The Floating Outfit 11

by J. T. Edson

  Red scooped his winnings from the table. The financial gain was not high for they played a five to ten cent limit. However, the game served a purpose in allowing Red to get to know the others better. The more he saw the more certain Red became that Terry Ortega was entirely innocent of any threat to the train.

  ‘My arm’s beginning to throb a mite,’ Terry remarked as they stood at the bar and Red spent his winnings treating his opponents. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ Red replied, seeing a chance of making private talk.

  ‘The night’s still young and so are we,’ whooped Duke. ‘We’ll stay on and enjoy it while we can.’

  ‘Don’t wake up Sister Sue,’ Terry warned. ‘She’ll raise lumps on your fool heads if you do.’

  ‘Who’s this Sister Sue?’ Red inquired.

  ‘My kid sister,’ Terry answered in noncommittal tone.

  ‘She sure is,’ agreed Duke. ‘Anyways she’s staying with the Leylands tonight so we’re safe enough.’

  Red and Terry collected their horses and gear then walked towards the small white painted house at back of town. Terry opened the gate in the picket fence and a shot sounded from the main street somewhere. Neither took much notice for shots were no uncommon sound. It would most likely only be some cowhand letting off steam. A second shot crashed out from the same direction as Terry unlocked the house door. Then they heard the sound of rapidly departing hooves.

  ‘Every pay night’s the same,’ chuckled Terry. ‘I bet that’s ole Biscuit’s chasing them out of town.’

  The house, a small two-storey frame building, neatly if not expensively furnished, showed signs of care that a woman would lavish on her home. Red stabled and cared for the horses then carried both saddles Inside, laying them carefully on their sides in a corner. No cowhand ever set his saddle down on its skirts or left it where clumsy feet might tread on and damage it.

  While Red cared for the horses Terry brewed coffee and by the time Red entered the dining-room had it on the table. While they drank the coffee Red took his chance to have a serious talk with the young rancher.

  ‘You got any enemies, Terry?’ he asked.

  ‘None that I know of, ’cepting Fernandez. Why?’

  Quickly Red told about the coming wagon train. He saw the pleasure on the other man’s face die as he went on about the threats and the notes which bore Terry’s address indented on the back.

  ‘I can’t think who’d do it,’ Terry stated firmly. ‘Or why they’d try to blame me. I want a town here, so did my father before me. I’ve been trying to get Considine, he’s the Land Agent, to do something about it.’

  Not having mentioned Miss Considine’s presence with the train or the fact that she gave an entirely different picture of Terry, Red was curious to learn more about the Land Agent.

  ‘What’s this Considine like?’

  ‘Big, good looking, smart. He’s efficient and I’m surprised he stays in a place like this when he could be somewhere bigger and offering him a better chance.’

  They talked on for a time but reached no conclusion as to who might want to make trouble for Terry. Red glanced across the room at a tintype photograph of a snub-nosed and very pretty girl of about twelve years old which rested on the sideboard by the wall.

  ‘That your kid sister?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, sweet looking lil thing, isn’t she?’

  ‘Why sure,’ agreed Red, thinking she looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

  ‘You can use her room, Red boy, it’ll be quieter than down here. She won’t need it as she’s staying with the Leylands tonight. Major Leyland runs a spread out beyond our north line. Real nice gent, rode in the 8th Minnesota Volunteers in the War.’

  ‘Sounds like a real mean cuss to me,’ grinned Red.

  ‘You Johnny Rebs are all the same. If he wore the blue he’s got horns and a forked tail,’ chuckled Terry. ‘Anyway Major Leyland’s like me, he’s been at the Governor to get folks to build up out here. I’m going to bed. Comes morning I’ll introduce you to Sister Sue.’

  Red did not show any great enthusiasm at the offer. He liked to meet good-looking blonde girls but much preferred their ages to be in the region of his own age, and there were limits to how much younger he would accept on a friendly basis. Twelve years old, that was well below Red’s limit for social acquaintance.

  Terry grinned as he watched Red walking ahead of him up the stairs to the bedrooms. Red Blaze looked like getting a tolerable surprise when he met up with Terry’s little sister.

