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

by J. T. Edson

  No contestant so far had equaled his score.

  ‘An excellent ride, Captain Fog,’ Governor Davis praised, having joined in the applause, as Dusty led the grullo by his carriage.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ the small Texan replied, removing his hat out of deference to the Governor’s wife.

  ‘I don’t suppose that you’ve heard when Colonel Goodnight will be arriving?’ Davis went on, feeling some other comment was required.

  ‘No, sir,’ Dusty answered. ‘But I’ll likely be hearing something before too long.’

  Almost as if wishing to prove that the small Texan was a pretty fair prophet, Schelling chose that moment to come galloping up. His arrival attracted considerable attention, for he was travelling much faster than the pace he usually adopted when delivering a message. Every eye followed him and there was considerable speculation as to whom he would be bearing news. Drawing his mount to a halt, he dismounted and hurried towards the Governor’s carriage. However, it was to Dusty that he offered the message which he had taken from his jacket’s inside pocket.

  ‘Here, Captain Fog!’ Schelling gasped, breathing heavily from the exertion of riding at a gallop from the telegraph office to beyond the city limits where the contest was being held.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s very bad news!’

  ‘Gracias!’ Dusty said, ripping open the envelope to take out and read the message. He stiffened as the words seemed to leap to his eyes, crumpling the envelope involuntarily.

  ‘What is it, Captain Fog?’ the Governor inquired and carried on conventionally, ‘Not bad news, I hope.’

  Which, in view of Schelling’s statement and general air of agitation might have struck most people as a stupidly pointless remark. However, the news which Dusty had received did not allow him to think about that aspect of the matter. Instead, he handed the sheet of buff-colored paper to Davis.

  ‘My god!’ the Governor ejaculated, staring at the neatly printed message. ‘Colonel Goodnight’s been killed!’

  Surprise caused Davis to speak louder than he had intended and the words carried beyond his own party. Listening to the news being relayed through the crowd, passed on by those who had heard the Governor, Schelling scowled. He had hoped to be able to sell the information, as he had the contents of Goodnight’s previous message, to Lonegron. There would now be no chance of his doing so. However, he had already received payment for delivering it to Ram Turtle.

  Looking around, Dusty saw Mark Counter standing by Marlene Viridian. The big blond met his amigo’s gaze and made as if to leave the woman. Seeing Dusty give a quick shake of the head, the blond giant remained where he was. It was obvious to Mark that, no matter how Dusty felt about the news, he did not want to spoil the friendship that had been built up with Marlene.

  ‘I can’t start to tell you how sorry I am, Captain Fog!’ Davis said, bringing the small Texan’s attention to him. ‘This is a tragedy and a great loss to the whole State of Texas.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty agreed and it was obvious that he had to struggle to prevent himself from showing his true emotions.

  ‘We must cancel the rest of the contest,’ Davis suggested, nodding to where the judges were hurrying towards the carriage.

  ‘There’s no call for that, sir,’ Dusty objected. ‘And, happen he could say so, Uncle Charlie wouldn’t want to have it done.’

  ‘Very well,’ Davis said, hesitantly and hoping that he was making the right decision. ‘If you’re sure it will be all right—’

  ‘It will be, sir,’ Dusty confirmed.

  Having arrived in time to hear the last part of the conversation, the officials asked Dusty if they could announce the continuation of the contest. On receiving his consent, the owner of the Post Oaks Saloon told the crowd of the decision. He also called for a minute’s silence as a tribute to Goodnight’s memory.

  ‘How about you, Captain Fog?’ Davis asked, looking at the small Texan as they donned their hats at the end of the minute.

  ‘I’d best go into town and telegraph the news to home,’ Dusty replied. ‘Uncle Devil has to be told.’

  ‘Of course he must,’ the Governor affirmed. ‘And while you’re at it, I’d be obliged if you’d send word in my name to the State Police in Sulphur Springs. Tell them not to spare any effort or expense to get the men who killed Colonel Goodnight.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir, and thank you,’ Dusty replied. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and tend to it.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Davis replied. ‘The telegraphist is already on his way back. If you hurry, you’ll catch up with him.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty drawled and nodded to Mrs. Davis. ‘Your servant, ma’am.’

