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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I say anybody’s talks about driving cattle up to Kansas’s loco,’ Grift announced as the Kid’s words came to an abrupt end.

  Despite having caused their victim to stop speaking, Grift felt that he ought to have achieved a more satisfactory result. Having had a tomahawk thrown so near to them, most men would have sprang away or shown some other sign of being startled. The black-dressed cowhand did not move a muscle. Somehow Grift formed the impression that it was not fright which was holding him immobile.

  Although the four men who were sitting at the table swung their attention towards the intruders, they made no attempt to rise. Glancing at them, Grift hoped that they would not intervene. He could see no sign that they meant to do so. Probably they did not feel called upon to help the youngster deal with the interruption. Or they might be wanting to see if, after his big talk, he could stand up for himself. Whatever their reasons, Grift was grateful for their inactivity. That only left the bartender, and he was showing no inclination to interfere.

  What Grift did not know was that the bartender had seen Roxterby’s shadow shape beyond the batwing doors. Although furious about the damage to the counter, he was waiting to discover what part the man outside was playing in the deal before stating his objections.

  ‘And I backs ole Nemenuh all the way!’ Abbot went on, oozing confidence and salty menace; or so he assumed.

  ‘Nemenuh, huh?’ grunted the Kid and continued in the slow-tongued dialect of his maternal grandfather’s people, the Pehnane Comanche, ‘Are you sure it shouldn’t be “Wormy”— or maybe “Namae’enuh”?’

  Although Grift felt anger surging inside him at the words, it was swamped by a chilling realization of what he had heard. His mother had been a Waw’ai squaw. Because of their debased sexual habits—incest being commonly practiced amongst them—and for other reasons, the Waw’ai were rated very low by the other bands of the Comanche nation. Their name, which meant ‘Wormy’, was proof of that. Not only had the baby-faced cowhand guessed with which band Grift was associated, but he had spoken Comanche as if it was his native tongue.

  Anybody who was so well conversant with Nemenuh matters must have spent a considerable amount of time among the People. Going by his youth, the black-dressed cowhand might even have been raised by them.

  Grift knew what that meant!

  Maybe their ‘victim’ would not be the easy mark they had imagined!

  Proof of that point was not long delayed!

  On concluding his comment, the Kid reached out with his right hand. Grasping the handle of the tomahawk, he jerked its head upwards and free. Then, reversing its direction, he flung the weapon with a deft ease which equaled Grift’s effort.

  So swift and unexpected was the Kid’s action, that it took the men by surprise. Instead of returning the tomahawk in almost level flight, as it had been sent in his direction, he angled it downwards. Letting out a yelp of alarm, Grift made a rapid and long leap to the rear. It was fortunate that he did. With a solid ‘whunk!’ the weapon buried its cutting edge into the portion of the floor that had just been vacated by his left foot.

  For a moment, nobody moved or spoke. Then, as Grift landed behind him, Abbot decided that the time had come when he must take control of the affair.

  Being inexperienced, but over-confident in his prowess as a fighting man, the young hard case felt that he had nothing to fear. Maybe the black-dressed half-breed at the bar was slick with a tomahawk, but that did not mean he was equally good with a gun, especially with such a revolver as he was wearing. Effective as it might be as a man-stopper, the eight-inch long barrel and four pounds one ounce weight of a Colt Dragoon did not permit real fast use. Certainly, in Abbot’s opinion, one could not compare with the 1860 Army Colt in his own holster.

  ‘That was pretty slick, ‘breed,’ Abbot declared, taking two long strides forward and halting with the fingers of his right hand hovering over the Colt’s butt. ‘How do you stack up with a white man’s weapon?’

  ‘Most times,’ the Kid answered quietly, yet exuding the latent and deadly menace of a cougar crouching to spring. ‘I don’t even try.’

  ‘Could be you ain’t got no chance but try this time,’ Abbot warned.

  ‘Hold on there—!’ began the tallest of the four ranch foremen, starting to rise.

  ‘This’s ’tween the ‘breed ’n’ me, mister!’ Abbot spat out.

