Set Texas Back On Her Feet (A Floating Outfit Western Book 6)

by J. T. Edson

  Thrown off balance, the hard case stumbled forward. At the same moment, the blond snapped up a kick with his right foot. Once again Timson might have counted himself fortunate that circumstances prevented an attack from arriving with his opponent’s full strength. As it was, the rapidly delivered kick still inflicted considerable pain. Caught in the groin as he advanced Timson was hurt but not incapacitated. Nor could he stop himself from blundering onward. The cowhand sidestepped meaning to launch a blow that would put his second enemy out of the deal.

  Then the blond’s luck started to go bad!

  Viridian had turned and was closing in fast. Even as the youngster moved clear of Timson, the burly man was in striking distance. Hurling out his knotted left fist, Viridian caught the blond in the solar plexus. Well-developed though the Texan’s stomach muscles were, they could not fend off such a blow. Gasping, he bent at the waist. He was winded and helpless.

  Leaping closer, as his victim was driven to the rear by the impact, Viridian flung up his right knee. Although he overshot his mark, catching the blond’s chest instead of the face, the result was equally satisfactory. Lifted erect, the blond was pitched bodily away from his attacker. Going by Timson, the cowhand smashed into the wall of the building and bounced limply to the ground.

  ‘The bastard!’ Timson screeched, left hand clutching between his thighs in an attempt to lessen the pain he was feeling. His right clawed the revolver from its holster. ‘I’ll kill him!’

  Even as the hard case started to line his weapon, it became apparent that good fortune had not entirely deserted the now defenseless cowhand.

  ‘Hey!’ yelled a voice.

  Turning to see who had shouted, Viridian realized that the situation was taking a turn for the worse. In fact, he might find himself in a dangerous predicament. Two men had emerged from an alley something over fifty yards away and were taking an undesirable interest in his affairs. What was more, they looked like they would be capable of backing up their intervention.

  Both wore range clothes and the vest of the older, slightly shorter—which did not make him small—newcomer carried a deputy town marshal’s shield. His right hand was dipping towards the butt of the revolver in the holster tied to his thigh.

  Clad in all-black garments, with a gun belt that supported a heavy Colt—possibly even a Dragoon model—butt forward in a low cavalry-twist-draw holster at the right side and an ivory handled Bowie knife sheathed on the left, the second intruder gave the impression of being very young. He had an Indian-dark face, that was handsome and almost babyishly innocent of aspect. If he too was a peace officer, he did not wear a badge to prove it.

  For all the lack of evidence to suggest official status, Viridian considered the black-dressed cowhand to present the more immediate danger. He was already swinging towards his right shoulder the butt of the rifle that had been on the crook of his left arm. Young and innocent he might look, but he was moving with a speed and precision that implied he was very proficient in the use of the weapon.

  Also having directed his gaze to the speaker, Timson snarled a curse and rapidly altered his point of aim. Elevating the barrel of his revolver, he squeezed its trigger. He made a lucky, or—depending upon how one looked at it—unlucky, hit. Although he had intended to shoot the black-dressed cowhand, his .44 caliber bullet struck the deputy in the chest. An instant later, flame spurted from the muzzle of the cowhand’s rifle. Timson’s head snapped back. He had lost his hat during the fight and the base of his skull seemed to shatter outwards as the bullet burst its way through.

  Anger, mingled with alarm, filled Viridian as he saw the result of Timson’s shot. While the burly man had drawn his Remington instinctively, he had not intended to use it. Instead, he had hoped that he might be able to explain the position in a way which would satisfy the peace officer. Timson’s action had ruined any chance of that.

  One thing was now obvious to the hide and tallow man. He must get away as quickly as possible. Doing so would not be easy. The Indian-dark Texan’s right hand was dipping in a significant manner. Taken with the second tube, beneath the barrel, the action implied that he held a Henry repeating rifle and could recharge its chamber with some rapidity.

