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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I hope that there won’t be any more unpleasantness such as we had this afternoon,’’ Marlene said severely.

  ‘There won’t as far as I’m concerned,’ Mark replied and gestured with his left hand towards the sling. ‘I can’t do much with this. Blast it! If I hadn’t tripped—’

  ‘I shouldn’t let it worry you,’ Marlene told him. ‘Come on. There are some men here I think you’d like to meet.’

  Listening to the conversation which followed, Mark decided that Marlene had been correct although the reason he found the men interesting was not what Marlene supposed.

  In addition to the other details, while Mark had been competing in the steer-roping contest, de Froissart had pointed out several ranchers who were dubious about Goodnight’s claims. Having seen a small group of them, she steered Mark in their direction. One had delivered cattle to the Pilar Hide & Tallow Company’s factory and she used that point to intrude into their conversation. After Mark had been introduced, Marlene guided the talk to Goodnight.

  ‘I’m damned if I reckon it can be done!’ declared a burly rancher who wore the uniform of a Confederate State’s cavalry officer, except that it had civilian buttons and no insignia.

  ‘Goodnight’s a pretty fair cowman, though,’ a second of the group commented.

  ‘So he should be!’ the burly man sniffed. ‘He had four years at it while some of us was away fighting the Yankees.’

  Hearing the low mutter of agreement, Mark saw one reason for the group’s reluctance to accept a scheme originated by Goodnight. Although a loyal Texan, he had not fought for the South in the War. Instead, he had served with Captain Jack Cureton’s Company of Texas Rangers. They had helped to protect the homes of the men away fighting on both sides against Indians, Mexican bandits and renegade whites. However, some people—like the burly rancher and his companions—had a dislike bordering on active hatred for any man who had not worn the cadet-gray uniform of the Confederate States’ Army.

  ‘What was it you were saying about Goodnight’s idea, Mark?’ Marlene asked.

  ‘Huh?’ the big blond grunted.

  ‘You remember,’ the woman prompted. ‘About why he might be so eager to get other people to try to reach Kansas with their herds.’

  Realizing what Marlene meant, Mark found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He did not wish to repeat the suggestion she had made to him regarding Goodnight’s possible motives. It would be accepted willingly by his audience, who were sure to pass it along as being true. Others, wavering in the balance, might choose to believe it and decide against trying to reach the new markets. Certainly such a suggestion would arouse controversy and could easily lead to open hostility, for Goodnight had many friends who would bitterly resent such an implication.

  Fortunately, the onus of replying was removed from the blond giant.

  Even as Marlene stopped speaking and waited expectantly for Mark to carry on, Garvin Fitt walked in. The group to which Marlene had attached the big blond was standing in the centre of the bar-room, directly in front of the main entrance. So Fitt could hardly avoid seeing Mark as he entered. What was more, going by his lurching gait and reddened face, Fitt was at least as drunk as on their previous meeting.

  The moment Mark saw that Fitt’s eyes were on him, paying great attention to the sling he was wearing, he saw a possible solution to his problem. Nor did he need to do anything to arouse the other’s animosity. Recognition showed on Fitt’s face, being replaced by an expression of hatred. Scowling, he slouched forward and, moving slowly, Mark turned towards him.

  ‘It looks like you’ve run up against somebody who wasn’t too drunk to defend himself.’ Fitt announced in carrying tones, teetering to a halt. However, having learned his lesson, he did so before he had come within reaching distance of the blond giant’s hands.

  The words had been sufficiently loud to be heard all around the room. Conversations were brought to an end. Marlene and the ranchers with whom she had been speaking looked from Fitt to Mark and, reading the signs, began to draw away. At the bar, Dusty’s party, de Froissart and Dolman fell silent and turned their respective attentions to the centre of the floor.

  ‘Well,’ Mark replied, more quietly but still being audible to the other occupants of the room. ‘That’s one thing I wouldn’t need to worry about where you’re concerned.’

  ‘You’ve got a real big mouth!’ Fitt spat out and his right hand dropped to close around the butt of his Colt. ‘And I don’t like i—’

  ‘Garvin!’ Marlene snapped. ‘Don’t be a fool!’