  Nine – Miss Raines Meets Miss Ortega

  Dusty Fog and Mark Counter rode into the town of Backsight at about the time the poker game was coming to an end at the Alamo. They’d taken their time, come by the short route and so the horses were still fresh when they drew rein before the Arizona State saloon.

  ‘That’s looking forward a tidy mite,’ drawled Dusty, indicating the saloon’s name board.

  ‘Must be wanting to save having it repainted when they get to be a state,’ Mark replied. ‘Let’s look inside.’

  They left the horses standing at the hitching rail and stepped inside the saloon. The Arizona State was no larger nor was it better furnished than the other establishment along the street. There were some two dozen or more men in the bar but none gave the newcomers more than a scant glance before returning to whatever they were doing.

  The bartender leaned on the bar, polishing glasses with a cloth which had seen better days. He was a tall, lean and mournful man, his face more suited to an undertaker than to the owner of a fairly prosperous saloon. At the other side of the bar, leaning his elbows on it and with a beer schooner almost hidden in his hand was a huge, powerful-looking man. He stood almost as tall as Mark and was a fair bit heavier. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to expose powerful arms, his levis were new and his shoes flat heeled, something no cowhand would wear. On his vest was the badge of town marshal but he did not wear a gun. His sleepy eyes were on the two Texans, taking in the way their guns hung, then every detail of their dress.

  ‘Two beers, colonel,’ drawled Mark as they came to the bar.

  Eddy Last, the owner of the saloon, extracted two bottles of beer and poured them with bored skill. ‘You’re new hereabouts, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  The question was well within the bounds of western polite conversation. A bartender, along with a barber and a livery barn owner being a member of the privileged class who could ask such a question of a stranger without giving offence.

  ‘Aren’t old any place,’ Mark replied.

  ‘Would you be looking for work?’

  ‘Never took none to it, friend,’ Dusty answered.

  Last glanced down at their dress, noting their hard and work toughened hands. They were the hands of a working cowhand but they also bore the marks of a man who regularly handled his guns. Yet neither Texan showed the signs of being professional gunhands. Both were tophands with cattle. Hired killers who sold their guns to the highest bidder they most certainly were not.

  ‘Lazy O could use a couple of good hands,’ Last went on.

  ‘Lazy O,’ drawled Dusty. ‘That’d be the Ortega place, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Sure. Terry’s a good boss. He could use some extra hands happen he aims to clear that range south of his place.’

  ‘We’re just passing through, colonel,’ Mark answered. ‘Can we get a meal in here?’

  ‘Sure, I’ve a cook back there.’

  Dusty and Mark took their beer and food to a table, eating and drinking as they watched the coming and going. From the various groups they guessed the ranch crews were in town with their pay. Watching the men Dusty could see no sign of trouble between the crews. With his knowledge of the range and the men who worked it Dusty could read the signs and would have seen signs of friction between the men if any showed.

  ‘Wonder where Cousin Red is,’ said Dusty, pushing his empty plate away.

  ‘He’ll be around unless he’s found s
ome trouble,’ Mark replied. ‘Which same’s more than likely. Let’s have another beer then head back to the train.’

  ‘I’ll get them, see if I can learn anything from the barkeep.’ Last moved along the bar towards Dusty then he stopped, his eyes went to the doors of the saloon. Dusty glanced into the bar mirror but did not turn at the sight of the five Mexicans by the door. He knew their type without needing to be told. Bandidos every one of them. The man who stood ahead of the others caught the eye. Tall, slim, with a graceful, lithe poise which told of skill with a blade, be it saber, rapier or plain fighting knife. Yet no knife showed. Only the ornate cast metal stocked Navy Colt in the gunfighter’s holster, this appeared to be his sole armament. He was a well-dressed, arrogant young man whose face bore the hint of real cruelty of all his kind.

  Talk in the saloon died away to nothing and the ticking of the wall clock sounded loud. Eddy Last caught Dusty’s unasked question, and with barely a lip movement to show he spoke, muttered:

  ‘It’s Fernandez. He’s bad medicine.’