  Swinging on his heel to take a hurried departure, Viridian saw Silvane. The hard case was slowly heaving himself on to his hands and knees, raising an ashy-gray, agony-distorted face to stare about him. Clearly he could not hope to escape in his present physical condition. Realizing that, Viridian did not like the idea of letting him fall into the hands of the law. The marshal would not be content with only two of the men concerned in the death of his deputy, but was going to want to know the identity of the third.

  Having no faith in Silvane’s loyalty, Viridian knew what he must do. Extending his right arm, he pointed the Remington downwards. Horror twisted at the hard case’s face as he realized what his employer intended to do. Even as he opened his mouth, meaning to plead for his life, the revolver’s hammer fell and a .36 conical-shaped lead ball twirled from the barrel into his head.

  Almost before Silvane’s lifeless body had jerked and fallen face down, Viridian was racing by. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, the burly man saw that the black-dressed Texan was looking at the deputy. Sprinting on, Viridian swerved towards the alley. It was fortunate that he did. With an eerie crack, something struck and tore the hat from his head. Hearing the bark of the Texan’s rifle, he knew what had happened.

  Coming to a halt at the entrance to the alley, the burly man swiveled around. He raised the Remington, cupping his left hand under the right for added support, sighted and fired. For a moment, he thought that he had scored a hit. The Texan plunged forward, but he went down in a rolling dive that showed he was not hurt. That was made even more certain by the way he came to his knees and started to return the rifle to the firing position.

  Without waiting to see any more, Viridian resumed his flight. The sight of Dover sprawling before him gave a warning that there was another person who could identify him by name. Showing no more compassion than when slaughtering cattle, he flung a shot at the rancher. Dirt erupted alongside Dover’s body, warning that the bullet had missed. Striding closer, Viridian bent and placed the muzzle of the revolver against the rancher’s head. He had already cocked the action and, on squeezing the trigger, there was a smell of burning hair and flesh. Satisfied that he had silenced Dover, he flung himself onwards.

  Expecting at any moment to hear, or feel, something to prove that the dark-faced Texan had arrived at the other end of the alley, Viridian reached the street. Neither a shout nor a shot had followed him, so he assumed that the cowhand had stopped to examine one or another of the injured men. So far, too, the shooting did not appear to have aroused any attention in the immediate neighborhood.

  Having seen Dover in passing, Viridian and his men had hitched their horses in front of the right hand building. Darting to them, he started to jerk free the reins of Silvane’s mount. Muttering a relieved curse, he felt he was fortunate that the hard cases each used one-piece reins instead of the split-ended, two brand variety preferred by Texas cowhands. Tossing the reins over the saddle’s horn, he repeated the process with Timson’s horse. Then he liberated and vaulted astride his own animal. Reining it around, he yelled to set the other two running. They could not be traced back to him if the peace officers caught them, but he had no intention of leaving them to be used by the Texan. From what he had seen, the Indian-dark youngster was too skilled a fighting man for him to be inclined to take chances of that kind.

  With Timson’s and Silvane’s mounts running along the street, Viridian set his horse into motion. Building up its speed, he guided it at an angle and into an alley on the other side of the street. As he entered, he flung a fast look behind him. So far the Texan had not made an appearance. With the horse going at a gallop, Viridian made his way to the edge of the town. Once there, he joined the stagecoach trail, knowing that it would be difficult, if not impossible, for anybody to follow his
horse’s tracks along it.

  Riding on, keeping a wary watch for pursuit, Viridian gave thought to what he should do next. He decided that he would return that night, after dark, and consult with de Froissart. There were other men in town who he could use and he might be able to carry out his task despite the setback.

  Thinking of the latter subject, Viridian scowled. He wondered who the ‘short-growed, blond haired kid’ might be?

  Chapter Four – Do You Know Who That Kid Is?

  TO THE NORTH OF Fort Worth, rockets hissed into the sky and exploded with brilliant cascades of multi-colored lights. The red glows of several large fires in the same direction told that the open-air barbecue to celebrate the commencement of the Tarrant County Fair was in full swing.

