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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Gracias,’ Dusty drawled, accepting the envelope. He reached into his pocket and produced a ten cent piece. ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the man said, grabbing the coin and scuttling from the office.

  ‘He looked sort of nervous,’ the Kid remarked.

  ‘Yeah,’ the marshal agreed, scowling at the door as Dusty opened the envelope and extracted its contents. ‘I’ve never trusted him and if I thought he was figuring on selling whatever’s in that mess—’

  ‘What’s up, Dusty?’ the Kid interrupted, reading a change on his amigo’s face that the marshal could not have detected.

  ‘It’s from Uncle Charlie,’ the small Texan replied. ‘He says that he won’t be able to get here as early as he expected.’

  ‘Does he say why?’ Grillman growled.

  ‘Only that there’s been some delays that he doesn’t think were accidental,’ Dusty answered. ‘And that I’ll have to keep on talking for him until he gets here.’

  Seeing Harlow Dolman at the main door of the hotel’s dining room and catching his signal, de Froissart excused himself and rose. He left ‘Marlene to hold Mark Counter’s attention and joined the peace officer in the lobby.

  ‘Who’s that with Marlene?’ Dolman demanded.

  ‘His name’s Mark Counter,’ the Creole replied and, being unwilling to display his own lack of knowledge regarding the blond giant, went on, ‘We think that he could be useful in getting rid of Dusty Fog.’

  ‘Let’s hope he is,’ Dolman declared. ‘Because it will have to be done. I just met Schelling from the telegraph office taking a message to Fog. It was to say that Goodnight doesn’t think he’ll make it for the Convention.’

  While Marshal Grillman’s suspicions had been at least partly justifiable, Schelling had not given the full contents of the message when stopped in the street by Dolman.

  ‘That’s great news!’ the Creole enthused. ‘What’s happening about Dover’s killing?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dolman replied and a contemptuous smile played on his lips. ‘Grillman hasn’t any idea of why he was killed and I’ve fixed it so that nobody will even think of suspecting Viridian.’

  Chapter Eleven – I Hate A Sore Loser!

  THE NOOSE OF the thirty-five foot length of Manila rope—its triple strands laid and plaited extra hard for smoothness and strength—left Mark Counter’s right hand and flew towards the head of the fast-moving brown and white longhorn steer.

  Having carried its rider into a perfect position to the left of the steer, Mark’s blood bay stallion veered to the right the moment he made his throw. Although a good seventeen hands, the horse moved with speed and agility. Knowing what to expect when the noose had dropped over the six foot spread of horns, the stallion began to whirl inwards even before it felt the touch of the rein on the right side of its neck.

  Watching the stem of the rope, slipping through the honda and closing the noose on the steer’s neck, Mark caused his left fingers to draw back lightly on the reins. With the rawhide pigging thong gripped between his teeth, he could not give verbal commands. Nor, so well trained in its duties was the stallion, would they be necessary.

  On receiving the expected signal, the huge horse tucked its hind hooves well under its body. Thrusting forward, the front legs braced themselves ready for the shock of impact and the stallion slid to a halt. Coming down from releasing the rope, Mark’s right hand grasped the saddle horn to which it was securely knotted. The left, still holding the reins, rested on top of his mount’s neck.

  Even as the rope snapped between the two animals, Mark swung his right leg over the cantle of the saddle and started to drop to the ground. With the judges’ stop-watches ticking away, not a second could be wasted. His weight and the double hold of his hands combined to give support at the moment of impact.

  With a sudden jerk, almost eleven hundred pounds of swiftly-moving longhorn was brought to an abrupt halt. Its feet flew from under it and its body struck the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Immediately, the stallion began to haul on the rope so that there would not be an inch of slack to let the steer regain its feet.

