The Floating Outfit 15

by J. T. Edson

Turning, Red looked at a stocky, swarthy Mexican whose evil face did not go with the once elegant, but now dirty clothing of a caballero. No gun hung at the man’s side, only a long bladed fighting knife.

  ‘Says which?’ asked Red.

  ‘I don’t like gringos spying on my boss,’ the Mexican growled and put his left hand on Red’s shoulder. ‘Get—’

  Red knocked the hand aside and saw the right start to move towards the knife’s hilt. Guessing that the knife would prove just as deadly as a gun in the man’s hand, Red hit him before his fingers closed on its handle. Back shot the Mexican and landed rump first on the sidewalk. Spanish curses roared from the man’s lips and he started to rise, reaching for the knife again.

  ‘Leave it be,’ Red ordered, backing it up with his left hand Colt’s cocking click as he drew and threw down on the Mexican.

  Behind Red, the cantina doors opened and some of Cordova’s men appeared. Attracted by the man’s shouted curses, more of the cantina’s customers followed the vaqueros and Red could hear their excited comments.

  ‘You’re a brave man with a gun in your hand, gringo!’ the Mexican spat out. ‘Like all your kind. Without the gun you are nothing. I, Manuel Ortega, spit on you.’

  ‘Maybe you’d like me to put the gun away,’ Red replied, twirling it back into leather.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Ortega snarled. ‘If I try to avenge the insult you put on me, you will shoot me down.’

  ‘You got a notion on how you’d like to get satisfaction for the insult?’ asked Red, plunging into what he guessed to be a trap.

  ‘With a knife!’

  Despite his hot-headed way of becoming involved in fights, Red never went completely blind-charging. He guessed that Ortega intended to force a fight, but refused to back down. Yet Red knew the danger all too well. Having seen that master of the knife-fighting art, the Ysabel Kid, in action, Red did not underestimate the peril. Swiftly he sought for a way to counter Ortega’s challenge. An idea sprang to Red’s mind, although it was not one a more prudent man would have considered. Of course a prudent man would not find himself in such a situation.

  ‘All right, hombre,’ he said. ‘We’ll use knives, if somebody’ll loan me one. Only we’ll do it a way that’ll give me an even chance.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Ortega asked, showing surprise at Red’s acceptance.

  ‘Helena fashion,’ Red replied.

  Shock wiped the sneer from Ortega’s face and Red’s words were repeated in hushed tones among the crowd. Any of the onlookers who did not know what Red meant rapidly had the deficiency rectified by the more knowledgeable present. A Helena duel meant that the two contestants stood in a twenty-foot circle, each holding a knife in one hand, their other wrists fastened together. On the signal to start being given, they went at it and remained fastened together until one of them could not continue.

  ‘You mean to go through with this, senor?’ asked Cordova.

  ‘All the way,’ Red agreed. ‘This pelado’s xi been hired to pick a fight with me and I aim to get it done here, not have him waiting to back-shoot me some dark night.’

  ‘You lie, gringo!’ Ortega snarled. ‘But soon it will not matter, the insult will be wiped out in your blood.’

  No man of Cordova’s upbringing would attempt to stop an affair of honor. So, although a hint of concern flickered across his handsome face, he gave the order for a circle to be made ready. Then he turned to his segundo and told the man to loan Red a knife.

  Looking confident, Ortega swaggered into the circle a vaquero traced in the dirt of the street. He held his knife in his right hand, extending the left towards Red.

  ‘Looks like we’ve got us a problem,’ Red said quietly. ‘I’m left-handed.’

  Having used his right fist to knock the Mexican down, Red had drawn his left side Colt as being more readily available. However the fact that he had used his left hand added strength to his statement. Studying the clumsy manner in which Red held the borrowed knife, Ortega shrugged and agreed to change hands. Showing no emotion, Jesus, Cordova’s segundo, fastened the two right wrists together in such a way that each man could grasp the other’s forearm in his hand.

  Already word of the trouble had reached the Golden Goose saloon, causing Dusty to leave it hurriedly. Followed by a number of interested people, Dusty headed for the cantina. He saw Corlin approaching and noticed that Dr. Paczek stood outside a store watching him. Ignoring the land agent, Dusty continued to walk towards the growing circle of men and women before the cantina. Then he heard a voice snap out the word ‘Fight!’ and knew he could not arrive in time to help his cousin, even assuming that Red would want him to do so.