  ‘You see it that way?’ the foreman asked, directing the words to the young hard case’s companions.

  ‘Boy gets something stuck in his craw,’ Wolkonski answered, ‘only thing to do is let him get it out.’

  ‘I’ve got no call for trouble with you,’ the Kid remarked, cold red-hazel eyes on Abbot’s face. ‘So what’s this all about?’

  ‘You eating crow, ‘breed?’ Abbot mocked.

  ‘Nope,’ answered the Kid. ‘I’m trying to stop you getting killed.’

  ‘Why thank you ‘most to death!’ the young hard case sneered and reached downwards. ‘Fill your hand!’

  Which was just what the Kid proceeded to do.

  Only not in the way that Abbot expected.

  Flashing to the left, the Kid’s right hand closed about the ivory hilt and plucked the knife from its sheath. His arm swung forwards with considerable force and, at the appropriate moment, he released his hold. Travelling horizontally and almost parallel to the floor, the weapon hissed through the air almost faster than the eye could follow.

  Even as Abbot’s revolver cleared leather, the clip point of the eleven and a half inch long, two and a half inch wide blade passed between his fourth and fifth left ribs. Such was the impetus of the throw that, backed by the weight and perfect balance forged in by James Black, the knife sank in to impale his heart. Stiffening as the sudden agony roared through him, he dropped the revolver and spun around with hands flying involuntarily towards the knife’s hilt.

  Once again, the speed of the Kid’s reaction had taken his enemies by surprise. Nor was he content to leave it there. Grabbing the Winchester by the wrist of the butt with his left hand, he swung in from the top of the counter. His forefinger passed through the trigger guard, while the other three entered the ring of the loading lever. Coming over, his right hand caught the wooden fore grip that was a feature of the new type of weapon. One advantage the Henry and its immediate descendants had over most of their contemporaries was that they could be handled equally well with either hand. Down and up blurred the lever, cocking the action and sending a cartridge from the tubular magazine to the chamber in a single motion.

  Nor was the precaution taken needlessly.

  ‘Take him, Si!’ Grift yelled, turning and springing towards the batwing doors.

  Thinking that his companion was also starting to draw, Wolkonski grabbed for his gun. Just an instant too late, he realized that he was being deserted. There was no way out for him but to fight. So he continued with his draw and the Colt rose clear of its holster.

  Noticing the speed with which Wolkonski was producing the revolver, the Kid knew that he could not hope to raise the rifle and use its sights. So he swiveled it around at waist level, realizing that he could not hope to shoot straight enough to ensure taking a wounded man capable of answering questions. Aiming by instinctive alignment, which was never conducive to extreme accuracy, he squeezed the trigger. With a crack, twenty-eight grains of du Pont black powder was detonated and thrust a flat-nosed .44 bullet from the barrel. It tore into the hard case’s breastbone which snapped with an audible pop.

  Even so, the Kid was only just in time. His lead arrived as the Colt was slanting its barrel towards him. Knocked backwards by the impact, Wolkonski’s revolver was deflected slightly. Not much, but enough. Fanning the Kid’s cheek in passing, the bullet smashed a bottle behind the bar.

  Throwing back their chairs, the four cattlemen rose with hands dipping towards their weapons. They watched Grift disappearing through the batwing doors, but were taking precautions in case he intended to return with friends.


  ‘Let’s separate!’ Roxterby suggested, turning away as Grift erupted from the saloon. ‘I’ll meet you at Ram Turtle’s around midnight.’

  ‘You be there!’ the hard case replied and leapt forward. Without looking back, he raced towards the mouth of a dark alley across the street. Springing along the sidewalk, Roxterby dived around the corner of the saloon. He fled as fast as his legs would carry him, swerving behind the rear of the next building. Then, stopping in the shadows, he listened for sounds of pursuit. Hearing nothing to suggest that he had been followed, he walked off at a more leisurely pace. Doing so, he realized, would be less likely to arouse suspicion than if he had kept running.

