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

by J. T. Edson

  The burly man was puzzled by his partner’s attitude. Displaying agitation, the Creole repeatedly flickered nervous glances over his shoulder at the wardrobe. Viridian considered saying that it was nothing to him if de Froissart chose to entertain a woman, but decided against it. Wanting information, he had no desire to antagonize the Creole and any reference to the other’s bedmate was sure to do that.

  ‘Not that I know of,’ de Froissart said quietly. ‘And, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll not be here after midnight.’

  ‘Why not?’ Viridian challenged, eyeing the Creole suspiciously.

  ‘If you stay in town,’ de Froissart warned, ‘you could find yourself in more trouble than you can handle.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You might be recognized from this afternoon’s affair.’

  ‘Only that damned short-grown kid saw me close enough for that and, even if he did recognize me, who’d take his word against mine?’

  ‘Do you know who that kid is?’ de Froissart inquired, staring straight into his partner’s beefy face and no longer paying any attention to the wardrobe.

  ‘Just a cowhand—’ Viridian began.

  Just a cowhand!’ de Froissart ejaculated.

  ‘If he was that,’ Viridian went on, puzzled by the Creole’s behavior.

  ‘If he was only that,’ de Froissart corrected. ‘Austin. He is Dusty Fog!’

  ‘Dusty Fog?’ the burly man repeated.

  ‘You must have heard of him,’ the Creole declared.

  ‘Of course I have,’ Viridian snorted. ‘According to these beef-head bastards, he nearly made the North lose the War single-handed in Ark—’ Then understanding came and brought the words to a stop. When he spoke again, his voice held a disbelieving note. ‘Are you trying to tell me that that runty son-of-a bitch is Dusty Fog?’

  ‘He is,’ de Froissart confirmed.

  ‘Somebody must have been joshing you!’ Viridian declared, despite the obvious sincerity in the Creole’s voice. ‘He couldn’t be Dusty Fog.’

  There was good reason for the burly man’s reaction. The name he had been given was to conjure with in Texas. Thinking of the blond, Viridian could hardly credit that such a small, insignificant youngster was the already almost legendary Dusty Fog.

  ‘Harlow Dolman wouldn’t joke about anything that important,’ de Froissart warned.

  ‘Harlow Dolman!’ Viridian spat out and the two words were redolent of suspicion. ‘How does he get mixed in this?’

  ‘He came with us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘One of his men arrived with a message for him and I let them share the coach,’ de Froissart explained. ‘And it’s lucky that he did come. He told me all he knew before he took the posse out to hunt for you.’

  ‘He took the posse after me?’ Viridian growled.

  ‘With the letters, we thought it would be better to have somebody who wouldn’t try to catch you,’ de Froissart pointed out.

  ‘I thought they’d come in useful,’ the burly man commented dryly.

  Before leaving Pilar, Viridian had insisted upon having his partner’s concurrence with his intentions put into writing. There had been some acrimonious debate over the suggestion, but he had been adamant. As the share of any partner who died reverted to the surviving members, and because he would be taking all the chances, he had insisted upon having some form of protection. It would also guarantee the other three’s support if things went wrong. Yielding to the demand, his wife, Schweitzer, de Froissart and Profaci had signed the documents, with Harlow Dolman as a witness. While his partners had retained one copy each, Viridian had demanded that he be given two.

  ‘Where are your copies?’ de Froissart inquired worriedly.

  ‘In good hands, like I said they’d be,’ Viridian replied. ‘And he knows what to do with them, if I should meet with any accidents.’

  ‘I thought trust in each other was the basis of any partnership!’ de Froissart said, with real, or assumed, indignation.

  ‘It is,’ Viridian answered, then decided to revert to the subject which had brought him to the hotel. ‘So Dolman’s out hunting for me?’

  ‘Yes. And it’s lucky for you that he was here. If he hadn’t been, Marshal Grillman would have been leading the posse. At that, I doubt if Grillman would have agreed to let Dolman go if his deputy had been killed instead of just wounded. As it was, it still took the Governor to persuade him to stay and look after the town.’