  Relying upon his mount to prevent the steer from rising, Mark dashed forward. He flung his two hundred and fifty pound body on to the recumbent animal and lay across it. Snatching the pigging thong from his mouth, he caught hold of and dropped a loop around the steer’s forelegs just above the hooves. A swift grab with the right hand captured the upper hind leg and drew it to where it could be attached to the ensnared front limbs. With all three secured, he sprang to his feet and raised his right hand.

  Cheers and applause rose from the two lines of people who formed a living corridor about a hundred yards wide. Standing roughly in the centre, in front of the section of the crowd which held the more influential and important of the spectators, Mark saw one of the judges wave an acknowledgment of his signal. While two of the officials compared the times on their watches, a third hurried forward to check that the steer was fastened securely. Satisfied on that point, he told Mark to set the animal free. Not until it received its master’s signal did the blood bay allow the rope to go slack.

  Liberating his noose, the blond giant coiled the rope as he returned to praise the horse. He left the steer to be freed by the men appointed to carry out the task of driving it back into the corral from which it had been released so that it could be roped, thrown and tied. Leading the big horse, Mark strolled to where Marlene Viridian and Pierre de Froissart were sitting in a hired buggy.

  ‘That was very well done, Mark,’ Marlene praised, echoing the congratulations which were coming from all sides.

  Although the term ‘rodeo’ had not yet come into use, county fairs and other such festivities in the cattle country frequently offered contests designed to test the cowhands’ skill on various aspects of their work. Mark Counter had just been competing in one of the events.

  While being exciting and spectacular, and despite being granted world championship status, steer-roping would not become one of the five standard contests on the professional rodeo circuits. Most organizers would prefer calf-roping as being easier to stage and much less dangerous to the competitors.

  The basic purpose of calf and steer-roping was identical, to pursue, capture and secure the animal in the shortest time possible. There was one very great difference. In Texas during the mid-1860s, the creature involved was a full grown, half wild longhorn steer, not a Hereford, or some other equally domesticated calf.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ bellowed the barrel-chested owner of the Post Oaks Saloon, who had been selected to make the announcements, on account of his stentorian voice. ‘Mark Counter has a time of one minute, forty-five seconds!’

  ‘You’ve won, Mark!’ Marlene enthused, as the news was relayed and a roar of applause was raised.

  ‘Good for you,’ de Froissart went on, thinking of the substantial wager which Marlene had insisted upon him making on their arrival.

  Glancing at the Creole, the woman could hardly hold down a smile. For the first time since they had been introduced, he sounded amiable when addressing the blond giant. That could have been due to her having explained her hopes regarding Mark while he was preparing to compete in the event, or because de Froissart was five hundred dollars better off on account of the other’s efforts.

  De Froissart had grudgingly conceded that Mark’s conversation at lunch and while accompanying the buggy to the eastern side of Fort Worth, where the day’s events were being held, had convinced him that the big blond would be a useful tool against Goodnight. Not only did Mark doubt that the scheme would be feasible, but he clearly disliked Dusty Fog. The blond giant had complained bitterly about the acclaim which most Texans gave to the young captain whenever the War Between The States was mentioned. From what Marlene and the Creole could make out, Mark considered that he had done at least as much for the Southern cause and, in his opinion, was entitled to be regarded just as highly.

  ‘To hear the ga—folks talk,’ Ma
rk had said angrily, giving the listening couple a good idea of what was causing his animosity. ‘You’d think he was the only one who fought against the Yankees. Damn it! There was a whole lot of us who wore the Gray and did plenty of fighting. Only we didn’t have one uncle for our colonel and another who was Commanding General to make sure we got promoted and our names in the newspapers.’

  There had been more in that strain. Apparently a girl Mark had met on his arrival in Fort Worth had expressed a preference for Dusty Fog, on account of his Civil War reputation, and had resisted the big blond’s vastly superior physical attributes. To make matters worse, she had belonged to a wealthy family and Mark had had hopes—although he had only hinted at them—of marrying into it.