  Holding his horse to a walk, Austin Viridian ignored the festivities and rode towards the Belle Grande Hotel. The time was shortly after ten o’clock and the night dark. None of the few people on the street gave him a second glance as he went by. There were so many strangers in town that one more attracted no attention, especially when he was behaving in a normal manner. So, although he remained constantly on the alert and continually darted glances about him, it was merely an instinctive precautionary measure. He did not believe that he would be connected with the killings of that afternoon. In fact, such was the change in his appearance, that he felt sure neither the small blond nor the Indian-dark cowhand would recognize him if they should happen to meet.

  After having covered about two miles along the southbound stagecoach trail, without seeing anybody coming after him, Viridian had turned off it across some bare and rocky ground which would not show his horse’s tracks. He had made his way to a grove of post oak trees and, finding a small stream, had made his preparations for going back to town.

  Prudence might have suggested that the burly man had kept riding until he gained the safety of Pilar, but he had wanted to find out what was happening in Fort Worth. De Froissart had reached the town shortly after noon and, guessing that Viridian was involved in the shootings, would have tried to discover what progress—if any—the marshal was making in the investigation. Rather than wait at home until the Creole brought or sent the information, Viridian intended to hear it as soon as possible.

  There was another reason for Viridian returning. Timson and Silvane were dead, but he could replace them without difficulty. Of course, he would not be able to carry out his work as had been planned originally. For all that, he was satisfied that he could revise the scheme for persuading ranchers to continue supplying the Pilar Hide & Tallow Company with cattle.

  The first thing Viridian had had to do was alter his appearance. That had been easy enough to accomplish. In the bedroll strapped to the cantle of his saddle had been his more usual style of clothing, with the exception of his ‘planter’s’ hat. He had not been able to carry that, but did not think its absence was important. Unpacking the bedroll, he had stripped off the cowhand’s attire. He had washed and shaved in the cold water of the stream although doing so had been painful. He had had no means of heating water. Then, having dressed as he did normally and looking more respectable, he had waited with what patience he could muster until night had fallen. There had been no sign of a posse searching for him and, with the coming of the darkness, his worries on that account had ended.

  On his return, Viridian had found—as he had expected that the southern side of the town was still practically deserted. Nor had there been many people around as he had ridden through the more wealthy sections towards the hotel which he and his partners always used when visiting Fort Worth. He wanted to make sure that de Froissart had arrived before wasting time in searching for him.

  Fastening his horse to the hotel’s hitching rail, the burly man strolled across the sidewalk in a deliberately nonchalant manner. Caution dictated that he should try to see his partner and learn the situation before meeting anybody else who knew him. So he looked through the open front door. He was gratified to find the lobby and the reception desk unoccupied.

  Entering, Viridian made the most of his opportunity by crossing to the desk and examining the register. At the top of a fresh page, its first entry in fact, was his partner’s name. Glancing at the keyboard, he saw that de Froissart’s key was missing.

  Annoyance bit at the burly man. Instead of being out and attending to the Company’s business, the Creole must be having an early night in bed. Maybe he was tired after the journey from Pilar, but he ought to be learning all he could about the extent of the peace officers’ investigation into the killings. Nor was it like him to miss the chance of meeting influential and useful people.

  Sniffing indignantly, Viridian went upstairs. He met nobody, nor did he have any difficulty in locating de Froissart’s room. At first as no light showed through the crack at the bottom of the door, he wondered if the Creole had taken the key with him instead of handing it in at the desk. Drawing closer, he could faintly hear voices. While he could not make out what was being said, or even tell for sure that it was de Froissart, he decided that a man and woman were talking.

  The discovery did not come as too much of a surprise to Viridian, for the Creole fancied himself as a ladies’ man. It accounted for him being in his room at such an early hour—and did nothing to reduce the burly man’s annoyance. However, not wishing to stand in the passage for too long and feeling satisfaction at being able to spoil de Froissart’s fun, he knocked on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ called the Creole’s voice, sounding annoyed.

