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

by J. T. Edson

  Dusty’s party had halted amongst the trees while they were examining the clearing. Although they had not taken any great pains to conceal themselves, the young man dashed by without showing any indication of knowing that they were there.

  ‘Know him, Dusty?’ Grillman inquired, throwing a disgusted look after the departing rider.

  ‘Can’t say I do,’ the small Texan replied.

  ‘It’s Garvin Fitt,’ the marshal drawled.

  ‘Way you said that,’ drawled the Kid, ‘I’d bet you don’t care a whole heap for him.’

  ‘He drinks too much and has too much money,’ Grillman answered. ‘On top of that, he allows he’s eighteen hands high, with gravel in his guts, spit in his eyes and can do most anything he likes any old time.’

  ‘Man like that could get hisself to be a byword and a hissing amongst decent folks,’ the Kid declared, raising his eyes piously to the sky as if afraid that Fitt’s bad example might rub off on him.

  ‘He’s spoiled rotten by his folks and they think he can’t do no wrong,’ Grillman growled.

  ‘He’d’ve been in scrapes a couple of times if it hadn’t been for Harlow Dolman, who’s a good friend of the family. Young Fitt even totes his Colt in one of them “clamshell” holsters and allows he’s a regular snake at pulling it. Not that he’s tried to prove it—yet. Time’s fast coming, ‘less I miss my guess, when somebody’ll have to pick up his toes.’

  ‘Time’s not standing still here,’ the Kid pointed out and nudged the stallion with his heels.

  Directing a look which bounced off the Kid’s back, Grillman allowed his horse to follow the big white. At Dusty’s heel signal, his mount went along with the other two.

  The seventeen-hand paint stallion between the small Texan’s legs was a hint of his true potential. Large, without being clumsy, and powerful, only an exceptional rider could control it. In fact, it had been responsible for the accident which had crippled General Hardin. Having broken and trained it after his uncle’s mishap, Dusty showed that he was clearly in command. Yet his dominance had not been obtained by such cruel methods that the animal was left without will or spirit.

  Nobody challenged the trio as they approached the saloon. Dismounting, Dusty and the marshal tossed their reins over the hitching rail but did not bother to fasten them. The Kid did not even go that far in securing his mount. Knowing that the white would remain where he left it, he knotted the reins loosely to the saddle horn. Reaching, he drew the Winchester rearwards from its boot on the left of the saddle. While he was doing that, Dusty removed his jacket and draped it across the seat of the paint’s rig. However, the marshal did not take off the cloak-coat. Rather, he made sure that it hung in such a way that it concealed his arms; which were not inside its sleeves.

  ‘Let’s go say “howdy” to good ole Ram,’ Grillman suggested.

  ‘Now me,’ drawled the Kid, overlooking that the visit had been his idea in the first place. ‘I’d as soon kiss a skunk, or maybe sooner.’

  ‘We don’t have one,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Or I’d expect you to do it.’

  ‘You would,’ sniffed the Kid.

  Crossing the porch, the three men paused and looked over the batwing doors. Experienced in such matters, they knew better than to walk from darkness into a lighted room before their eyes had become accustomed to the change. That particularly applied when the room was in Ram Turtle’s saloon. So they used the time to study what lay before them.

  The big barroom was well filled and busy.

  There were a few cowhands, some obvious town dwellers, but the majority of the customers were hard-eyed, gun-hung men in a variety of dress styles. All had one thing in common, a wolf-cautious alertness and vigilance. The saloon’s staff comprised of girls in gay, short frocks, a few professional gamblers, burly bouncers and a trio of equally large bartenders.

  ‘Any sign of him?’ Grillman inquired.

  ‘Not’s I can see,’ the Kid replied, having been looking for Nemenuh Grift. ‘But he could be upstairs, if he did come here.’

  ‘Best go in, anyways,’ Dusty declared. ‘We’re making some of ’em nervous standing out here.’

  Suspicious eyes swung towards the door, or continued to stare at it, as the Kid, Grillman and Dusty entered. They formed a line, with the marshal as its centre and started to walk towards the bar.