  Partly blaming the woman for what had happened to him the previous night—and not without justification—Fitt had turned some of his hatred in her direction. Hearing her speak, he swung his head to glare at her.

  ‘Isn’t it time you started remembering you’re marri—!’ Fitt began.

  Taking advantage of the interruption, Mark stepped forward. While he was proficient at drawing and shooting with his left hand, he did not attempt to do either. Instead, he reached and grabbed Fitt by the throat.

  Fingers which felt like steel jaws of a bear-trap closed on the young man’s neck, choking off the remainder of his speech. Letting out a strangled croak, he involuntarily stabbed his forefinger on to the holster’s stud. However, as the front sprang open, his hand left the butt in an attempt to free himself from Mark’s grasp and the weapon fell harmlessly to the floor.

  Giving Fitt no chance to recover, or free himself, Mark shook him like a terrier dealing with a rat. Then the big blond thrust him backwards. Reeling, Fitt somehow managed to retain his balance and remained on his feet. As he came to a halt, he cursed and flung himself forward. Landing belly down on the floor, he grabbed the butt of the Colt with his right hand.

  Knowing the kind of man he was dealing with, Mark did not hesitate. His left foot raised and its high heel stamped on the back of Fitt’s hand, pinning it to the floor. A screech burst from Fitt as he felt the pressure crushing his flesh and bones against the uneven, unyielding butt of the revolver.

  At the bar Dolman reached a decision. He had guessed that Mark might be a threat to his hold on Marlene and saw the opportunity to remove him. At the same time Dolman hoped that he might regain something of the favor he had lost by his refusal to make Ram Turtle forget young Fitt’s gambling debts, as had been suggested by his father. To have done so, or even attempted it, would have lost the peace officer a useful source of income. Particularly as the saloonkeeper was furious about the visit paid to him by Dusty Fog, the Ysabel Kid and Marshal Grillman, about which Dolman could do nothing.

  With that in mind, Dolman liberated and produced his Colt. He was sure that, when challenged, the blond giant would give him an opportunity to shoot in ‘self-defense’ while ‘resisting arrest’. Nor, in view of Counter’s behavior that afternoon, would his death be the cause of too much adverse comment. So Dolman moved from the counter and started to raise his weapon.

  Having caught Dolman’s draw being made from the corner of his eye, Dusty guessed what the other was planning to do. Which placed the small Texan in a difficult position. He could not allow his amigo to be killed, but had to prevent it without letting their friendship be suspected.

  Thinking fast, Dusty thrust himself forward at an angle which placed him between Mark and Dolman. Even as his right hand fetched out and cocked the left side Colt, he felt the muzzle of the peace officer’s weapon touching his spine.

  ‘Back off!’ Dusty ordered, without turning or stepping aside, lining his revolver at the big blond.

  Taking his foot from Fitt’s hand, Mark twisted his torso. He saw Dolman behind the small Texan and realized what must have happened. However, he did not forget to play his part. Looking down, he saw that Fitt was crouching and nursing the injured hand. So he swung towards Dusty.

  ‘You again!’ Mark growled. ‘One of these days, you’ll push your nose into somebody else’s affairs and get it blown off.’

  Chapter Thirteen – It’s Better Than Being
Ignored

  LOOKING AT THE broken thread, which had been whole when he had fastened it with pins between the jamb and the bottom of the door, Dusty Fog knew that he had had a visitor in his absence. It was not the hotel’s maid, for she had finished her work before he had left to have lunch with some ranchers.

  It was the morning after Dusty had saved Mark’s life. The big blond’s pretence of being furious over Dusty’s intervention had been so convincing that nobody suspected the truth. Instead, there had been considerable relief shown and expressed when Marlene Viridian had suggested that she and Mark went elsewhere. After they had gone, Dusty had contrived to prevent Dolman from guessing that he had stepped deliberately between him and Mark.