  Listening to Mark’s comments on the latter subject, the woman and the Creole had found what they considered to be another point in his favor. He was obviously an ambitious young man with expensive tastes and a craving for wealth. These were factors which ought to make him all the more useful for their purposes. In view of Dolman’s news, which de Froissart had given to Marlene in Mark’s absence, that might become important.

  While the Creole had become satisfied that Marlene might have made a good choice, he was deeply suspicious of her motives. Knowing her as well as he did, he wondered if, in addition to regarding the big blond as a means of removing Dusty Fog, she—unlike the girl—was attracted by his physical attributes. If that should be so, de Froissart could have a very serious rival for her affections.

  While satisfied that only Lonegron suspected Viridian of being Dover’s killer—and confident that he would not talk as long as he needed their help—Marlene had shared de Froissart’s delight at Dolman’s information. Backed by the woman’s implication that Goodnight had had an ulterior motive for making his suggestion, his failure to arrive could be exploited by them as evidence that he lacked faith in it. There would only be Dusty Fog to contend with and the blond giant could possibly remove him.

  ‘You were right when you said we should bet on you, Mark,’ Marlene praised.

  ‘Why sure,’ the big blond admitted. ‘Don’t forget I was betting on me too. I figured on making more than the prize mon—’

  ‘What’s Fog doing, talking to the judges?’ de Froissart put in, knowing that Mark had wagered fifty dollars that he would win.

  Following the direction of the Creole’s gaze, Marlene and Mark saw the small Texan holding the reins of his paint stallion, addressing Horatio Fitt and the other judges. The owner of the Post Oaks Saloon supplied the answer to de Froissart’s question.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he boomed out. ‘Captain Dusty Fog of the OD Connected wishes to enter the steer-roping competition and, if none of the other contestants have any objections, will ride now.’

  From various points in the crowd, the men who had taken part in the event replied that they did not object. Marlene noticed that Mark was one of the last to give his consent and concluded that he was not pleased that somebody else should be given the opportunity to try and beat his time. She also observed that none of the others concerned had displayed a similar hesitation. In fact they appeared eager to find out how the legendary Dusty Fog would acquit himself in the dangerous and exacting competition. While they all knew of his Civil War reputation, few of them had any notion of his ability as a cowhand.

  Looking about her, from her place among the more important and influential of the spectators, Marlene discovered that the ranch owners were also exhibiting considerable interest. How they reacted to the small Texan as Goodnight’s spokesman might easily depend upon the success he had in carrying out what, within the limitations of the contest, was a basic piece of a cowhand’s work.

  Turning her gaze to where Dusty had mounted ready to begin riding his paint stallion towards the starting line, the woman decided that there was little reason for concern. Studying his figure, which seemed even smaller on the huge horse, she compared him with the men who had preceded him. Everyone had been bigger and heavier, with Mark Counter the largest of all and none of them had come within ten seconds of the blond giant’s time. It hardly seemed likely that the diminutive young Texan could do better. If his intention was to impress the ranchers, he would probably do himself more harm than good.

  If Marlene had needed further reassurance, it came from the comments which were passed in her vicinity. While there had been considerable betting on the other events, either privately or against the professional gamblers who were mingling with the crowd, nobody seemed willing to place money on Dusty Fog’s chances of beating the time set up by Mark Counter.

  Allowing the big paint to move steadily forward, Dusty placed the pigging thong between his teeth and unstrapped the rope from the right side fork of his saddle. Knotting its end to the horn, he held the coiled stem and the reins in his left hand. His right hand worked the noose to a suitable size through the honda and he gave it a preliminary twirl over his head. Between his legs, responsive to their instructions and those given by the bit in its mouth, the stallion made a fine picture as it strode out. It clearly knew what would be expected of it and was eager to get started.

