The Floating Outfit 27

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Somebody must know the answers,’ the Ysabel Kid asserted.

  ‘All’s needs doing is finding said somebody,’ Mark declared, his manner implying he believed such a contingency would never occur to his black clad amigo. ‘And somebody should do something about that.’

  ‘Well dog my cats, I’d never have come up with anything so smart’s that,’ the Kid answered, his manner redolent of spurious admiration. ‘But, seeing’s you and Dusty outrank Waco ’n’ lil ole me, top of Derry not being on hand for you to pick on, 46 47 I know who-all the somebody’s gets sent to do said something is going to be.’

  ‘Seeing you know that much,’ the blond giant replied, so officiously it might have been his true nature. ‘Speaking as first deputy in the office, I’d reckon’s how you pair should oughta go and get to doing it.’

  ‘Am I pleased to see you pair?’ declared the pretty little red haired woman who had emerged from the Longhorn Saloon. ‘I was just coming to find some of you!’ Although she had long since almost forgotten her Christian name, looking as she had been described by Waco—including having the fiery red hair which had created her sobriquet—Phyllis ‘Ginger’ Winchell could have passed as a sister—probably a twin—of Barbara ‘Babsy’ Smith. Wearing the kind of just barely decorous clothing which Freddie Woods and Buffalo Kate Kilgore ruled was permissible when walking around outside her place of employment, there was an expression of concern on her face all too obvious to anybody who knew her as well as did the men she was addressing.

  ‘What’s up, Ginger-gal?’ the Ysabel Kid inquired, recognizing the symptoms and halting with Waco at his side.

  While speaking, the black dressed Texan was hoping the answer to his question would not interfere with the duty he and his young companion were trying to carry out!

  Before setting off upon their mission to try to discover who and what exactly had been behind the attempt to abduct Freddie Woods, showing the flair for deductive reasoning which had already served him well since becoming a peace officer, Waco had suggested the signs pointed to a member of the British Railroad Commission from Canada being implicated. He had supported his supposition by reminding the others that whoever was responsible must have known there was a connection between Sir John Uglow Ramage and Freddie’s family which would be calculated to make her respond to a request for a meeting with him. Admitting the logic behind the conclusion, she had pointed out they were all men of importance and the result of their findings could prove beneficial to both countries. Therefore, she had asserted, it would be impolitic to do anything which might embarrass and antagonize even one of them. Then she had asked for the deputies to seek out confirmation and bring it to her before taking any action, even if no more than asking questions, in that direction.

  Taking to the streets, the Kid and Waco were visiting all the places from which they hoped to learn something to help in their quest!

  Failing to achieve their purpose elsewhere so far, the young Texan had started to look for a source of information which had proved most reliable in the past!

  ‘It’s Jimmy,’ Ginger replied, pointing towards the batwing doors through which she had emerged. ‘He’s in there, playing poker with Joel Collins and his crew.’

  ‘Shucks, there’s nothing to worry about in that,’ the Kid claimed, aware that the little redhead was taking Lord James Roxton on a tour of the town. ‘Bob Shafto’ll make sure the game stays honest and I reckon His Lordship can afford to lose more than he’s likely to against them.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ the little redhead answered, showing no sign of being relieved by the assessment. ‘He’s not losing. He’s the only one who’s doing any winning.’

  ‘I’m not surprised at that,’ Waco asserted, having watched the men mentioned by Ginger in the company of Deputy Town Marshal Frank Derringer—a successful professional gambler—a few days earlier as they were playing poker in another saloon from which he had formed an accurate opinion regarding their ability. ‘Good enough jaspers though they might be in other ways, the way Joel Collins and Sam Bass will keep trying to fill inside or bobtail straights and holding a kicker, 48 49 50 they’re more like’ to lose than win.’

  ‘It’s not Joel and Sam’s I’m worried about,’ the little red head answered, despite having reached the same conclusion about the play she had watched. ‘That lard-gutted Jim Murphy and that cousin of his—!’

  ‘Alec Hogg?’ the Kid suggested, knowing the pair and having formed a low opinion of them.

  ‘If that’s his name, he sure looks like it should be,’ Ginger answered. ‘Anyways, they’re starting to look meaner’n hell.’

  ‘We’d best sort of drift on in and take a look, amigo,’ Waco suggested, having duplicated his companion’s antipathy towards Murphy and Hogg.

  ‘I was just coming ’round to thing along them self-same lines, boy,’ the Kid admitted, moving the Winchester Model of 1866 rifle a trifle across the crook of his left arm. ‘Anyways, even if there’s nothing to it, maybe we’ll find Mousey in there.’

  Entering the saloon, with Ginger following closely upon their heels, the deputies concluded from what they saw and heard that they had arrived at what would be a crucial point in any game of poker played west of the Mississippi River!