  The rest of the evening had been uneventful, with only one disturbing note as far as Dusty was concerned. It had begun, in fact, before Mark’s trouble with Fitt. When the subject of Kansas had been brought up, one of the ranchers had asked if there was any truth in the rumor he had heard that Colonel Goodnight might not be attending the Convention. Dusty had replied that, to the best of his knowledge, his uncle would be there and the matter had been forgotten due to Fitt’s arrival.

  After Mark’s departure, the conversation had been resumed. There had been one matter upon which Dusty could not shed much light. On being questioned about an actual shipping point, he was unable to give precise information. While he knew that Goodnight was considering Abilene, he did not feel that he should go into detail regarding his uncle’s hopes in that respect. So he had been compelled to restrict himself to saying that he doubted if the problems of loading and transporting the cattle would prove insurmountable. He had realized that doing so did nothing to strengthen his arguments, but had no other choice. To have told the ranchers how Goodnight believed the town would be developed, then to find that it had not happened, would ruin all chances of the rest of the scheme being accepted.

  However, Dusty had discovered that his audience were more inclined to listen to his own comments on the business of handling a large herd with a small number of men. While they had not yet been won over completely, there had been a noticeable improvement and he was determined that it should continue.

  That morning, with Marshal Grillman’s assistance, Dusty had met Mark. Ostensibly they had been summoned to the marshal’s office so that they could be warned that no further trouble between them would be tolerated. Dolman had been present during the interview, but had been distracted by Grillman as Dusty had passed a note to Mark while they were being ‘compelled’ to shake hands and forget their differences. Dusty had asked his amigo to try and discover whether Marlene and de Froissart had started the rumor that Goodnight would not be at the Convention. After Mark and Dolman had taken their departures, the small Texan had made a similar request to Grillman.

  Returning to the hotel, Dusty had been invited to have lunch with the men he had met the previous night. After the meal, during which he had been asked how he regarded his chances in the bucking horse event that afternoon, he had found that the precautions which he had taken against unwelcome visitors were justified.

  Looking each way along the passage, to make sure that he was not being observed by the occupants of the other rooms, Dusty drew and cocked his left hand Colt. Then, with his right hand, he unlocked and thrust open the door. Going in fast, with his weapon’s barrel sweeping in an arc before him, he was ready to start shooting. The need to do so did not arise, for the room was empty and apparently undisturbed.

  Twirling the Colt back into its holster, Dusty closed the door. He made a thorough examination of his quarters, but could find no trace of them having been searched. Yet he felt sure that somebody had entered during his absence. Which meant that the unannounced visitor must have had a good reason for taking the risks involved by doing so. He discounted the possibility of robbery, for all his property appeared to be intact and nothing was missing.

  Frowning with concentration, Dusty glanced at one of the fixtures which the Stockmen’s Hotel offered with their most frequent type of client in mind. Knowing that a saddle was a vitally important factor in a Texas cattleman’s life and being aware of the importance he attached to its safe keeping, the management had placed in each room an inverted V-shaped wooden structure known as a ‘burro’. That allowed the occupant to leave his saddle in safety, instead of having to lay it on its side in a corner or hang it by its horn in the wardrobe.

  Crossing to the burro, Dusty reached out his right hand. He would need the saddle to compete in the bucking horse event and meant to carry it to the corral at Mulcachy’s livery barn, where the contest was to take place.

  A thought struck the small Texan as his hand touched the horn. His participation in the event was known. It would be a good opportunity for somebody to try to remove him and to make the attempt look like an accident.

  Dusty started to go over the saddle with a keen-eyed scrutiny. The most likely parts to have been damaged were the girth-straps, or the latigo; which was used to secure the front girth to the saddle’s rigging ring. Examining them and the spacer strap which held the girths apart, he could find nothing to suggest they had been tampered with. Nor had the sheepskin lining of the skirt. The rosaderos, wide leather shields sewed to the back of the stirrup leathers, and the leathers themselves were equally unmolested. To make certain, Dusty took the saddle from the burro and placed it on the floor. Setting his foot on each rosadero in turn, he gripped the wide wooden foot supports with his hands. Exerting his not inconsiderable strength, he tested the strength of the leather and the metal pins upon which the supports were connected to the straps.