  ‘That was lucky,’ Viridian conceded.

  ‘Luckier than you know,’ de Froissart stated. ‘If Grillman had gone after you, he’d have had somebody capable of finding you. And who was ready to do it after what you’d done to his friends.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve heard of the Ysabel Kid?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. How does he come into it?’

  ‘He rides for the OD Connected, Fog’s ranch, now,’ de Froissart explained and, try as he might, he could not prevent a trace of malicious delight from entering his voice as he watched Viridian’s expression change to one of alarm. ‘And he was with the deputy you shot.’

  ‘If he says I shot the deputy, he’s a liar!’ Viridian barked, forgetting that his words were being overheard by the woman in the wardrobe. ‘Timson did it, not me.’

  Remembering various stories he had heard about the Ysabel Kid, Viridian felt as if an icy hand was pressing against his spine. Clearly he had had an even narrower escape than he had previously imagined. What was more, de Froissart had made a very good point. If only a fraction of the tales about the Ysabel Kid were true, Viridian did not want to be hunted by him. Particularly when he was angry over an attack upon one friend and the killing—or merely wounding—of another. With his background, upbringing and education, the Ysabel Kid would be a very dangerous enemy.

  ‘Well, anyway, only Fog saw me close up,’ Viridian continued, after a few seconds’ pause. ‘And he thinks I’m a Texas cowhand—’

  ‘Don’t count on it,’ de Froissart put in. ‘Harlow said that Fog had given him a good description, down to your Hersome gaiter boots and the Remington in your cross draw holster. Your accent didn’t fool him either. He knew you were neither a Texan nor a cowhand.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Like I said, by your accent. You tried to sound like a Texan, but didn’t come close to succeeding. And cowhands don’t wear flat-heeled boots. On top of that, he’d seen one of your men peeking at him from an alley.’

  Anger brought a deeper red flush to the burly man’s cheeks. While he had believed that his deception had been successful, although its result was unlucky, he saw now that he was wrong. Dusty Fog—if it was him—had already been made suspicious and was prepared to defend himself from the beginning.

  Not wanting to meet his partner’s eyes until he had composed himself, Viridian dropped his gaze to the floor. Something gray showed from under the bed. A closer examination showed it to be the sleeve of a woman’s Balmoral travelling coat. She was not wearing it, but must have thrust all her discarded garments beneath the bed before entering the wardrobe. Having been in a hurry, she had not noticed that the sleeve was protruding.

  ‘Fog even told Harlow that, as you’d lost your hat, he should watch out for a bare-headed man,’ the Creole went on. He indicated a chair which stood by the bed. ‘You’d better borrow mine and wear it when you leave.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Viridian answered and went to pick up the white ‘planter’s’ hat. ‘I’d best be moving on.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ de Froissart asked.

  ‘Back to Pilar,’ the burly man replied. ‘If I see Roxterby on my way out, I’ll tell him to keep the men doing their part. If I don’t, you can see to it.’

  ‘I will,’ the Creole promised. ‘But I think we’d better forget about trying to make ranchers sign the contracts.’

  ‘And me,’ Viridian admitted. ‘Damn the luck. I’d made Dover sign one. We can’t use it now.’

  �
�No,’ de Froissart agreed. ‘Do you want to leave it with me?’

  ‘I’ll burn it on the way home,’ Viridian decided, realizing what a damning piece of evidence the contract would be. Walking to the door, he drew it open and looked out to make sure he could leave unobserved. Satisfied, he glanced at his partner. ‘I’ll see you back home, Pierre.’

  A thought struck Viridian as he was approaching the stairs. He had just taken part in a most indiscreet conversation, with an unknown woman able to hear every word of it. De Froissart must have a whole heap of faith and trust in his female visitor to have discussed the shootings and their aftermath so frankly. Whoever she might be, she now knew plenty that ought to have remained a secret between the partners.

  Although Viridian tried to comfort himself with the thought that de Froissart knew what he was doing, the concern and uncertainty continued. He wondered who the woman was. The perfume had implied that she was well to do and the fact that she had hidden suggested she might be married. So, if he could discover her identity, he would have a hold over her which ought to ensure her silence. Perhaps she and her husband were staying at the hotel, and so she was taking advantage of his absence to carry out the clandestine meeting with the Creole. In which case, Viridian might be able to learn who she was from the register.

