The Floating Outfit 25: The Trouble Busters (A Floating Outfit Western)

by J. T. Edson

  This then was the man who sat at a table in the Fair Lady Saloon. He might offer an answer to all Freddie’s prayers concerning the development and improvement of the town.

  Just as she turned from the bar, Freddie saw her place had drawn in more customers. Five in all; but they were not the sort of trade Freddie cared to attract even with the prevailing slackness of business.

  They came through the batwing doors, pushing, jostling each other and generally indulging in horse-play as if they had been celebrating somewhere. If they had, it was on their own liquor for Freddie’s place alone had been opened that morning. Wherever they bought it, all five appeared to be carrying a skinful of liquor and that did not make Freddie any happier to see them.

  Behind the bar, Big Sarah threw a glance at the bung-starter and made sure she could get to it and the Navy Colt which lay in a box beneath the bar. Then she looked across at Mark Counter, his presence making her feel uneasy in the face of the new development. Mark was a cowhand, a good one; the five new arrivals followed the trade of buffalo hunter, although far from being in the class of Buffalo Bill Cody, Frank Mayer or other top names in their profession. Cowhands and buffalo hunters were like oil and water—flames and gun powder might be a more apt description—they just did not mix.

  For a moment the five men stood just inside the door and studied the room. They all touched the six foot mark, but were lean and gaunt. Long, shaggy hair trailed from under cheap woolsey hats and none of the five appeared to have washed or shaved in a week or more. Their buckskin shirts carried so much dirt and dried buffalo blood that they might have been smelled across the width of the room, while their U.S. Cavalry pants were so encrusted with general muck that the original blue color no longer showed. Each man wore Pawnee moccasins dirty and stinking enough to turn even an Osage Indian’s stomach over in disgust. Each man wore a gunbelt with a revolver at one side and a sheathed knife at the other.

  ‘Yeeah!’ yelled the man in the lead of the group, clearly their boss and in command of the revels. ‘Just looky in here, boys. And you all saying we ought to go to try what Brownton had to offer. Why here’s a whole saloon-full of gals all eager and a-pining for us to happy ’em up.’

  ‘Let’s grab off a gal each a-piece, Sam,’ answered the red-haired man at the speaker’s right side. ‘I’ll take me that black ha—’

  Leaping forward with surprising speed and agility, Stokey wrapped his arms around Freddie. The stench of whisky—and not very good whisky at that—combined with the general body odor of the man almost made Freddie retch and prevented her from taking the appropriate action in her defense. All she could manage to do was twist her head away as Stokey lowered his whiskery face towards her.

  ‘Let’s have a kiss, gal,’ Stokey whooped. ‘Then we’ll get us—’

  Which was as far as he got without interruption. Even before Big Sarah could catch up her bung-starter and come over the counter to help Freddie, Babsy went to her mistress’s aid. Ducking under Red’s grabbing hands, Babsy darted forward and landed a kick across Stokey’s left shin. He let out a howl like a knife-stuck fattening pig and released his hold on Freddie. Shoving the man back a pace, Freddie whipped around her right hand to drive the fist against his jaw and stagger him back a few steps. In this Stokey might have counted himself fortunate on two scores. While holding Freddie, he had swung around so his back was to the bar and went closer to it as she hit him. However, Freddie could not land her punch with full power under such cramped conditions, which was his first lucky break. Second piece of luck being that he did not go back far enough for Sarah to reach him with her bung-starter. If either condition had been more favorable to Freddie, Stokey would have wound up on the floor and wondering how so many flashing stars happened to be around his head in plain daylight.

  Putting a hand to his jaw, for the blow had landed with sufficient force to hurt, Stokey let out a snarl of rage.

  ‘You—!’ he began.

  ‘Don’t say it, you drunken lout!’ Freddie hissed, the cold fury glowing in her eyes. ‘If you can’t behave in here, get out!’

  Mark Counter had been studying the situation ever since it began, reaching the conclusion that he could not sit back and watch ladies—and that black-haired beauty was a real lady or he had never seen one—mishandled by a bunch of half-drunk, stinking Yankee skin-hunters.

  ‘Like the lady said,’ Mark drawled, walking forward. ‘The door’s there and the air outside’s free.’