  Rising from his seat at a table on a dais in the left rear corner of the big room, a place which allowed an unrestricted view of the bar and floor, Ram Turtle waddled down the steps. At his signal, the two biggest of the bouncers advanced and fell in slightly to his rear. Dressed in the style of a Mississippi riverboat gambler, Turtle had the face and moustache of a Bavarian innkeeper. Any joviality, however, was purely on the surface. Underneath, he was hard, ruthless and completely devoid of moral scruples. Certainly there was nothing amiable about him as he came to a halt before the newcomers.

  ‘Fort Worth ends a mile and a half back,’ Turtle declared, scowling at Grillman.

  ‘I’d say a mite further than that,’ the marshal answered keeping his hands out of sight beneath the cloak-coat.

  ‘Your badge don’t mean a thing outside the city limits,’ Turtle warned, glancing at Dusty and then subjecting the Kid to a longer scrutiny.

  Standing with the Winchester trailing negligently in his right hand, the Indian-dark youngster met the saloonkeeper’s gaze. He wondered if Turtle would identify him as he had not been wearing all black cowhand-style clothes on his previous visits.

  While Turtle felt that he ought to know the Kid, he failed to come up with the right name. Then his eyes returned to Dusty and a slight frown came to his face. Shrewd judge of character, he sensed that the small blond was far from the least dangerous of the new arrivals.

  ‘Are you saying I’m not welcome?’ Grillman challenged, breaking in on the saloonkeeper’s thoughts.

  ‘That depends why you’re here,’ Turtle answered, reverting his attention to the peace officer. ‘If Horry Fitt sent you after young Garvin, he’s already pulled out.’

  ‘He didn’t send me,’ the marshal declared.

  Leaving his companions to do any talking that might be necessary, the Kid scanned the room once more. He had no greater luck in locating Nemenuh Grift, but noticed a lantern’s glow as somebody passed the left hand wall’s rear window. He could not see the person, but guessed it was a man returning from the backhouse. Although he had made a thorough scrutiny of the crowd, the Kid could hardly be blamed for failing to realize that he had seen the fourth of the men who had come after him at the Post Oaks Saloon.

  Standing at the bar, waiting for Grift to return from the backhouse so that they could resume their discussion on Viridian’s requirements, Gus Roxterby had looked over his shoulder when the trio made their appearance. He had recognized the Kid immediately, but gambled upon not being identified in his turn. To have turned and tried to leave would have drawn unwanted attention his way. So he had swung his head to the front and remained at the counter. There was, he had concluded, no way in which he could warn Grift. All he could do was hope that the other should see the danger while coming from the back house and stay out of the barroom.

  ‘Ain’t nobody but the State Police got jurisdiction in here,’ Turtle was saying when, having hung the lantern on the hook provided for that purpose, Grift opened the door. ‘So, happen you’re thinking of trying to arrest anybody, forget—’

  Even if the situation had been rehearsed for days, Grift’s entrance could not have been timed more perfectly. Turtle was delivering an ultimatum and taking a stand from which he could only retreat by losing face with his customers.

  Noticing the way in which everybody was staring towards the centre of the room, Grift followed their example. His eyes met those of the Ysabel Kid and he knew that the recognition was mutual.

  ‘Namae’enuh!’ the Kid growled and lunged forward.

  Shock showed on Grift’s lean face and he began to withdraw hurriedly from the room.

&nbs
p; Turtle did not know who had come in, but realized that it must be the person for whom his unwelcome visitors were looking. So there was, in view of his statement—which had mainly been made with the intention of impressing his customers—only one way in which he could act.

  ‘Stop him!’ the saloonkeeper snarled, sending the words over his shoulder to the pair of hard cases who were standing on either side and slightly to his rear.

  Instantly, the bouncer who was confronting the Kid made a move as if intending to obey. Less observant than his employer, the second hard case turned his eyes from Dusty to see if any help would be needed. In various other parts of the big room, further members of the staff showed signs to suggest that they too intended to lend a hand. A dealer at the faro table on the right side of the room thrust back his chair, started to rise and reached for his gun; which caused the players in his game to hurl themselves hurriedly out of the possible line of fire. The largest of the bartenders moved along towards the sawed-off shotgun which was kept on a shelf under the counter. Over by the door, which Grift was closing as he departed, yet another gambler also began to leave his seat.