  The lobby was still deserted and the burly man returned to the desk. He turned the left side page and looked at the names on it. Glancing down the lines, he sought for a clue—And found it!

  The final entry on the page, which must have been written just before de Froissart’s, read ‘Mrs. M. Viridian, Pilar, Falls County, Texas.’

  Chapter Five – See They Don’t Get Home Alive

  AT ABOUT the same time that Viridian was greeting de Froissart, the Ysabel Kid was walking across the barroom of the Post Oaks Saloon. He acknowledged the greetings of the four middle-aged men in range clothes who were seated around the table nearest to the counter.

  Having noticed the quartet while passing the saloon, he had entered in the hope that they might wish to discuss the matter which had brought him to Fort Worth. It seemed likely that they might. He knew only one of them and had seen the man surreptitiously informing the others of his identity. However, he decided that it would be good policy to let them start the conversation.

  ‘Beer, friend,’ the Kid requested, laying his rifle on the counter as the solitary bartender came towards him. Although it was still known as the ‘New, Improved’ Henry, the weapon would soon be given the name by which it would become famous; the Winchester Model of 1866. ‘Take something for yourself.’

  ‘Gracias,’ the bartender replied, studying the newcomer and drawing conclusions from what he saw. ‘I’ll have me the same.’

  Normally the bartender would have stated that, even though nobody else was using it, his well-polished counter was not a repository for rifles; although he would not have phrased the complaint in those exact words. While tough and usually capable of enforcing his wishes, his scrutiny had warned him that here was a man who could not be taken lightly. Those red-hazel eyes gave a warning that the almost babyishly innocent aspect of the Indian-dark features was no more than skin deep. Underneath the surface lay a real hard hombre, with gravel in his guts and sand to burn. Maybe the old, walnut-handled Colt Second Model Dragoon revolver and the ivory-hilted bowie knife—which looked like it would have come from the birthplace of the original, old James Black’s Arkansas forge—might have struck some folks as being just for show. Not so the bartender. He figured their owner would be mighty competent in using them, or the rifle.

  Except for one detail of his all-black clothing, the Kid looked a typical Texas cowhand. However, his duties as a member of the OD Connected ranch’s floating outfit were chiefly concerned with scouting. A fair amount of such work had to be done on foot. So his boots had low heels, which allowed him an extra mobility and agility that could be important for keeping him alive.

  ‘Hey, Kid,’ called the tallest of the seated quartet. ‘Do you reckon that Colonel Charlie’s notion’ll work?’

  Turning so that the rifle was at his left side, the Kid rested his elbows on the counter and leaned against it. To his West-wise eyes, every man at the table was a top hand in the cattle industry. The speaker was foreman of a large ranch and the Kid guessed that the other three held similar positions. Having been told of the Kid’s connection with Colonel Goodnight’s trail drive, they were eager to hear his views on the subject. Which was quite a compliment, coming from men of their caliber. Being aware that their opinions would weigh heavily with their employers, he was determined to convince them that Goodnight’s scheme was feasible.

  ‘Why sure,’ the Kid replied, his voice a pleasant tenor drawl. ‘I reckon it will. We got that three thousand head to Fort Sumner without too much trouble.’

  ‘That’s nowheres near’s far as taking ’em to Kansas,’ the shortest of the four—a man of around five foot eleven—pointed out.

  ‘Nope,’ the Kid agreed. ‘But there’s nothing near’s bad as the Llano Estacado to cross between here ’n’ Kansas.’

  Although the Kid did not realize it, he had been followed to the saloon and hostile ears were taking in what was being said.

  Standing outside the batwing doors, Gus Roxterby exchanged glances with his three companions.

  ‘This’s what we’ve been paid to stop,’ the factory supervisor informed them.