  For a man of some considerable experience in such matters Mark appeared to be making a bad error in his tactics. When he halted Mark stood in the center of a half-circle of buffalo hunters and it rapidly became a full circle around him.

  A grin creased Stokey’s face as he studied Mark and prepared to give the signal for his bunch to jump the dude-dressed Texan and hand him his needings. It would be amusing, and give the appetite a whetting for later pleasure, to work that nosey jasper over and mark him up good. Then the girls would know what kind of out-and-out, hair-on-the-chest he-men were in the saloon.

  The only trouble being that Mark did not wait to be jumped on, worked over and marked up; and he had a right good and convincing argument for anybody who tried to do it.

  Just as Stokey opened his mouth to give the orders, Mark moved. Suddenly shooting out his hands, Mark clamped hold of the front of Stokey’s shirt and lifted the man clear from the ground. Nothing Mark could have done would have more shocked the five men than did his display of strength. It shook a man to see a feller he aimed to attack calmly lay hold of a full-grown buffalo-hunter and heft him into the air with no more trouble or sweat than a nurse showed in lifting a baby. With Stokey held kicking and amazed in the air, Mark proceeded to deal with the other members of the buffalo-hunting quintet

  Even as the other four men started to move forward, Mark swung Stokey around in a full circle. Using the still amazed Stokey’s body as a club, Mark swept three of the remaining four men from their feet, sending them sprawling as the flying body hit them. The fourth man, Scar it was, either had more agility, or less rot-gut whisky in his belly, than his friends. Whatever the reason, he made a fast leap to the rear and avoided Stokey’s swinging body. Once his friend passed, Scar leapt forward to the attack once more, meaning to take Mark from the rear.

  Having made his circle with Stokey for a club, Mark kindly released the man, although without placing him on the floor first. Mark had heard of the law of gravity and figured it worked equally well for buffalo hunters as it did for everything else, so Stokey would come to earth some place. Luckily for him, Stokey landed on his feet; then his luck gave out. Although on his feet, Stokey had no control of himself and teetered into the bar not a yard from where Big Sarah stood and that was tempting providence too far. Like the rest of the girls, Sarah had been staring in open-eyed amazement at Mark’s display of strength, but her instincts reacted almost without command from her brain. Out came the bung-starter and whistled around to descend with a wooden ‘clunk!’ on the top of Stokey’s head. Sarah tended to be something of an expert in the skilled application of a bung-starter to a human head, knowing how to apply just enough force to render the victim helpless without cracking the skull in doing it. A glassy expression came to Stokey’s face and his body crumpled forward to the sawdust covered floor.

  ‘Behind you!’ Freddie screamed as Scar sprang forward.

  Having released Stokey, Mark swung around to meet the menace from the rear. Even while turning, his right shoulder bunched and propelled a hard fist forward. Too late Scar saw his danger. He tried to stop his forward movement, go back, duck or do something to avoid being hit. All to no avail he tried. Mark’s hard right fist caught Scar’s jaw and propelled the man backwards and over the top of a table.

  Although she gave the warning, Freddie stood, like the rest of her girls, held motionless in wonder at the blond giant’s display of strength. Not one of the girls gave a thought to helping Mark attend to the other three buffalo hunters.

  Bo
th the remaining men, Whiskers and Slushy to their friends, had made their feet and were attacking. A hand caught Mark’s shoulder and swung him around. Whiskers’ other hand crashed against Mark’s jaw and staggered the blond giant into a brutal blow in the back delivered by Slushy. Grunting with pain, Mark arched his back and Whiskers, showing good team-work with Slushy, landed a punch into Mark’s stomach then whipped up a backhand drive to the Texan’s face. In the same move, Slushy smashed both his hands on to the back of Mark’s neck. Dazed by the blows, Mark stumbled forward and Whiskers hit him again. Mark reeled a couple of paces, caught his balance and threw a right which ripped into Whiskers’ ribs and flung the surprised man sideways. That was when Whiskers’ luck ran out. He landed on his knees before one of Freddie’s waitresses and the girl held a stoutly made tray which she applied ringingly to the top of his head. One blow did not quite do the trick of rendering Whiskers hors de combat, so the girl measured him up and handed him a second blow which served its purpose.

