The Floating Outfit 15

by J. T. Edson

  ‘And before you start on her, don’t!’ Betty snapped at her cousin. ‘I’d’ve probably done exactly the same as she did had I been treated as she has.’

  ‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty replied. ‘All right, Stevie. Tell us about Jim Bowie’s lost mine.’

  ‘You know about it then?’ the girl asked.

  ‘I figure it’s at the back of all this fuss,’ Dusty admitted.

  ‘Tony thinks he can locate it somewhere on the Lazy M. But he’s not sure where and it will take a heap of work to find it. That’s why he wanted to buy the ranch, so he can do his searching in secret.’

  ‘Only Seth McGraw wouldn’t sell,’ Dusty stated. ‘Did Towcester kill him?’

  ‘I think so,’ Stevie replied. ‘Seth looked all right when he came into the bar that day—’

  ‘He’d been complaining about a pain in his guts all morning, Cap’n Cactus called from where he stood at the sitting-room window and watched the rear of the saloon.’

  ‘It could be that Towcester got lucky, then,’ Dusty said. ‘Would he know anything about medicine, Stevie?’

  ‘He went to some fancy school back East to learn doctoring,’ the girl replied. ‘Or so he told me one night when he got drunk. He was thrown out of it though. That made him wild, thinking about it. Then he’d get liquored up and lick me good.’

  ‘Most likely he knew about appendicitis, Dusty,’ Betty remarked. ‘Enough to recognize it. So he let Seth die, maybe even helped him on the way, thinking to buy the ranch.’

  ‘That was his idea,’ agreed Stevie. ‘Then he learned about Sandy and sent a hired gun to either kill him or stop him getting here in time to pay off the back taxes.’

  ‘That’d be Paco Murphy,’ Dusty put in.

  ‘I think that was his name. Tony wasn’t too keen on using him, wanted somebody better for the job but couldn’t get anybody right then. He said Murphy was too nosey for his liking and felt sure that he’d been listening outside the office one day while he, Tony that is, was talking to Tenby about the mine.’

  ‘He guessed right, Stevie. At least I figure Murphy knew about the mine.’

  Suddenly Stevie shot to her feet, winced and sat down again. Her strained face lifted to Dusty’s and she gasped, ‘Hell, Ed. I just remembered. There’s a place down south of here where hired guns hang out between jobs. That’s where Tony got Murphy, Damon and Ortega from. Well, he sent a man down there as soon as he heard that you’d escaped, to hire every gun there.’

  ‘Where is this place?’ Dusty demanded.

  ‘Twenty miles off at least,’ Becque put in, standing with Red at the open door. ‘That’d be the Robles place, wouldn’t it, Stevie?’

  ‘Yes. Tony wants help for when you come back, Ed.’

  ‘We’ll have to take him tonight then,’ Dusty stated.

  ‘Now?’ said Red hopefully.

  ‘Soon,’ Dusty promised. ‘Has Towcester found the mine yet, Stevie?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ the girl replied. ‘He used to take me buggy-riding on the Lazy M so nobody would guess what he was at. Then Tenby would go out and check any likely place for us. Tenby’s a pretty fair miner, if he’s kept off the bottle. Say, Mrs. McGraw, that’s Tony’s gun you’ve got there.’

  Before leaving the Lazy M, Betty had decided that she might need a weapon and wanted something more effective than her Remington Double Derringer. So she tucked the Metropolitan revolver into her waistband. Although Dusty had made a few inquiries as to the ownership of the gun, he had failed until that moment to learn anything about it.

  ‘I should have guessed,’ Dusty growled. ‘A gun like that’d be just the thing for a gambler. Only he played it clever, talking about the Derringer in his jacket pocket.’

  ‘He wears a holster built into his vest,’ Stevie said. ‘And that gun’s one of a pair.’

  ‘A vest holster!’ Dusty ejaculated.

  ‘Tony bought it from the man who made one for Wes Hardin,’ Stevie told him.

  ‘And I saw Cousin Wes wearing his just after he bought it,’ Dusty replied. ‘Lord. I’ve been blind.’

  ‘Apart from grandpappy, nobody’s right all the time,’ smiled Betty.

  ‘Uncle Devil’s all wrong about me,’ Red objected.

  ‘I’ve never noticed it,’ Betty replied. ‘And I’m not Mrs. McGraw, or Mrs. anybody, Stevie. Most of all, I’m not his wife.’