  ‘The news has hit him badly,’ Davis informed his wife, watching Dusty riding away. ‘But he’s bearing up pretty well.’

  Other eyes were watching as Dusty drew rein and spoke a few words to Marshal Grillman, then set the grullo into motion. Not the least interested of the onlookers were de Froissart and Lonegron. They had been on the point of separating when Schelling had arrived, but had stayed together out of mutual curiosity.

  ‘Your men have done it!’ the Creole declared as Dusty started to ride towards Fort Worth.

  ‘Yeah,’ Lonegron agreed. ‘Which means that we’ve got something to do here.’

  ‘What’s that?’ de Froissart asked, although he could have guessed at the answer even before he received it.

  ‘Make sure that Fog’s not at the Convention,’ Lonegron replied. ‘Because if he wins this event, which looks real likely, they’ll listen to him like he was Goodnight.’

  ‘So we’ll have to kill him,’ de Froissart stated. ‘The thing is, when and how do we do it?’

  ‘Have him bushwhacked,’ the other man suggested.

  ‘Not at night,’ de Froissart protested. ‘Roxterby said that there were two deputies—’

  ‘So it was your man last night!’ Lonegron growled.

  ‘Yes,’ the Creole admitted.

  ‘Don’t you trust me?’ Lonegron challenged.

  ‘It’s not that. Nobody likes to admit they’ve failed. Anyway, Roxterby’s lost his nerve and is already on his way back to Pilar. We can’t use him.’

  ‘There’re plenty more men we can hire, either in town or at Ram Turtle’s.’

  ‘I know,’ de Froissart admitted. ‘But I’d as soon not go there to hire them.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ Lonegron sniffed. ‘Only it’s likely to cost money and I’ll expect you to help me pay it.’

  ‘I will’ de Froissart promised. ‘We’ll go halves.’

  ~*~

  Making no attempt to catch up with Schelling and not realizing that plans were being discussed regarding his future well-being, Dusty rode slowly into the town. Nor did he appear to be in any great rush to dispatch the news and Davis’s orders. That was understandable, however, for to any cowhand worth his salt, the welfare of his horse came first.

  Walking and leading the grullo for the last quarter of a mile, Dusty allowed it to cool down before he reached the livery barn. He removed the bit and let the horse drink from the water trough. There was no sign of human life as he entered the big main building, which did not come as a surprise. All of Mulcachy’s staff were attending the cutting horse contest.

  Taking the grullo into a stall next to the paint stallion, Dusty unfastened the girths and stripped off the saddle. Hanging it on the dividing wall, he started to rub the horse down. Two men entered, looking around. Both were tall, tanned, but dressed in town suits and flat-heeled boots.

  ‘Anybody around, young feller?’ the taller of the pair inquired, approaching the stall.

  ‘Not who works here,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Can we hire a couple of hosses?’ asked the second newcomer, also speaking with a Southern drawl and keeping pace with his companion.

  ‘Like I said,’ Dusty answered. ‘There’s none of the staff here. But I can show you two that might do.’

  ‘I’d be right obliged if you wo
uld,’ the taller man stated. ‘There’s no hurry about it. Finish what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I’ve put his nose-bag on,’ Dusty offered and turned to reach for that item from where it was hanging on a hook at the back of the stall.

  ‘Leave it be,’ the taller man ordered, whisking a Starr Navy revolver with its barrel cut down to about two inches in length from beneath his jacket. His companion produced a similar weapon and lined it in Dusty’s direction. ‘And keep your hands up there when you turn towards us.’

  Chapter Fifteen – There Wasn’t Any Other Way

  JUST SO LONG AS one did not make a single mistake, the easiest person upon whom to compel obedience with a gun has always been a firearms’ expert. Such a man knew better than to take chances.

  Although Dusty Fog would not attain his full potential until the Colt Patent Firearms Manufacturing Company started to market their legendary Model P in 1873, he was already a skilled gun fighter. Even using the long, comparatively cumbersome Colt 1860 Army revolvers he could rely upon himself to draw with either hand, shoot and, if necessary, kill a man at around thirty feet away in less than a second.