  Two hands clamped around Mark from the rear as he dealt with Whiskers, pinning his own arms to his side. Slushy had made the move, intending to hold the big Texan helpless and allow one of his friends the opportunity of settling Mark’s hash once and for all. Only Slushy struck a slight snag, one which might have filled him with a sense of frustration and panic had he been given time to think about it His hands would barely meet around the great spread of the Texan’s shoulders and arms. Before Slushy could debate the point, Mark took its solution from the other man’s hands—although probably not to Slushy’s satisfaction. With a sudden surge of his enormous biceps, Mark spread open Slushy’s arms. Then Mark drove back his right arm, crashing its elbow with battering-ram power into Slushy’s ribs. Feeling as if the entire front of his rib-cage had caved in, Slushy reeled away holding his chest and twisting his face in a look of agony.

  Scar, the one who had avoided being felled by Stokey’s flying body in the earlier stages of the fight, made his feet just as Slushy grabbed Mark and saw a heaven-sent chance presented to him. Gripping a chair by its back, he forced himself to his feet and attacked. He swung the chair into the air, meaning to use it as a club and fell the big Texan.

  Seeing Mark temporarily indisposed, Freddie took a hand at that point. She thrust Babsy gently aside and flung herself forward. As a child in England, Freddie had seen the type of football made popular at Rugby School and, being something of a tomboy, learned various moves of the game; as she proceeded to demonstrate. Her flying body crashed against Scar, arms locking around his legs in as near a perfect rugby tackle as she could manage. Some experts might have found faults with minor details of her tackle, but neither Freddie nor Scar had cause to complain at it. To the accompaniment of a ripping sound, Freddie brought Scar crashing to the floor. However, not having been designed for wear while playing rugby, her dress split from thigh to arm-pit along the seam. She and Scar rolled over on the floor and Babsy flung herself on to the man, followed by two more of the girls. All in all, and had he been given the choice, Scar would rather have been worked over by Mark Counter than take the hair-yanking, scratching, punching, kicking and biting mauling served out by the enraged girls.

  Mark had no time to admire the view Freddie presented as she rolled free of the mound of struggling girls and their victim. Already Red was back on his feet and coming in to the attack. Still doubled over in agony, Slushy saw his chance and took it. His foot shot out, catching Mark behind the left knee. Taken by surprise, Mark felt his left leg double under him and went to his knees. He lowered his head and dived forward, ramming into Red’s body and sending the man staggering back into the bar. Eager to do her part, Big Sarah moved along the bar, her trusty bung-starter gripped ready for use. However Red did not wait for her, but thrust himself forward at Mark. He walked into a punch which landed in the center of his face and flattened out his nose.

  There are few things in the world as painful as a fist-broken nose. Screeching with pain, Red staggered back a couple of paces. His hand dropped and brought the revolver from its holster on his right thigh. Flame tore from the gun’s barrel and the crack of a shot rang out. Mark felt as if a red-hot iron bored through the flesh of his shoulder. Shock waves sent him staggering back and he was helpless to do anything to defend himself as Red cocked the gun ready to shoot again.

  Still on her knees and trying to hold her dress together around her, Freddie saw the shooting and knew Mark did not have a chance. Yet she could do nothing to help him for she did not have a gun and Big Sarah stood some distance from the Navy Colt under the bar. Long before Freddie could reach Red, it would be too late to stop him shooting.

  The main doors of the saloon burst open and a tall blond-haired young Texas cowhand burst in. From her position, Freddie saw the savage look on his face as his right hand dropped to draw the Army Colt from its holster on his off thigh. Freddie had never seen a real fast gunfighting man in action until that day and always believed that stories of their speed were exaggerated. Now she learned different. In a flickering blur of movement so fast the eye could barely follow it, the newcomer drew his right side Colt and fired. His lead ripped into Red’s head, shattering it like a rotten pumpkin. Cocking his gun on the recoil, the youngster swung towards Slushy. To her horror, Freddie realized that the blond boy aimed to kill the man.

  ‘Waco!’ Mark roared.