  Dusty turned slowly so he could look the bad medicine over. He was not impressed for in some circles Dusty was said to be real bad medicine himself. A Texan born and raised Dusty had been trained in a school which claimed one white man to be the equal of two Mexicans—four if the white man be born in the Lone Star State and over ten years old.

  Crossing the room Fernandez halted before the big sleepy eyed lawman, but not within reaching distance of him. There was a movement from the bar leaving the burly man clear but Dusty stayed where he was, within arm’s length of the town marshal. Fernandez flicked just the one look at Dusty then ignored him as a factor. Lifting his hand so the fingers spread over the butt of the holstered Colt he smiled and looked more evil than the devil himself.

  ‘Saludos señor lawman,’ he purred.

  The big man stayed leaning against the bar, his sleepy eyes went to the hand, measuring the distance between himself and the Mexican.

  ‘What’re you wanting, Fernandez?’ he asked.

  ‘A word to the wise, that’s all. Soon will come a man with many lies about me. If you value your life don’t listen to him.’

  ‘What sort of lies?’

  ‘That my men are stealing his cattle.’

  ‘And are they?’

  A hard glow came to the Mexican’s eyes, his face lost the smile. ‘I gave you a gentle hint. Now I tell you. Keep clear of me. The badge is like a target to me and when I see one I always feel I should shoot at it.’

  The big man’s muscles bunched, his figure tensed and the mocking sneer came to the Mexican’s face. His four men also tensed, their hands hooking into belts and close to their guns.

  Dusty took all this in. He knew the Mexican was fast, very fast. The burly town marshal might try and jump Fernandez but would be dead before he could get his big hands closed on the Mexican. To deal with such a man there was only one answer. To be faster with your own gun.

  Fernandez stood with a mocking sneer still playing on his lips. Then he saw the small cowhand move, hand going out to remove the badge from Biscuits Randle’s vest and pin it on his own shirt. Then his hands went to his side and he faced the Mexican, cold challenge in his eyes.

  ‘So a badge is like a target,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘Use it!’

  The big man half-turned, an angry look on his face. He was no coward and kept the law in Backsight without the aid of a gun, dealing fairly but firmly with the cowhands. Then the anger died and Randle stood still for he was no man’s fool. In his time out west Biscuits Randle could claim to have seen some of the fastest men in action. Here stood one who was the peer if not better than any he ever saw.

  ‘Have you hired a man to do your fighting, Randle?’ Fernandez asked, wondering if this was the man who stood by Terry Ortega earlier.

  ‘He hired nobody and you well know it,’ replied Dusty. ‘Take off your gun belt so you’re on his ground and see if I’m right.’

  ‘Happen they all takes off their belts I’ll take ’em tooth ’n’ claw, friend, see if I don’t,’ Randle put in. ‘All five at once.’

  ‘The son of a grandee does not brawl like a common peasant,’ snorted Fernandez.

  ‘Then,’ Dusty drawled mildly, ‘that only leaves you and me.’

  ‘As you say, señor. Just you and I.’

  The crowd fell silent after a brief mumble of surprised comment when they saw Dusty cut in. They all knew there could only be one outcome of all this. Hands would flash to guns, powder would burn and at least one man die, for Fernandez would never back down before the small Texan. Suddenly Dusty appeared small no longer. Suddenly he appeared to be the tallest man in the room.

  Fernandez smiled a cold deadly smile which did not reach his eyes. His men were at his back, full ready to back him if it was needed. With that thought in his mind Fernandez dropped his hand towards the fancy butt of the Army Colt.

  Half a second from the start of his move he was dead.

  Dusty’s right hand crossed, bringing the Colt from his left side, the hammer drawn back under his thumb as it slid clear of leather, all set to fire when, half a second later it was lined.

  The shot sounded loud in the room. Powdersmoke whirled. Fernandez jerked backwards, his gun clear of leather but it pointed down and his lifeless hand allowed it to fall to the floor. Then he went down after it.

  The thing was over and done with so fast that Fernandez’s men were given no chance to make a move. They stood as if frozen as Fernandez crashed to the ground among them.