  ‘You reckon you’re pleased about that?’ asked Red. ‘When do we take Towcester, Cousin Dusty?’

  ‘Let’s give ’em a bit longer. Maybe those yahoos will go home and save us having to shoot any of them.’

  ‘I suppose that Towcester heard Mobstell and Cordova intended to bid for the ranch,’ Betty said to Stevie.

  ‘Sure. And when he heard, he brought in Damon to act for him,’ Stevie answered, then turned back to Dusty. ‘Boy, you sure had Tony worried, pretending you’d found the mine.’

  ‘You told him?’

  ‘Corlin beat me to it.’

  ‘How?’ Dusty asked. ‘I followed him to the saloon and watched him go up to his room—’

  ‘Which’s right over Tony’s office,’ Stevie explained. ‘With a trapdoor in the floor and a rope-ladder ready to fasten and lower down. That’s how Tony met the hired guns, or anybody else he didn’t want to chance being seen going in or coming out of his office.’

  ‘I suppose Towcester decided to use that Mexican killer after Corlin pretended to be looking for Cordova that first day,’ Dusty said. ‘It didn’t strike me at the time, but Corlin wouldn’t’ve been carrying the papers when he was looking for Cordova. But he thought fast when he saw me, knew Mobstell’d be in the saloon and asked for Cordova.’

  ‘That’s just how it happened,’ Stevie agreed. ‘He passed word for a Mexican killer to Robles. Then to make sure you kept thinking right he dressed as a vaquero and stalked your range so that somebody would see him from a distance.’

  ‘Somebody did,’ Betty smiled.

  ‘They decided to try to kill Sandy, or whoever he is, first if they could,’ Stevie went on. ‘Tony said he’s such a hot-head that it ought to be easy to sucker him into a fight.’

  ‘And he was right,’ Betty sniffed. ‘How about Corlin?’

  ‘He was scared when he heard that Ed was a Texas Ranger and wanted money to run out,’ Stevie answered. ‘So Tony promised to send him some during the evening. Then he laid the trap for Ed, only it went wrong.’

  ‘Not by much,’ Dusty said quietly.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened, Ed,’ the girl told him contritely. ‘If there had been any other way—I even thought you might be tough, fast and smart enough to get me away from Tony that first day here Then I learned, or thought you were a Ranger captain and—’

  ‘Sure, Stevie,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘I may still do it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get you away from him,’ Dusty said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Standing at the bar of the Golden Goose, Towcester looked across the room to where Frenchie Becque entered. For a moment the noise of the room wavered as its occupants wondered what brought the Wells Fargo agent there at such a late hour. Before the customers could resume their activities, Becque’s voice rang out.

  ‘I’ve called the sheriff for you, marshal. Figured you’d want him ready to lend a hand.’

  ‘Huh?’ grunted Tenby, sitting moodily at a table watching other men sink whisky while he had to make do with the schooner of beer that was all Towcester allowed him to take. His fingers drummed on the shotgun beside the glass as he glanced at his employer for advice. None came, so he went on, ‘Yeah. That’s what I wanted done.’

  ‘Got an answer too,’ Becque went on loudly before the talk could well up again. ‘The sheriff told me to tell you who Ed Marsden is.’

  Towcester could almost see the ripple of interest running through the crowd and wondered how he might prevent Becque from giving the information publicly. The chance to suppress the news did not arise.

 
‘Who is he?’ Tenby muttered.

  ‘He’s Dusty Fog!’

  Which, while not what Towcester expected to hear, created something of a sensation among the rest of those present. The name Becque spoke passed around the room and various unofficial deputies exchanged worried glances. Only the saloonkeeper appeared to be unaffected at what he heard.

  ‘Fog or Marsden!’ he shouted. ‘He still killed Corlin in cold blood.’

  ‘So everybody reckons,’ admitted Becque. ‘Only I’d hate like hell to be the one who tells him when he comes in with the Lazy M crew and Ole Devil’s floating outfit backing his play.’

  ‘We haven’t seen either Mark Counter or the Ysabel Kid in town,’ Towcester pointed out, watching the air of uneasy apprehension creep over his guests.

  ‘I thought I saw them over to the Lazy M’s house yesterday while I was out there hunting for a deer,’ Becque replied. ‘Want anything else doing, marshal?’