  As Ortega watched Red and waited for Cordova to give the command to fight, his fingers tightened slightly on the Texan’s arm. When the word came to start, the Mexican heaved in an attempt to drag his opponent off balance. Prepared for resistance to the pull, Red’s move took Ortega completely by surprise, for the Texan came forward—and fast. Perhaps using his knife right-handed, as he usually did, Ortega could have countered the move. Holding his weapon in the left hand confused him for that vital split-second Red needed to attack.

  Red let Jesus’ knife fall from his hand as he went forward. Once again his fist lashed into Ortega’s face, striking the nose with some force. Pain blinded the Mexican, throwing his thought-patterns all ways. Nor did he find time to recover. Down whipped Red’s left hand, driving hard knuckles full into Ortega’s belly with sickening force. Breath rushed from Ortega’s mouth and his body hunched over, presenting his jaw to Red’s fist as it came up to meet him. Lifted erect again, Ortega stood dazed, blinded by tears brought by the pain of his broken, blood-squirting nose, wide open for the backhand smash Red sent to the underside of his jaw. The knife fell from Ortega’s fingers and he started to fall backwards. Only the support given to him by being fastened to Red prevented him from crashing to the ground.

  Bending down, Red let Ortega subside and took up the borrowed knife. Silence dropped on the crowd as they waited to see what the Texan meant to do next. Under the free-and-easy rules of the Helena duel, he could finish off his enemy any way he chose. Slipping the clipped point of the knife between the wrists, he cut the thong holding them together.

  ‘Tell him the next time he crosses me to be wearing a gun,’ Red said as he handed the knife back to its owner.

  ‘You played that smart, amigo,’ Cordova remarked, an admiring grin on his face. ‘Any other way and he would have killed you. Then there would have been bad trouble between your people and mine. May I offer you a drink?’

  ‘I reckon I could use one,’ Red admitted, seeing Dusty coming through the crowd. ‘Did anybody ever tell me that I’m loco?’

  ‘If they didn’t,’ Dusty replied before Cordova could speak, ‘Cousin Be—Sarah’s sure going to when she hears about this.’

  ‘Now I do need that drink,’ Red stated, glancing at the groaning, writhing Ortega. ‘How about him?’

  ‘He can buy his own when he recovers,’ Cordova answered. ‘In some other town for preference. Jesus, see that he gets on his horse and goes.’

  ‘Si, senor,’ said the segundo, sheathing his knife and leaning against the cantina wall.

  Along the street Corlin stood with Paczek, looking towards where the crowd dispersed. An angry snort broke from the doctor.

  ‘That was a fine way for him to act. I thought he would at least try to stop the fight.’

  ‘To save his cousin?’ Corlin asked, realizing the doctor meant Dusty, not Red.

  ‘To do his duty as a peace officer!’ snorted Paczek. ‘If a Texas Rangers’ captain condones brawling in the street, is there any wonder that local peace officers allow it to go on?’

  Although Corlin had intended to walk on, he halted and stared at Paczek. ‘Do you mean that Marsden is a Ranger captain?’

  ‘He told me so himself,’ Paczek replied, getting his facts wrong in his indignation. Then he remembered Dusty’s request. ‘You will treat t
his as confidential, won’t you?’

  ‘I will,’ promised Corlin and whirled around as a shot thundered along the street.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘Will you gentlemen both take a drink with me?’ Cordova asked. ‘I feel that we should get acquainted as we are to be neighbors.’

  ‘Well be pleased to, señor,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Here, or at the Golden Goose?’

  ‘Here’s fine,’ Dusty assured the rancher.

  Turning, Cordova led the way into the cantina. As Dusty and Red neared its doors, they heard startled gasps and exclamations behind them, mingled with the sound of hurriedly moving feet. Recognizing what the sounds meant, each cousin began to swing around and sent a hand streaking towards its gun. Before either completed his turn, a shot thundered out.

  Jesus stood with a smoking Colt in his hand, its barrel slanting down towards the street. Sprawled on his back, a hole between his eyes and a Remington Double Derringer lying alongside his right hand, Ortega kicked his life away.