  Instead of displaying perturbation, or alarm, at being menaced by the huge bouncer, the Kid acted with the speed—if not the full lethal capability—of a Pehnane Dog Soldier. Pivoting slightly from the hips, while continuing his advance, he swung the rifle in his right hand back, then around, up and down. The eight and a half pound weapon slashed its barrel against the side of the man’s head and sent him sprawling away to fall as if he had been poleaxed. Almost before he had landed on the floor, the Kid was striding by and making for the door. There were other enemies, the Indian-dark youngster realized, who might try to dispute his right to go after Grift.

  Seeing the Kid starting to launch the attack, the second bouncer grabbed at his holstered revolver. He did not believe that the small blond would be a considerable factor in the game and was sure that his boss could deal with the Fort Worth peace officer.

  Confident that his employees were capable of upholding his boast—and that Captain Harlow Dolman had been sufficiently well bribed to prevent any legal repercussions—Turtle glared into Grillman’s eyes. Trying to hold the peace officer’s gaze, he began to raise his right hand. His right elbow was moving towards his side, ready to press and operate the switch on the spring-loaded holster which would deliver a Remington Double Derringer into his palm.

  Knowing that the best plan in such a situation was to handle things in a spectacular manner, Dusty acted accordingly. Darting forward, he bent and wrapped his arms around the bouncer’s legs just above the knees. Giving a sudden, inwards jerk, he snapped the legs together and, in doing so, destroyed the man’s equilibrium. Then, exerting all his strength, Dusty straightened up. Raising the man from the floor, the small Texan thrust him backwards and let go. Thrown through the air for a short distance, the bouncer lit down flat-footed. There were, however, others who would require Dusty’s attention.

  At the same moment that Dusty started to tackle the bouncer, Grillman prepared to deal with the threat to his own life. He knew all about the special holster attached to Turtle’s wrist and was ready to counter it. Bringing his right hand from beneath the cloak-coat, he showed that it held the sawed-off shotgun which had been hanging suspended from a carbine sling. Also appearing from beneath the garment, his left hand crossed to take hold of the weapon’s fore grip. Behind Grillman, by the batwing doors, a man reached for his revolver.

  Although the gambler near the left side’s door had acted instinctively, he rapidly revised his decision. No longer did the Kid look babyishly innocent. Instead, his face had taken on the cold-eyed, savage aspect of a Comanche tehnap who was riding the war trail and hoping to count coup on the hated white-eye brother. Realizing that he might come into that category and noticing how the youngster now held the rifle in both hands, ready to use as a firearm rather than a club, the gambler sank back into his chair and exposed his open palms in a prominent manner. There were, he concluded as he glanced about him, colleagues better placed to deal with the Indian-dark Texan.

  As always under such conditions, Dusty’s mind was working with lightning speed and analyzing everything he saw. Taking note of the bartender’s and faro dealer’s actions, he was working out the best means by which he might prevent his amigo from being shot.

  First and foremost, Dusty decided, the bouncer must be taken into consideration. Jolted off balance by the unexpected throw and landing, he was far from being incapacitated. Given an opportunity, even a brief one, he would regain control of his movements and be able to add to the danger.

  With that in mind, Dusty followed the staggering man and acted before he had a chance to protect himself. Halting with his weight on his right foot, the small Texan tilted his torso to the right and bent his left knee. Keeping the lower part of the raised leg parallel to the floor, he rotated his hips sharply so that he swung his foot around. Curling forward, the toe of his boot drove into the bouncer’s ribs.

  Such was the force with which Dusty delivered the mawashigeri, outside roundhouse, kick—one of the karate and ju jitsu tricks which he had learned from General Hardin’s Japanese valet, Tommy Okasi—that the hefty bouncer was sent staggering. Colliding with a table, he fell across it and it collapsed under his weight. Yells of alarm and annoyance rose from the three men and two women who were using the table. Trying to avoid being pinned under it, they shoved back their chairs. They were too late and all went sprawling to the floor.