  ‘Naw!’ grunted Tenby after a glance at Towcester.

  ‘Reckon I’ll be going then.’

  After Becque left, the same uneasy silence continued. Towcester glared around for a moment and then told the bartender to start livening things up. One of the unofficial deputies set down his half-filled glass and shoved back his chair. Yawning ostentatiously, he nodded to the saloonkeeper.

  ‘Thanks for the drinks, only I reckon I’d best be getting home now.’

  ‘Hey! Is that the time?’ another man continued, staring pointedly at the wall clock. ‘I’ll have to be moving on.’

  Seemingly the rest of the men who had volunteered to hunt down ‘Ed Marsden’ found a similar need to leave the saloon. Not even Towcester’s offer of another drink for the road brought a change of mind. Muttering their excuses, the unofficial deputies headed for the doors at a pace one did not normally see them use when leaving a saloon. In a very short time after Becque delivered his message, only Towcester, Tenby, the bartender and two bouncers remained for the girls to entertain.

  Annoyance twisted Towcester’s face as he watched the men go. It had been his hope that the unofficial deputies would remain all night, drinking his cheapest liquor and being kept in a state of righteous indignation against ‘Ed Marsden’. Then when the small Texan returned with friends to back his play, Towcester would have had help available. Already a fair amount of whisky had passed down parched throats and many promises of what ‘Marsden’ could expect on his arrival had been given out. Yet as soon as they learned his true identity, the unofficial deputies ran like curs with tails between their legs.

  However things were not too bad in Towcester’s opinion. ‘Marsden’, or Dusty Fog, would not reach the Lazy M until the small hours of the morning and might hold off his return until daylight. By the time he reached San Garcia, help in the form of Robles’ hired guns ought to be very close.

  ‘What now, boss?’ Tenby asked, fingering his shotgun.

  ‘We stay on here all night,’ Towcester replied. ‘Let the gals out the back and lock it up. If Mars—Fog comes, he’ll have to use the front door.’

  While one bouncer dealt with the girls, the other locked the two side doors. On his way back to the bar, the second man glanced through the front windows. What he saw brought him to a halt.

  ‘Boss! Becque’s across the street talking to two fellers.’

  ‘Who are they?’ Towcester demanded.

  ‘One’s ole Cactus from the Lazy M and the other … hell, it’s Sandy McGraw!’

  ‘Is Fog with them?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  Before any more could be said, the second bouncer returned hurriedly. ‘Somebody’s at the house, boss!’ he said. ‘The light was on in Stevie’s bedroom and I saw a gal looking out of the window.’

  ‘Stevie’s there,’ Towcester answered.

  ‘Only this warn’t her. She ducked back fast when the gals came out, but I recognized her. It’s McGraw’s missus.’

  ‘McGraw nothing!’ Towcester spat out. ‘Corlin was right. He’s not McGraw.’

  ‘If Marsden’s Dusty Fog, that’s Red Blaze out there,’ the bartender put in. ‘He’s Fog’s cousin—and so’s that black-haired gal or I miss my guess.’

  ‘They got to Stevie!’ Towcester snarled, ignoring the man.

  All too well he knew how Stevie regarded him. With that thought in mind, he jerked his eyes towards the ceiling. Stevie knew the secret of the room over his office and would pass on the information to Dusty Fog when she learned that he was not a Texas Ranger. An agile man, skilled with a rope, could easily gain an entrance at the rear. Then he would—

  ‘Get upst—!’ Towcester started to say.

  ‘Becque and them other two’re coming across the street, boss!’ the first bouncer reported.

  And the door of Towcester’s office jerked open.

  As the saloonkeeper feared, Dusty Fog had found little difficulty in entering the building. Using the rope Cactus had collected from the waiting horses, Dusty threw a loop over a projecting piece of the roof. Then he climbed up, gently broke a pane of glass in a window and unfastened its catch. Pausing only long enough to draw up the carbine, Dusty moved cautiously to the room’s door. All the saloon’s doors had locks controlled by a master key, one of which Stevie possessed. Eager to take revenge on the man who made her life a living hell, the girl had given Dusty the means to carry out his plan.