  None of the three were aware of Roxterby’s connection with the Pilar Hide & Tallow Company. Like others of their kind, they had drifted into Fort Worth hoping to find easy pickings at the Tarrant County Fair. While two of them were dressed like North Texas cowhands, neither had ever worked cattle on a ranch. They made their living with the revolvers in the tied-down holsters on their right thighs. One was young, brash looking, fairly handsome and dandified in a cheap, garish fashion. Older, the other was slightly shorter and took less care with his appearance.

  The third man was tall, lean, with lank black hair and a somewhat aquiline, dark brown face that suggested a fair proportion of Indian blood. That impression was intensified by the eagle feather in the band of his high-crowned, dirty black hat, greasy buckskin shirt and trousers and Comanche moccasins. A tomahawk hung in the slings on the left side of his waist belt, being balanced by an 1860 Army Colt in a cavalry holster, from which the flap had been removed, at the right. His age would be somewhere between that of his two companions.

  ‘Shouldn’t be too hard to do,’ commented the youngest of the three, adopting a tone which he felt sure emphasized his salty, un-curried toughness. ‘Let’s go to doing it.’

  Roxterby waited for the other two’s objections to the statement. Older and more experienced than Jean Abbot, Si Wolkonski and Nemenuh Grift might consider that their task could prove more dangerous than he imagined. However, they were natives of North Texas and apparently did not recognize their potential victim.

  That did not apply to Roxterby. He knew who they would be going up against.

  Having accompanied Viridian to Fort Worth and been responsible for hiring the men, Roxterby had made it his business to learn all he could about the killings. He had been motivated by a desire to find out if he might be implicated in any way. Satisfied that he could not, he had contacted de Froissart and was told to continue with his work. Forcing ranchers to sign contracts was not his concern. He had to try to prevent rumors of the Kansas’ markets from being spread and accepted.

  Selecting the trio, having known Grift and Wolkonski before he had taken up his present employment, he had been drifting around town without much hope of achieving anything. Most people were attending the barbecue and attempts at doing his work there were unlikely to be successful. The marshal and most of his deputies would be around, ready to prevent the disturbances and untoward incidents.

  Seeing and identifying the Ysabel Kid, Roxterby had decided to follow him. After the part he had played that afternoon, Viridian would be pleased if something should happen to him. However, before a
suitable opportunity had presented itself, the Kid had entered the saloon. On following, Roxterby had seen that there was a chance to kill two birds with one stone. He would avenge his employer and, at the same time, stop a discussion on the possibility of driving cattle to Kansas. There was a problem. The supervisor recognized one of the seated quartet as the foreman of a ranch which had regularly brought cattle to the factory. Most likely the recognition would be mutual.

  ‘All right,’ Roxterby said, deciding what to do. ‘Let’s go and stop him.’

  Although the supervisor allowed the others to precede him through the batwing doors, he did not do it as a display of good manners. He had no intention of following them. Nor was fear of being recognized his only motive. From what he knew of the Kid, the intrusion would end with flying lead. Faced by odds of three to one, the Kid was almost certain to be killed. So whoever survived the attack would find themselves being hunted by his friends. Roxterby did not want men of Dusty Fog’s caliber on his trail. By remaining outside, he would avoid being seen by the foreman. Nor could his companions identify him, for he had had another name when they had known him.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ Grift offered, slipping free his tomahawk and holding it behind his back.

  Without realizing that they had been deserted by their companion, Abbot and Wolkonski followed Grift as he sauntered in a casual manner into the saloon. Once inside, they advanced in a loose V-formation which had Grift at its point.

  The Kid glanced at the newcomers, but he decided that they were nothing more than customers in search of liquid refreshment. While the youngest looked like he was on the prod, that was only to be expected from one of his kind.

  At another time, the Kid would have kept the trio under close—if not obvious—observation, especially Abbot. However, for once, he allowed himself to become so engrossed that he forgot to take the precaution. Returning his attention to the four cattlemen, he went on with his reasons for believing that large herds of cattle could be driven to the railroad in Kansas.

  Bringing the tomahawk from behind his back, Grift threw it with the ease that told of long practice. Spinning through the air, its head sank into the edge of the counter’s top about a foot to the right of the Kid.