  With the bouncer removed, Dusty looked about him. Already the bartender was starting to bring the shotgun over the top of the counter and cocking its hammers. Acting no less swiftly, the faro dealer’s right hand was snaking a revolver from its holster. Each was making the Kid the object of his attentions.

  Concentrating at holding the marshal’s eyes on his own, for he was confident that his men could take care of the two young Texans, Turtle made ready to arm himself. Then his ears were assailed by several sounds which suggested that things might not be going as he would have desired. Most important of them was an ominous double click from ahead, but below his line of vision; and certain significant words uttered by the peace officer.

  ‘You’ve got a big belly, Ram. And this scatter’s got mighty light triggers. Happen I was asked, I’d say you was close to getting killed.’

  Lowering his eyes involuntarily, the saloonkeeper took in the sight of the wicked-looking weapon. Then his gaze lifted to where the man behind Grillman was starting to raise a revolver.

  Bringing his foot to the floor, Dusty sent his hands flashing inwards to enfold the butts of the Army Colts. Three quarters of a second later, they had cleared their respective holsters’ lips. Almost of their own volition, it seemed, the seven-and-a-half inch long ‘Civilian Model’ barrels turned at waist level towards the greater peril to the Kid. Flame belched from each muzzle, but the two detonations merged into a single sound.

  Realizing that the shotgun in the bartender’s hands was likely to be more dangerous than the dealer’s revolver, Dusty sent the bullets in that direction. Flying the fifty or so feet which separated him from his intended target, the lead ripped into the bartender’s neck and temple. Pain and the impact caused him to reel. Tilting upwards, the shotgun was discharged without conscious thought on its user’s part and eighteen buckshot balls peppered holes in the ceiling. Letting go of his weapon, as he collided with the wall, the stricken man disappeared after it behind the counter.

  Satisfied that his companions would protect him from the other occupants of the room, the Kid prepared to leave. Standing against the wall, he transferred his left hand to the handle of the door. Jerking it open, he scowled with disapproval at the hanging lantern which was for use by anybody who wished to visit the back house. While it might be an advantage in that respect, it threw a pool of light through which the Kid would have to pass. Not a pleasing thought, with an enemy waiting in the darkness.

  Letting out a low grunt, the Kid catapulted
himself forward. Muzzle blast flared redly from the front of the saloon, merging with shots from inside the building, and lead screamed above the Kid’s diving figure. He landed in the darkness, on his stomach and hoped that his black clothing would help to hide him. They did, to a certain extent. Grift’s revolver spat again, to miss.

  But not by much!

  Dirt erupted as the bullet struck the ground, spraying fragments into the Kid’s face. Letting go of the rifle, he grabbed at his stinging eyes in a desperate attempt to clear them. Loud to his ears came the sound of a revolver’s mechanism being brought to full cock.

  Swiveling the instant he saw that his shots had taken effect, Dusty flung his right hand Colt to shoulder height and arm’s length. With his revolver out, the faro dealer forgot his intention of throwing down on the Kid. Instead, he started to turn the barrel in Dusty’s direction. Both weapons spoke at the same instant, but the small Texan was the better shot. Feeling the wind of the close-passing bullet, Dusty saw the man jerk as if struck by an invisible hammer. The .44 bullet had taken him in the right shoulder, but that proved to be sufficient. Knocked from his feet, he fell with the revolver slipping from a suddenly inoperative set of fingers.

  With the thunder of Dusty’s shots ringing in his ears, warning him that things were not going as was desirable, Turtle reached a decision. The man behind the marshal was getting ready to shoot, but the saloonkeeper no longer believed that it was such a good idea. Grillman held a cocked shotgun, with his right forefinger already tight on the triggers. No matter where the man’s bullet hit him, he would complete the pressure and—as he had said—Turtle’s stomach made a very large target. If the man fired, Grillman would die—but so would the saloonkeeper.

  ‘No!’ Turtle yelled, hating to have to say the words despite knowing that his only other choice was to get killed. ‘Don’t do it!’