  For a few seconds the youngster stood immobile, his Colt lined on Slushy with its trigger depressed by his forefinger and the hammer drawn fully back by his thumb. One slight movement of that thumb would allow the hammer to fall, strike and explode a percussion cap, sending fire leaping into the powder of the chamber and igniting it to propel the bullet into human flesh.

  It was the longest few seconds Slushy could ever remember and he doubted if he would live through them. Then the blond boy relaxed slightly, although the gun did not swing from line.

  ‘You all right, Mark?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll do now.’

  The shots had broken up the struggling pile of girls on the floor; for which Scar might have felt relieved. He looked like he had tangled with a couple of bobcats, while being hauled backwards through a clump of sharp-thorned cactus plants and after having been partly scalped by a Comanche with a blunt knife.

  Gasping for breath, Babsy sat up alongside the battered buffalo hunter, let a handful of his hair fall from her fingers and looked at the man who shot Red. He was a tall, handsome youngster, although his face had a watchful, mean look. There was a good width to his shoulders and his frame looked hard and fit. From his Texas-style black Stetson to the Kelly spurs on his Justin boots, he spelled cowhand from the Lone Star State. While still in his teens, the gunbelt looked like neither an affectation or a decoration and he had just proved his skill with one of his brace of Army Colts.

  Having heard the shots, the town councilors came into view on the stairs and looked down at their first view of a western corpse-and-cartridge affair. Slowly the men came down the stairs, staring around the room.

  ‘What happened, Miss Freddie?’ Courtland asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she replied. ‘Go fetch the doctor, please, Shad.’

  A cold, sick and empty feeling crept over Freddie as she looked at Mark Counter. One thing she felt sure about; the blond giant would be unlikely to recommend to his friends a town where he had to fight odds of five to one and wound up by being shot.

  Maybe Mark Counter’s presence in town had been a chance for Mulrooney to survive and attract the Texas trail drive trade—but those five drunken buffalo hunters had ruined that same chance for Freddie’s town.

  Three – Brownton’s Chance

  ‘Be it known that all persons who served the Confederate States during the late War of Secession are required and ruled by Brownton City Civic Ordinance No. 28 to surrender their firearms to the office of Town Marshal Banks Fagan on arrival in the city limits and not to wear or carry any firearms during their stay in the said city limits.

  Signed,r />
  B. A. Grief, Mayor’

  Although the sign hung prominently on the wall of Kate Gilgore’s Buffalo Saloon, neither of the two young men who entered showed any interest in it beyond a first casual glance. Yet both could read, one of them slowly and as long as there were not too many long words and the other very well—and both had weapons on their persons.

  One of the pair might be termed extra well armed, especially in view of his apparent youth, for, in addition to the walnut handled old Dragoon Colt hanging butt forward at his right side, he had a bowie knife sheathed at the left and a Winchester Model of 1866 rifle in his left hand.

  While he appeared to be around sixteen years old, it must be admitted that in the Ysabel Kid’s case the looks were deceptive. He was older than sixteen and had packed a world of practical savvy into every year of his life. It was his face that gave the impression of youth, being innocent-looking and almost babyishly handsome—unless one looked at his cold, wolf-savage red-hazel eyes. They were not the eyes of a sixteen-year-old boy. All his clothing from hat, through bandana, shirt and levis down to his boots, was black; only the brown walnut grips of the old Second Model Dragoon Colt and the ivory grips of the James Black bowie knife relieved the blackness.

  There was something wild, alien, almost Indian about the Ysabel Kid. One way of accounting for this stemmed from his mother being a French Creole-Comanche girl with direct blood-line to Chief Long Walker of the dreaded Dog Soldier Lodge, while his father had been a wild Irish-Kentuckian who loved to fight and had sand to burn. The Kid came from fighting stock on both sides. He handled a rifle like a backwoodsman of old, used his knife with the flair of both French Creole and Comanche—knife fighters from way back, could use his Dragoon with some skill although not well enough to be termed a gunfighter. Mostly the Kid handled scouting work for the O.D. Connected spread; and in addition to being able to move in silence over sun-dried sticks or capable of following tracks where a buck Apache would give up, he spoke several Indian dialects well and fluent Spanish. Not a bad record for a man who lacked formal education. All in all the Ysabel Kid made a good friend, but a bad mean enemy.