  For all that, hearing the man’s words, Dusty did nothing more than assess the situation.

  Looking over his shoulder, without attempting to lower his hands or turn, the small Texan studied the two men and their weapons. Everything about them warned him that they were probably proficient in using the short-barreled revolvers. The hammers were down in the uncocked position, but he knew that it was not through any oversight on the pair’s part. Starr revolvers had a double action mechanism and did not require cocking manually.

  ‘If it’s robbery you’ve got in mind, gents—’ Dusty began mildly.

  ‘Do we look like robbers, Chuck?’ the shorter man inquired, without allowing his weapon to waver in its alignment.

  ‘I don’t know any robbers so’s I could tell, Shamp,’ answered the other, holding his Starr equally steady. ‘Turn this way, feller, but do it real slow.’

  Covered by the two revolvers, with their owners standing at too great a distance apart for there to be any hope of dealing with them simultaneously—and realizing that nothing else would serve his purpose—Dusty adopted the most sensible course. He did exactly as he was told. Turning around very slowly, he kept watch for the slightest inattention on their part. There was none, so he waited to find out what would be coming next.

  ‘Come out here,’ Shamp ordered and Dusty left the stall. ‘Now we’ll have your gun belt off. Do it one handed.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Dusty drawled, starting to lower his right hand.

  ‘That’s a bad guess,’ Chuck warned. ‘We’d sooner have the left ’n’.’

  While the change of hands would not have been any impediment, for Dusty was completely ambidextrous—having developed that useful trait as a boy, to help divert attention from his small size—he was given no opportunity to take advantage of his captors’ ignorance. Using his left hand only, he unfastened the holsters’ pigging thongs. Then he unbuckled the belt and was told to lay it on the floor and step away from it.

  ‘What now?’ Dusty wanted to know, having complied.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ Chuck answered.

  ‘Where to?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘What’re you worried about?’ Shamp countered, holstering his Starr and picking up the gun belt. ‘You’re coming no matter where it is.’

  ‘You’re calling the play,’ Dusty said quietly.

  Although the men allowed Dusty to pass between them, they remained beyond any distance at which he would be able to tackle one or the other of them. Accepting the inevitable, he led the way to the front doors. A glance behind told him that Chuck was still holding the Starr, but Shamp had not drawn his weapon.

  Leaving the barn, the men moved closer. They were still separated and just beyond his reach. Yet if anybody had seen them, they would have looked as if they were all walking along on the best of terms. Not that Dusty expected to be seen, for the majority of people were attending the cutting horse contest. Even Grillman’s deputies, with the exception of one man at the office, were out of town and policing the crowd.

  ‘Happen we should meet anybody,’ Shamp remarked. ‘You’d best go by like we was all good friends. ‘Cause if you don’t, it won’t be just you’s gets hurt.’

  ‘I’ll mind it,’ Dusty assured him.

  They did not meet anybody, nor was their journey for any great distance. Guiding Dusty towards an apparently empty, small house, Shamp moved ahead. He opened the door and went inside.

  ‘We’ve got him, boss,’ Shamp called, strolling across what would have been the living room to a door in its rear wall.

  ‘Don’t be bashful,’ Chuck advised, jabbing his weapon sharply into the small Texan’s back. ‘Go in.’

  Advancing across the threshold, Dusty slowed his pace. He watched Shamp reach the centre of the room, but the ‘boss’ had not yet made an appearance. Dawdling, Dusty hoped that he would be given the correct response by Chuck.

  He was!

  Lulled into a sense of false security by the ease with which he had captured and brought the small Texan to the house, Chuck became impatient. Wishing to make Dusty hurry, so that he could close the door and prevent any chance passer-by from seeing what was going on, the man once more pushed his Starr into the middle of the other’s back. At the same time, Chuck used his left foot to shove the door shut.

  Feeling the muzzle of the revolver pressing against his spine and hearing the hinges of the door creaking, Dusty deduced correctly what was happening. He knew that his chance had come.