  ‘You didn’t hit him hard enough, señor,’ the segundo remarked calmly.

  ‘That is true,’ Cordova went on. ‘His kind do not forgive easily. Sooner or later you would have had to kill him.’

  ‘Likely,’ Red answered. ‘Gracias, Jesus.’

  ‘If a man starts a fight with a knife, he should end it with one, señor,’ the segundo replied.

  ‘Does he mean me, or that Ortega jasper?’ Red inquired as he followed Cordova into the cantina.

  ‘A little of both probably,’ smiled the rancher. ‘Jesus belongs to the old school and feels you have gone against the code duello in fighting the way you did. Not that I blame you.’

  Dusty stayed at the cantina’s door so as to hear what happened when the town marshal came to investigate the shooting. On his arrival, Tenby looked at the body and shrugged.

  ‘Just a greaser killing,’ he said. ‘Who done it?’

  ‘I did,’ Jesus replied coldly.

  ‘Figure you’d a good enough reason,’ Tenby growled. ‘Get him off the street pronto—’

  ‘And that is all it matters!’ Jesus spat out as the marshal ambled away.

  ‘Not all lawmen are like him, amigo,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Do you know the dead man?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ Jesus replied. ‘Even if he is another of us greasers.’

  ‘The marshal said it, not me,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘There’re good and bad in every race.’

  ‘Si, señor. And this is one of the bad ones. I will see to him. My patron wishes to speak with you.’

  ‘See if you can learn who he is and where he’s been for me, will you?’

  ‘I will try to learn, señor,’ Jesus promised.

  Entering the cantina, Dusty joined Red and Cordova at the bar. Although Jesus returned after taking the body to the undertaker’s shop and announced that nobody appeared to know where Ortega came from, the rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly enough. Cordova proved to be an excellent host. However, as in Mobstell’s case, Dusty could find nothing to point to Cordova being the man behind Sandy’s troubles. At sundown Dusty and Red left the cantina and walked through the town in the direction of the livery bam. On the way Red told Dusty the full story of the events leading to his fight with Ortega, having left out certain points while talking about it to Cordova.

  ‘What do you make of it, Dusty?’ he asked as they saddled their horses. ‘Ortega allowed I was spying on his boss.’

  ‘He could’ve been telling the truth, figuring you’d be too dead to mention it later,’ Dusty replied. ‘Or he said it so you’d think Cordova hired him.’

  ‘His hoss was outside the cantina. I saw them load him on to it and tote him away.’

  ‘And there was that Mexican jasper watching us at the ranch.’

  ‘Cordova’d likely hire Mexicans rather than white folks,’ Red pointed out.

  ‘So would somebody who wanted us to blame Cordova for sending a hired gun after you,’ Dusty countered.

  ‘This whole damned game’s sickening my guts,’ Red growled. ‘Give me a face-to-face, straight up fight any time.’

  ‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Only we have to play it the way whoever we want deals the hand.’

  As the cousins led their horses from the barn, they saw the Golden Goose’s swamper approaching.

  ‘Miss Stevie wants to see you, Mr. Marsden,’ the old timer said.

  ‘I’m just headed back to the spread,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘She said to tell you it’s real important.’

  ‘You’d maybe best go, Du—Ed,’ Red said. ‘I’ll head back to the spread.’

  ‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only ride careful and don’t go to sleep in the saddle. Unless it’s something real important, I’ll try to catch up with you on the way home.’

  Red mounted his claybank and Dusty watched him ride off. Wondering what the girl might want, Dusty left his horse saddled but in the livery barn. On reaching the saloon, he saw Stevie at the bar. She walked towards him as he entered, smiling with her lips only. While her face bore its usual make-up, there was a puffiness about the eyes as if she had been crying recently. ‘Hi!’ Dusty greeted. ‘What’d you want to see me about?’

  ‘I—I thought you’d want to see me before you left town,’ she replied, darting a glance in Towcester’s direction. Then she dropped her voice and turned her back on the saloonkeeper. ‘I’ve found that miner for you.’

  ‘Where is he?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘At the house. I thought you’d not want folks to see you talking to him or they might get the wrong idea.’

  ‘Smart thinking,’ Dusty said. ‘Let’s go see him.’