  Crossing the deserted upstairs passage, Dusty entered the room over Towcester’s office. He first found the trapdoor and inched it up carefully until sure the office below was empty. After lowering the ladder, he went to the window and signaled to his waiting friends. Then, while Becque entered the barroom, Dusty climbed down into the office.

  Dusty had counted on the power of his name and knowledge of the floating outfit’s fighting prowess to scare off at least some of the unofficial deputies. From what he saw through the office window, that part of his scheme had worked even better than he had hoped. During the clatter and chatter of the girls’ leaving, Dusty unlocked the office door. He signaled to his friends through the window and returned to the door ready to burst in on Towcester’s remaining group.

  It was a good plan, worthy of the man whose strategy during the war caused many Yankee officers to tear their hair in impotent fury. Unfortunately for its successful conclusion, Towcester recognized the danger just a shade too soon.

  Up flickered Towcester’s right hand as Dusty made an appearance. It disappeared under his jacket and emerged holding the second Metropolitan revolver. At the same moment Tenby swung around, moving with surprising speed compared to his normal lethargic pace. Already walking towards it, the bartender changed to a leap for the waiting sawed-off ten-gauge. Both bouncers grabbed at their guns.

  While Towcester could draw very fast, he had learned only the kind of shooting required by a professional gambler. He could deliver a hit on a man-sized target with blinding speed across the width of a poker table, but lacked accuracy at any longer range. Standing some forty feet from Towcester, Dusty heard the bullet strike the wall inches to his left.

  Thrusting himself forward, Dusty landed on a table. It turned over through his weight, depositing him on the floor but hiding most of him from the men at the bar. Up came the carbine, nestling into his shoulder as he sighted at Tenby and squeezed the trigger. Maybe over eight hundred yards the twenty-six grain powder charge of the B. Tyler Henry cartridge lacked the punch of a Sharp’s buffalo rifle, but up close it delivered the two hundred and sixteen grain, flat-nosed bullet well enough. Designed to lessen the chance of a premature explosion when jolted in the magazine tube, the bullet’s shape caused it to mushroom on impact, creating shock and tissue damage out of all proportion to the comparatively weak power of the charge. Caught in the chest, Tenby slammed backwards. His shotgun bellowed, but the barrels no longer pointed towards Dusty.

  Swiftly Dusty flicked the carbine’s lever, throwing out an empty case and feeding his next bullet into the chamber. Tenby still held the shotgun, bracing himse
lf against the wall and trying to line it. Changing his aim slightly, Dusty sent the second bullet into the marshal’s head.

  Lead cut the air over Dusty’s head, slapping into the table even as Tenby crumpled and slid to the floor. Twisting around, Dusty saw the first bouncer’s revolver still kicked high with its recoil. Before the man could re-cock the gun and fire again, Dusty’s carbine drove a bullet through his shoulder and tumbled him into the wall.

  Feet thudded on the sidewalk and the batwing doors burst open. Coming through them, Red Blaze whipped his Spencer carbine up and cut loose at the bartender. Caught undecided which menace to handle, the bartender hesitated just too long. Hit between the eyes by Red’s bullet, he pitched over and fell out of sight, the sawed-off shotgun clattering to the floor by his side.

  On Red’s heels, Cactus lunged around and the old Colt revolving rifle let out an awesome bellow. The second bouncer threw one bullet in Dusty’s direction and then went down with Cactus’ solid lead ball driven between his ribs.

  Showing the same speed with which he drew his gun, Towcester turned and flung himself over the bar. Splinters sprayed up from the top of the counter as Becque fired at the saloonkeeper, but Towcester went uninjured out of sight.

  ‘Give it up, Towcester!’ Dusty called, moving around the table and lining his carbine at the bar.

  ‘Try and make me!’ the saloonkeeper yelled back and flung himself along to grab up the bartender’s discarded shotgun.

  The move saved his life. Aiming at the sound of Towcester’s voice, Dusty sent four bullets driving through the front of the bar in the space of two seconds. Although he spaced the shots along the bar, he did not go quite far enough to catch his man.

  ‘Give up now, Towcester?’ Dusty asked, but the man made no reply. ‘Cactus!’

  ‘Yo!’ came the oldster’s reply.

  ‘Get around to the back of the building and watch that cellar door Stevie told us about.’

  ‘She’s done already, Cap’n!’ Cactus answered and left the room.

  ‘Watch the street and make sure nobody cuts in, Frenchie,’ Dusty went on.