  Being undecided as to what he should do next, the supervisor made his way towards the Belle Grande Hotel. He hoped that he would be able to discover de Froissart’s whereabouts so that he could go and ask for advice. On approaching the open front door, he saw Viridian standing at the desk.

  ‘Hey, boss!’ Roxterby called. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  Until he had heard Roxterby’s voice, Viridian had been on the point of rushing upstairs to confront his wife and partner. Seeing Marlene’s name in the register had explained several things which had been puzzling him. He now understood the reason for de Froissart’s delay after he had knocked. It had been to let Marlene hide her discarded clothing under the bed and conceal herself in the wardrobe. He also knew why the Creole had come to the door holding a sword, despite having known who was outside.

  There was no possibility that de Froissart had brought another woman and used Marlene’s name as a means of obtaining accommodation for her. Marlene was too well known at the hotel for such a deception to have worked. What was more, the perfume Viridian had smelled in the room was his wife’s favorite brand and she owned a gray Balmoral jacket which she frequently wore when travelling. Further proof was provided by the frank way in which the Creole had discussed the shootings of the afternoon. He knew that the listening woman could be trusted not to inform the marshal of what she had overheard.

  Swiftly Viridian revised his intention of taking revenge upon his erring wife and partner. All too well he could see the objections to making the attempt immediately. If he returned to the room, de Froissart would suspect that he had learned their guilty secret no matter how calmly he behaved. In which case, everything would be in the Creole’s favor. Viridian doubted whether de Froissart would rely upon the sword for he always carried a Remington Double Derringer and was equally skilled in its use. No longer would Viridian have the element of surprise and, with the hotel practically deserted, there would be nobody to contradict whatever story the pair concocted to explain why he had been killed.

  While bad-tempered and no coward, the burly man was neither hotheaded, impulsive nor rash. Having no desire to be killed, he thought fast and came up with a solution to his problem. One, moreover, which would prevent any suspicion from falling on him. Everything depended upon whether Roxterby would play the part assigned to him. Knowing the supervisor’s avaricious nature, Viridian believed that he would.

  ‘What brought you here?’ Viridian demanded, turning and crossing the lobby. He waved Roxterby back as the supervisor was about to enter. ‘Wait outside.’

  ‘I came to see Mr. de Froissart,’ Roxterby explained when the burly man joined him on the sidewalk.’ There’s been some trouble.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ Viridian demanded.

  ‘I sent the fellers to stop the Ysabel Kid telling Caldicott from the Box Y and three more jaspers about trailing herds to Kansas.’

  ‘Did they do it?’

  ‘No. He killed two of ’em and the other lit out of the saloon like his butt was burning.

  ‘God damn it!’ Viridian spat out. ‘Did Caldicott see you?’

  ‘No,’ Roxterby replied, for the man in question had delivered herds to the factory. ‘When I saw he was there, I figured I’d best stay outside.’

  ‘Smart figuring,’ Viridian complimented with only a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘I thought you’d want it that way, boss,’ Roxterby answered, sounding relieved. ‘But this’s getting dangerous. I wasn’t counting on locking horns with the likes of Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid.’

  ‘Or me,’ the burly man admitted, before he could stop himself.

  ‘We can’t go on doing what you was wanting,’ Roxterby pointed out.

  ‘Not now,’ Viridian conceded.

  ‘Are we heading for Pilar?’ the supervisor inquired hopefully.

  ‘I am, but there’s no reason why you shouldn’t stay on here,’ Viridian replied and, seeing the alarm that came to the other man’s face he went on in a placatory manner. ‘It’s all right, Gus, I don’t want you to go up against that OD Connected crowd. Do you reckon you can pick up some more men?’

  ‘There’ll likely be a few at Ram Turtle’s place,’ Roxterby replied, referring to a saloon outside the city limits that was notorious as a rendezvous for bad characters of various kinds. ‘I could get ’em, but not if word’s out that they’ll be having fuss with Dusty—’

  ‘That’s not what I want them for,’ Viridian interrupted, glancing at the first floor of the hotel. ‘I’ve got something else in mind. There’ll be five hundred dollars in it for you if you bring it off.’

  ‘Five hundred—!’ Roxterby breathed.