  ‘C-can’t we have a drink first?’

  Something in the girl’s attitude disturbed Dusty. It almost seemed that she did not want to go with him. Crossing to the bar, he ordered a couple of drinks and looked at Towcester. Nodding a greeting, the saloonkeeper went to watch a game of cards being played at one of the tables.

  ‘Well,’ Dusty said to the girl as they finished their drinks. ‘How about this miner?’

  Looking past him for a moment, the girl gulped and nodded. ‘All right, we’ll go and see him.’

  ‘Let’s do—!’ Dusty began.

  ‘Not together!’ Stevie interrupted. ‘Tony’s jealous already. After you leave, I’ll slip out of the back door and meet you by the house.’

  ‘We’ll do that,’ Dusty agreed and raised his voice. ‘Much as I’d like to, I can’t stay any longer, Stevie. I’ll see you the next time I’m in town.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ the girl replied and seemed about to say more, but Towcester left the card game and walked in her direction.

  Strolling from the saloon, Dusty turned along the sidewalk. He paused at the window and looked inside. Already Stevie had made her way towards the rear door and Towcester had gone into his office. Slowly Dusty continued along the front of the saloon, passed through the alley separating it from the next building and halted at the rear while he studied the area ahead of him. Both the back of the saloon and the small house were in darkness. Dusty could see nothing to disturb his peace of mind and so stepped forward.

  A shape rose on the porch of the house. Instantly Dusty stopped. Then he saw the white V a shirt made when worn under a buttoned-up jacket. Clearly the man on the porch expected somebody, for he stepped forward. Even as Dusty recognized the man as Corlin, a shot crashed from the other end of the saloon. Jerking backwards, Corlin slammed into the wall and slid down.

  Although Dusty’s right hand fetched out the left side Colt without conscious thought on his part, he did not squeeze the trigger. For one thing he could see nothing to shoot at; also he wanted to reach Corlin and learn how badly the man was hit. Darting to the house, Dusty bounded up on to the porch and knelt at Corlin’s side. A glance at the place from where the shot came failed to reveal any sign of the man responsible. Then Dusty turned his attention to Corlin. Whoever fired the shot knew his busi
ness. Before Dusty could do more than look, Corlin gave a harsh rattling cough. The land agent’s body twisted convulsively and then went limp.

  At the same moment Dusty heard a soft footstep at the end of the building. Looking up, he saw the bulky shape of the marshal and recognized the thing in Tenby’s hands. Maybe Tenby lacked most of the qualities one expected in a lawman, but he knew the correct tool for his present work. He was also, Dusty concluded, deeply involved in Corlin’s murder. Instead of looking to where the shot had been fired, Tenby stared first to where Dusty might be expected to have halted and then swiveled himself around to face the porch.

  Flinging himself aside and down, Dusty saw flame belch from the muzzle of Tenby’s shotgun. Something struck the planks just behind the small Texan as he rolled off the porch and at the same time he heard the sinister, eerie whistle as more .32 caliber buckshot balls fanned the air above him. If he had reacted just a shade slower, he would have been caught in the shotgun’s deadly nine-ball pattern. Still Dusty did not shoot. On landing upon the ground, he twisted himself back under the porch and edged in beneath it. Over his head heavy boots thudded on the porch’s planks. On the plaza voices yelled. The saloon’s side doors burst open and men started to come out, running towards the rear of the building. Coming to a halt, Tenby peered cautiously over the porch rail and cursed when he did not see Dusty’s body. Jumping down, as people converged on the house, Tenby glanced under the edge of the porch. He failed to see Dusty and straightened up to answer a request to be told who had done the shooting.

  ‘That Ed Marsden’s just killed Agent Corlin,’ Tenby replied. ‘Shot him down in cold blood and him without a gun.’

  ‘Why’d Marsden do a thing like that?’ demanded a voice Dusty recognized as belonging to the Wells Fargo agent.

  ‘Maybe I can tell you,’ Towcester answered. ‘Mr. Corlin told me earlier tonight that he had learned the man claiming to be Sandy McGraw is an impostor.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked one of the crowd.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Towcester replied. ‘But we shall when the marshal gets his hands on Marsden. Where is he now, marshal?’