So he concentrated on riding and making the most of his lead over the following Texan.

  Despite the fact that he wore his twin Army Colts and carried a Winchester Model 1866 carbine in his saddleboot, Dusty did not start shooting. To make a hit from the back of a racing horse was only possible at close range and in trying one stood the chance of throwing the animal off balance, causing it to lose speed at least, or go into a dangerous stumbling fall at the worst.

  Rounding a curve, the trail dipped down into a basin and rose up at the other side. As he went down the slope, Murphy saw a trio of riders appear at the top of the other side. If their appearance handed Murphy a shock, his own seemed to create some consternation among them. Even as the trio reined in their horses, Murphy hauled back on the bay’s mouth in an attempt to change its direction. At the same moment he recognized the center man of the trio as one of Rosa Rio’s most trusted hired hands. The other two wore expensive range clothes, carried low-hangi
ng revolvers and sat exceptionally fine horses. On the right, tall, lean as a steer fed in the greasewood country, a heavy mustache making a black slash across his hard face, was Starke Reynolds, rated next to the Dublin brothers at the head of the Kimble County gang. Although Murphy did not recognize the stocky youngster at Reynolds’ side, he doubted if the other was a deacon travelling in disguise.

  Even as Murphy identified two of the approaching trio and began to return his horse to its original route, Rosa Rio’s man recognized him. Pointing down, the man yelled Murphy’s name. Any thoughts the killer harbored about either enlisting the trio’s aid, or riding by them unhindered, ended abruptly as Starke Reynolds and the youngster grabbed for and started to slide free their rifles.

  Once more Murphy was forced to reconsider his position. Unless he missed his guess, Rosa had sent her man to tell of the shooting in her cantina. In which case she would have made sure that the Kimble County bunch found a target other than herself for their anger. That being so, Murphy must stand high on Starke Reynolds’ list of disliked persons. Having his gang’s reputation for ruthless toughness to consider, Reynolds would hardly pass up a chance to show folks what happened to those who crossed him.

  Throwing back his weight in the saddle, Murphy again wrenched at the bay’s reins. Confused by the conflicting orders it received, the bay fought against the bit. Instead of calming his mount, Murphy tried to drag it around; snatching brutally at its mouth. With a squeal of pain the horse reared, and in doing so saved its rider’s life. Up the slope, flame ripped from Reynolds’ Winchester rifle. The horse reared straight into the bullet meant for Murphy, gave a single scream, crumpled and fell. Feeling it going down, Murphy threw a leg across his saddle and hurled himself clear. He missed death for a second time as the youngster cut loose with his .50-caliber Sharps carbine, its bullet passing through the space occupied an instant before by Murphy’s leaping body. Two strides carried Murphy off the trail and the Winchester crashed again, missing him as he dived behind the nearest rock large enough to offer adequate protection against his assailants.