  Smoke still dribbled up from the muzzle of Dusty’s Colt as he lined on the four remaining Mexicans. It only needed one of them to make a move and bring the others into the fight. That one was not forthcoming. Until an instant before they stood behind a leader who called every play for them. Now he lay dead and not one of them could supply the personality to bring the others into cohesive action.

  ‘Which way does it go?’ Dusty asked, giving them no chance to band together under one leader.

  ‘Fernandez wasn’t our friend, señor,’ replied one of the men.

  ‘We didn’t like him one little bit,’ a second agreed.

  ‘Take him with you!’

  Dusty gave the order as the men turned. Three of them bent and lifted the body from the floor then headed for the door with it. The fourth followed, his hand sliding to the butt of his knife as he went. The Colt pinwheeled on Dusty’s finger then slid back into leather, he turned back to the bar and asked the rather pale looking Eddy Last to get two more beers.

  The men carrying Fernandez passed through the batwings. The fourth man came around with his knife gripped ready. His arm swung back and the blade of the knife flickered in the bar lamps.

  Mark Counter did not even rise. His big right hand fetched out its Colt and flame lashed from the long barrel. The .44 bullet struck the Mexican just as his arm started its descent, spinning the man through the batwing doors. The knife went into the floor, sinking in deep.

  ‘Thanks, Mark,’ drawled Dusty over his shoulder as he picked up the glasses.

  ‘Any ole time at all, Dusty,’ Mark replied.

  Talk welled up in the saloon again. They heard rapidly departing feet and a man went to the doors, coming back with word that two bodies lay on the sidewalk whilst the other Mexicans were afork their horses and heading out of town like the devil after a yearling.

  Randle followed Dusty to the table, trying to decide who the small Texan might be. He was one of the good guns, one of the top guns, that magic handed group who could draw, shoot and make their hit in much less than a second.

  ‘Say, sorry, friend,’ drawled Dusty, setting down the glasses and removing the badge. ‘Here’s your badge. You couldn’t have got to him without taking his lead in your teeth, which same’s plumb bad for the digestion.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Randle, pinning his badge on once more. ‘Happen I could throw a gun as fast as you I’d take to wearing one.’

  ‘Them drinks are on the house
, gents,’ Last said as he came up carrying a tray with whisky glasses and a bottle of his best on it. ‘You’d better take one, Biscuits. I thought you’d jump Fernandez with your bare hands and I didn’t reckon you’d get very far with it.’

  ‘Say, I’m Biscuits Randle, whatever law there is in this section, and this’s Eddy Last.’

  ‘Howdy. I’m Dusty Fog and this here’s Mark Counter.’

  Talk welled up around the room at the two names. The cowhands, and most of the crowd were cowhands, recalled all they’d heard about Mark Counter and the big Texan looked all of the hearing. However, it took some believing that the small man could really be Dusty Fog. Then they recalled the way Fernandez came to die and knew he told the truth.

  ‘They left Fernandez and the other, took a greaser stand-off,’ the man at the door announced.

  ‘I’ll tend to them,’ Randle remarked and slouched away from the table. He called to men to help him. From the response it was plain the cowhands of the town liked and respected him.

  Several more men gathered around the table, they had the appearance of ranchers, all were eager to meet the Hondo gun wizard and not a little curious at what brought the segundo of the mighty OD Connected ranch from Texas to their small town.

  ‘That Fernandez and his bunch have been running this country ragged for a fair piece now,’ Last remarked after introducing the ranchers. ‘Ole Biscuit’s brave enough but he’s no hand with a gun, ’cepting maybe a ten gauge. Still he’d’ve made a try at fetching Fernandez in if he had to then there’d be killing. Biscuits and more might’ve gone under for we wouldn’t have stood by and watched him killed. I reckon we owe you a vote of thanks, Cap’n Fog.’

  Dusty laughed and waved a deprecatory hand. He had hoped to meet Terry Ortega and form an opinion of the man but the owner of the Lazy O was not present. For all that Dusty doubted if a man as smart as the one behind the threats to the train would commit the stupid mistake of allowing his name and address to be found twice.