  Despite everything appearing to be satisfactory, Dusty could not shake off the feeling that all was far from well. Then a thought struck him. Moving the latigo, he looked at the rigging ring at the front of the saddle. A low hiss burst from him as he saw that the metal had been cut through, probably by a hack saw. An examination showed that the girth ring at the rear had been treated in an identical fashion, as had their mates on the other side.

  Dusty felt as if he had been touched by a cold hand as he set the saddle back on the burro.

  If he had not fastened the thread across the door, a trick which he had learned from Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy, he would not have become suspicious. Instead, he would have taken the saddle and used it in the bucking horse event. Once a horse had started pitching and fighting, the rings would have opened. When the cinches and latigo were liberated, the saddle would have come off. In which case, he might have counted himself lucky to escape with nothing more than a few broken bones.

  There was a knock on the door. Even before Dusty had turned, without the need for conscious thought, he held a cocked Colt in his right hand.

  ‘Who is it?’ Dusty called, having crossed the room.

  ‘Could be Robert E. Lee,’ replied Grillman’s voice. ‘But I wasn’t born that lucky.’

  Lowering the Colt’s hammer on to the safety notch between two of the cap-nipples of the cylinder, Dusty bolstered it and opened the door.

  ‘Schelling won’t come out truthful and admit he sold the message he fetched from Colonel Charlie,’ the marshal announced with preliminaries as he entered. ‘Much less say who he sold it to.’

  ‘That’s about what we expected,’ Dusty pointed out.

  ‘Sure,’ Grillman agreed, then eyed Dusty in a speculative manner. ‘It’s not my way to be nosy, but I was wondering if you allus answer the door with a gun in your fist?’

  ‘Only when I’m in a town where somebody’s trying to kill me,’ Dusty replied, guessing that the marshal had heard the distinctive triple clicking as he had brought the weapon to full cock despite the door being between them.

  ‘Now who-all’d want to do a mean thing like that?’ Grillman inquired, but there was a hardness under the levity. ‘And how was they figuring on doing it?’

  ‘Like this,’ Dusty explained, leading the way and displaying the damaged rings on the saddle.

  ‘Whooee!’ the marshal ejaculated. �
��If you’d been using this on a hoss with a belly full of bed-springs—’

  ‘Why sure,’ Dusty drawled, as the words died away.

  ‘It looks like somebody doesn’t want you around,’ Grillman remarked. ‘Oh well, it’s better than being ignored.’

  ‘There’s some might think so. Only I’m not one of them.’

  ‘Shucks, I allus thought you’d got a sense of humor.’

  ‘Why thank you ‘most to death,’ Dusty growled. ‘Now I know how that feller Job in the Good Book must’ve felt.’

  ‘I’d never’ve give you credit for having even seen the Good Book,’ Grillman countered. ‘Who-all do you reckon done it?’

  ‘I never thought you had a sense of humor,’ Dusty declared. ‘Now I’m sure of it. How the hell do I know who did it? That’s what the good tax-paying citizens of Fort Worth’re paying you-all to find out.’

  ‘I’ll ask around the hotel—’ the marshal offered.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ Dusty told him. ‘Fact being, we might learn more by not letting on we’ve found out about the saddle.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Somebody’s expecting me to get thrown. Could be they’re even betting money on it. So let’s make ’em think I’m headed for a fall and see what happens.’

  ‘Might’s well,’ Grillman conceded. “Specially’s I can’t figure out any other way of learning who done it.’

  ‘The good tax-paying citizens of Fort Worth—’ Dusty began.

  ‘Are getting more than their money’s worth, what they pay me,’ Grillman countered, having guessed what was coming. ‘There’s only one thing, though. What’re you going to do for a saddle? You sure as hell-and-a-half can’t use that one, way it is, and there’s no time to get it fixed.’

  ‘I’ll ask Festus Mulcachy to lend me his,’ Dusty answered. ‘Joe Gaylin made it and it’s enough like mine for us to fool anybody who doesn’t come too close.’