  Instantly, Dusty halted and, by bending his knees, dropped his hips as he pivoted his torso swiftly to the right. Driving around as he turned, his right elbow smashed into Chuck’s right forearm to knock the Starr out of alignment and away from his body. If the man had been holding a fully cocked, single action revolver, the attempt would have been highly dangerous, if not doomed to failure. However, the Starr’s hammer was not at full cock. So more pressure was required on the trigger than would have been necessary to fire a single action weapon. Enough certainly, for Dusty to believe he had a chance of succeeding in his efforts.

  Using his forearm to prevent Chuck from turning the weapon back at him, Dusty took his weight on his right foot and swung his left leg in a short arc. While doing so, he bent his left arm tight alongside his ribs and folded its hand with the thumb uppermost. Swiveling around and using the pressure exerted by his right elbow to turn his attacker’s torso away from him, Dusty caused the impetus of the former to aid the blow he struck. Hurling out, his fist caught the man in the kidney region. Letting out an agonized croak, Chuck dropped the Starr and arched his back in pain. Clutching at the point of impact, he staggered away from his assailant.

  From dealing, at least temporarily, with Chuck, Dusty devoted his attention to the second of his captors, having heard the disturbance, Shamp turned. He let the gun belt slip from his fingers to drag for his holstered revolver.

  Seeing how fast Shamp was reacting, Dusty moved with even greater speed. Snatching off his Stetson as he started to bound forward, he flung it ahead of him for the vitally important instant required by Dusty. Already the Starr was out and turning into line. Forward thrust the small Texan’s left hand to clamp over the man’s gun-filled fist. Working in concert with its mate, Dusty’s right hand rose to catch hold from underneath. Maintaining both grips, Dusty raised and ducked underneath the trapped limb. Halting behind his captive, with the arm still elevated, Dusty twisted the Starr free with his right hand. The left changed its position to the wrist, bending it down and behind Shamp’s back.

  Before Dusty could carry out his intention of smashing the revolver’s butt on to Shamp’s head, Chuck intervened. Ignoring the weapon which he had dropped, he plunged forward. His right hand grabbed Dusty’s wrist as it rose to deliver the blow and he hooked his left arm around to encircle the small Texan’s throat from
the rear. Drawing his arm tight so as to cut off the small Texan’s breath, he also shook the trapped wrist vigorously.

  If Dusty had been gripping the Starr by its butt and with his forefinger through the trigger-guard, he would have been able to retain his hold despite being half strangled and having his wrist shaken. As it was, he lost his grasp on the frame and the weapon clattered to the floor.

  For all that he was at a serious disadvantage, Dusty was far from being helpless. Raising his right boot, he placed its sole against Shamp’s rump and, releasing the wrist, thrust hard with the leg. Snapping down his foot as the man was propelled across the room, the small Texan shot it behind him so that his heel caught Chuck on the shin. Although the recipient of the kick grunted in pain, he continued to maintain his holds just as effectively.

  There was, Dusty saw, no time to waste. He must get free in a hurry. Having been halted by running into the wall, Shamp was turning and would resume the attack.

  Twice more Dusty stamped back at Chuck’s shin before he felt the choking hold relaxing and the grip on his wrist was loosened. Exerting his strength, he managed to snatch his arm free. Then he twisted his torso as far as he could with the arm still across his neck. It proved to be enough to let him ram his left elbow into his attacker’s chest. Twice Dusty struck, as Shamp rushed towards him, each blow giving him more room to move. Then he caught Chuck’s arm with both hands and, pulling it from his throat, used it as a lever to catapult the man over his shoulder.

  Releasing Chuck in mid-flight, Dusty watched him crashing down upon Shamp. As the two men went sprawling to the floor, he prepared to dive for and retrieve his weapons.

  Then he saw that the door to which Shamp had been walking was open. To make matters worse, a large shape that was all too familiar came looking through it. A Remington Double Derringer looked almost minute in the newcomer’s massive right fist, but was none the less deadly or dangerous because of that.

  ‘You couldn’t get there fast enough,’ Ram Turtle warned, then flickered a glance to where the two men were rolling apart and sitting up. ‘You boys stay there. You did real good.’