  Using the restraint he was exerting with the reins to keep the stallion at a collected walk, the small Texan contrived to keep the gate of the corral under observation. It opened and a big golondrino steer, its dunnish-brown color merging into black along the back and rump speckled with white blotches, was driven out. For a moment, it stood glaring from side to side and examining the two lines of people. Coming up behind it, a mounted man slapped its rump with a quirt and, giving a snort of fury, it started to run towards the open range at the end of the human corridor. It went, tail up and head high, with a speed that none of the better-beefed breeds, which were eventually to replace it, could equal.

  Waiting for the steer to attain a rapid pace and pass a pre-determined point, Horatio Fitt blew a blast on a whistle and the other two judges started their stop-watches.

  Instantly Dusty slackened his pull on the reins. Even before his heels tapped their urgent message against the paint’s flanks he felt its walking pace changing to a galloping gait. The right hind hoof, followed by the right fore and left hind simultaneously, then the left fore— which was termed the leading foot—replaced the four-beat sequence, with the same interval following each successive hoof beat, of the walk.

  Having been trained for its work, the great paint sped after the swiftly moving steer and rapidly closed the gap as it approached from the left. Oblivious of the excited yells and shouted comments which came from either side, Dusty concentrated on what he was doing. The majority of people present were connected in some way with the cattle industry and he knew that highly critical eyes were following his every move. He refused to let the thought, or the knowledge of what was at stake, fluster him.

  As the stallion drew nearer to its quarry, Dusty reached his decision on how to handle the situation. He discarded the thought of going really close, leaning over the steer’s back and snaring the forefeet from that position. To do so would be effective, but was not spectacular enough to suit his current needs. With that thought in mind, he extended the size of the noose and started to swing it up to the left above his head.

  ‘Look at the size of that loop!’ a rancher commented, the words carrying to Marlene’s party. ‘He’s going to belly rope it if he’s not careful!’

  ‘What does that mean, Mark?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘When the loop’s that big, it can pass over the steer’s shoulders and legs,’ the big blond answered, without taking his eyes from Dusty. ‘Then it pulls tight around the belly.’

  ‘That’s no use, is it?’ Marlene asked eagerly, remembering how Mark and the other contestants had roped their steers around the neck.

  ‘None at all,’ Mark agreed and, although Marlene did not notice, there was a note of what might have been anxiety in his voice.

  Before there could be any more conversation, they saw Dusty stand in his stirrups and brace his knees against the for
k of the saddle. Clearly he was preparing to start the capture.

  Although the small Texan had commenced his throw as if planning a straightforward overhead loop, he made the cast when the noose was behind his right shoulder. His right arm whipped forward across the circle it had been following. At the same moment, the wrist and hand gave the loop a twist towards the left. Advancing from his fingers, the rope appeared to stop in midair as it passed over the back of the steer. Then, still as if of its own volition, the loop stood up and rolled to the left until the honda was at the opposite side to its position when the throw began.

  Passing down, the reason for the extra wide loop became obvious. It encircled the steer’s forelegs. Even as the loop left his grasp, Dusty had guided his mount at an angle. Closing about the trapped limbs, the rope snapped them together and jerked them to the right. Immediately, the paint pivoted into a braced halt. Down crashed the steer, turning in the air to alight on its back.

  Dismounting in a manner similar to that used by Mark and the other men, the small Texan sprinted towards the steer. Then the crowd could see where his way of catching the animal improved upon his opponents’ methods. With the stallion backing away and pulling on the rope, the steer was rolled on to its left side and its legs pointed towards Dusty. What was more, the front limbs were already held together. It only remained for him to gather the right hind leg, draw it against the trapped pair and make use of the pigging thong. This he did and leapt clear to signal that he had finished.

  There was a momentary hush, followed by a growing rumble of applause. It was begun, Marlene realized, by the ranchers and cowhands in the crowd; the men best able to appreciate what they had seen.

  ‘Some belly rope!’ a cattleman said to the rancher who had commented disparagingly on the matter. ‘He knew what he was doing.’

  ‘Yep,’ the erstwhile mocker replied. ‘He sure knew. And that’s a hell of a fast time he made.’