  ‘Gus Roxterby,’ Viridian answered, taking the precaution in case anybody else should hear him. He was confident that his partner would recognize his voice. ‘Open up, Mr. de—!’

  Before the burly man could say anything more, there was a loud and clearly startled exclamation from the Creole. It was followed by a brief, much quieter mutter of conversation between de Froissart and his companion. Viridian could not hear what was being said, but guessed that his partner was explaining matters to the woman. Then, partially muffled by de Froissart calling that he was coming, Viridian heard a scuffling sound as if somebody was moving hurriedly but attempting to do so without making too much noise.

  Despite the Creole’s promise, several seconds elapsed before Viridian saw a glow of light under the door and heard footsteps approaching. The lock clicked and the door opened to reveal de Froissart. He was wearing a woolen dressing gown, but little else. There was surprise, mingled with alarm, on his handsome face and he kept his right hand hidden behind the door.

  ‘What are you doing he—’ the Creole began.

  ‘What took you so long?’ Viridian inquired, in the same breath.

  ‘I—You woke me up,’ de Froissart replied, darting a glance over his shoulder. ‘And I had to light the lamp, then put this on. But why—?’

  ‘Let’s talk inside,’ Viridian suggested, stepping forward. ‘It’d be best if nobody knows I’m in town.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ de Froissart admitted and his eyes held a wary look. ‘Why did you come back?’

  ‘To find out what’s being done about this afternoon, Viridian answered, continuing to advance.

  ‘Is that a—’ the Creole said, sounding relieved and taking another look behind him. Most of the alarm had gone when he returned his gaze to his partner. Letting the burly man walk by, he closed the door. ‘It might have been wiser if you’d stayed away.’

  Looking about him, Viridian could locate no trace of de Froissart’s other visitor. For a moment, he wondered if he had been imagining the female voice. Then his nostrils detected a sweet, somehow familiar aroma and he grinned. Unless he was mistaken, the woman had on the same kind of expensive perfume his wife always used. There was no wonder that the Creole had not wanted Viridian to see her, or even suspect she was there. In all probability, she was an ostensibly respectable married woman with a wealthy husband. Possibly Viridian was acquainted with her.

  Most likely, the burly man thought as he continued his examination of the room, the wom
an was now standing inside the large wardrobe. It was the only possible hiding-place and, apart from going through the window, there was no other way out.

  She certainly would not have crawled under the bed, Viridian decided as he swung his gaze in that direction, although she had been in it. The covers were thrown back, while the mattress and one pillow showed plainly that more than a single person had been pressing on them.

  Wondering if he could learn the woman’s identity as a means of getting a hold over his partner, Viridian noticed that de Froissart’s walking-cane was lying on the bed. Yet it looked different in some way. After a moment’s scrutiny, he realized what was wrong.

  The cane’s handle was missing!

  Turning slowly, Viridian dropped his gaze to the Creole’s right-hand. It was gripping the sword portion of the walking cane.

  ‘What’s that for?’ the burly man asked, indicating the weapon.

  At the same time, moving in an apparently casual manner, Viridian’s left hand unbuttoned his jacket. By doing so, he gave access to the butt of his Remington if it should be needed, but avoided making his intentions too obvious. Taking in his action, de Froissart made no references to it. Instead, the Creole strolled in what could have been a genuinely nonchalant manner until he stood between Viridian and the wardrobe. Although near to the bed, on the opposite side to where he and the woman had been lying, de Froissart did not offer to return the sword to its sheath in the cane.

  ‘I wasn’t sure who was outside,’ the Creole answered.

  ‘Didn’t you recognize my voice?’ Viridian challenged.

  ‘Well, yes, but I could hardly believe it was you speaking,’ de Froissart replied. ‘Why have you come back Austin?’

  ‘Have I been here before?’ Viridian countered.