  ‘And there’ll be a raise in pay for you back at the factory,’ Viridian continued.

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘First off, don’t let on to de Froissart that you’ve seen me. Then go along with him in what he wants doing all week. It won’t be too dangerous—’

  ‘Is that all?’ Roxterby asked doubtfully, for he could not see the cause of his employer’s promised generosity.

  ‘Not quite,’ the burly man replied. ‘When de Froissart pulls out after the end of the Fair, I want him killed on the trail so that it looks like it was done in a hold up.’

  ‘But your missus’ll be with him!’ Roxterby protested. ‘Didn’t you know she’d come—’

  ‘I know,’ Viridian gritted. ‘And what I said still goes. See they don’t get home alive and the five hundred’s yours.’

  ‘You’ve got a deal, boss,’ Roxterby declared. ‘Start thinking of yourself as a widower.’

  Chapter Six – Captain Fog Was Colonel Goodnight’s Segundo

  ‘I TRUST THAT that you are fully recovered from that dastardly attack this afternoon, Captain Fog?’ Governor Davis remarked, coming to a halt alongside the ‘short-growed, blond haired kid’ who had caused such a drastic alteration to the plans of the hide and tallow men.

  Although the majority of Fort Worth’s permanent and transient population were celebrating at the barbecue, the more important citizens and visitors had been invited to attend a ball in the Governor of Texas’s honor at the home of the town’s most wealthy businessman. Being General Ole Devil Hardin’s segundo and, as such, representing a very powerful and influential faction in the State’s affairs, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog had naturally been included in the list of guests.

  Dressed for the occasion in a well-cut black frock coat, frilly-bosomed white silk shirt, black cravat fixed like a bow tie, brocade decorated vest and gray trousers, Dusty Fog looked just a little more impressive than when wearing his usual working clothes, but not much. He had not left off his gun belt, nor changed his high-heeled boots, but they attracted neither attention nor comment. Most of the male guests, particularly those engaged in the cattle industry, had retained their weapons and traditional styles of footwear.

  As Dusty’s connections with Colonel Charles Goodnight were known among the ranchers who were present, he had been much in demand since his arrival. Circulating around the large dining room of Horatio Fitt’s colonial-style mansion, he had been called upon repeatedly to tell what he knew of Goodnight’s theories. He had also explained that his Uncle Charlie had travelled to Texarkana to act as escort for the Eastern cattle buyers, but would be back in time for the Conv
ention. Finally, shortly before midnight, he found himself alone near the long table which held the refreshments and drinks supplied by his host.

  Taking the first opportunity that had occurred since the small blond’s arrival, Bartholomew Davis had come over to renew the brief acquaintance they had made earlier in the evening. Tall, thickset, jovial-looking and dressed to the height of Eastern fashion, the Governor of Texas was first and foremost a politician. Although the people of the State had been disenfranchised for their support of the Confederacy in the War, so that he was appointed by Congress and not voted into office, he always tried to be on good terms with important and influential citizens. That was why he had sought out Dusty. Short in size and insignificant of appearance though he might be, the young blond was a person of consequence and must be treated accordingly.

  ‘I’m well enough, sir,’ Dusty answered.

  ‘I’ve been assured that Captain Dolman is a most efficient peace officer,’ the Governor commented. Knowing that few Texans had faith in the abilities of the State Police, he wanted to assure Dusty that everything possible was being done on his behalf. ‘And I’m confident that he’ll bring the miscreant to justice.’

  ‘I hope he does,’ the small Texan drawled. ‘For Mr. Dover’s sake, not mine.’

  ‘Of course,’ Davis agreed, although he had not given the dead rancher a single thought. Feeling a change of subject was called for, he went on, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any hope of General Hardin attending the Convention?’

  ‘None, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘Since his accident, he hasn’t been able to do any travelling.’

  ‘That was a tragedy,’ Davis declared, and sounded sincere. Which, as Dusty realized, meant little. He was a pretty good actor and used to simulating any emotion that he felt was required. ‘I’m sure that Colonel Goodnight would have appreciated his support.’