  ‘My pot again, I believe, gentlemen,’ Lord Roxton was saying cheerfully, drawing the money which lay in the center of the table towards him with both hands. Having accepted Dusty Fog’s advice upon his attire for the evening, he was wearing the suit and Homburg hat which was no different from those the Americans in the barroom had on. ‘Gad, this poker is a fascinating game and most gratifying when your luck is in as well as mine appears to be.’

  ‘If luck's all it be!’ growled the burly, heavily mustached man whose sullen features and voice suggested he had drunk more than was wise, having bet injudiciously on what had proved to be a losing hand.

  ‘That remark calls for some amplification, sir,’ the English aristocrat said, his clipped tone taking on a cold timbre.

  ‘Maybe you’d like it put different,’ Jim Murphy asked, thrusting back his chair and starting to stand up, in spite of having noticed he was being given looks of disapproval by at least two of the other players.

  ‘Like we have to come right on out ’n’ say you’re too god-damned lucky for it just to be luck,’ supported Alec Hogg, who was just as big and porcine looking as his cousin and his voice also indicated sufficient of an excess of hard liquor to make him truculent. He too was dressed in a town dweller’s three-piece suit, shirt and necktie, albeit retaining a gunbelt with an Army Colt in its holster. Rising from his seat, he continued in a challenging fashion, ‘So what do you aim to do about i—?’

  ‘Let’s all stay nice and still!’ Waco barked, striding forward faster than his companion.

  ‘Who say s—?’ Murphy commenced, but the words died away as he turned his head and saw the Kid following closely to the right side of the blond youngster. Putting what he hoped was a timbre of righteous indignation into his voice, he amended his original comment. ‘This Limey’s a tinhorn or I’ve never seen one, Cabrito. Ain’t that right, Cousin Alec?’

  ‘He just never stops winning!’ supposed Hogg, feeling certain that the two young newcomers would accept the word of other Texans despite being peace officers. ‘Which I reckon’s how you’ll agree that don’t sound natural on luck alone?’

  ‘Damn it, Kid, Waco!’ Roxton snapped, dull red patches having come to his lean and tanned cheeks. He too came to his feet, going on just as indignantly, ‘They’re as good as calling me a cheat.’

  ‘And you’re saying just as much’s how you’re not,’ the black dressed Texan drawled, hoping the Englishman would show enough good sense to let him handle the matter in his own way. ‘So we’ll have to find out who-all’s got the rights of it.’

  ‘So that’s the way of it, huh?’ Hogg growled, his manner redolent of suspicion.

  ‘The way of what, mister,’ the Kid inquired, his tone mild although there w
as nothing mild about his red-hazel eyes and expression.

  ‘This Lime-juicer’s one of them bunch from back East’s that high-toned saloon gal of Dusty Fog’s is sucking up to,’ Hogg explained, glancing at the men still seated around the table as if expecting them to substantiate his comment.

  ‘How’d you like my boot stuck down your throat?’ Waco snapped, always ready to leap to Freddie and Dusty’s defense if considering either was being subjected to a slight.

  ‘Easy there, amigo,’ the Kid snapped, catching the youngster by the right arm as he was on the point of lunging forward. ‘You’re always way too quick to temper. This hombre didn’t mean no disrepecting to Miss Freddie.’

  ‘The hell I didn—Augh!’

  The denial ended in a strangled croak!

  Before Hogg was able to complete the heated words, he was given cause to regret having started them!

  All the leisurely seeming posture left the Kid. His Indian-dark features lost their innocence and acquired a chillingly savage aspect. Brought from his left arm and being gripped with both hands, the metal shod butt of the Winchester was rammed with sickening force into the pit of Hogg’s stomach. No man who over indulged in food and drink as he invariably did could accept such treatment in that region without showing its effect. Letting out the croak and starting to fold at the middle, he stumbled backwards with his hands clasping at the point of impact.

  Snarling a profanity as he saw what happened, Murphy started to reach for the Army Colt in the holster of his gunbelt. He too quickly discovered that antagonizing the Kid was not the wisest or safest thing to do. Pivoting more swiftly than he was capable of moving, the black dressed Texan slammed the wooden foregrip of the rifle against the front of his face. Although the blow was deliberately held so it did not render him unconscious, he reeled backwards with a livid red mark across the bridge of his nose and forehead.

  Spluttering incoherently and breathlessly, straightening up with his face diffused by rage, Hogg attempted to draw his holstered gun. Before he could do more than close his right hand around the butt, he too was prevented from completing the hostile action.

  Not by either of the peace officers, however!

  Leaving his place at the table with a rapid bound which sent his chair skidding away, the ruggedly good looking, stocky and medium sized cowhand who was closest wrapped his arms around and gave Hogg a swinging shove which sent him sprawling to the floor. Nor did Murphy fare any better when attempting to renew the movement which had caused him to be hit by the Kid.

  The oldest of the players, tall, well built and dressed in a more prosperous fashion than the others, rose with an equal alacrity and jerked his descending hand away.

  ‘God damn it, Jim Murphy!’ Joel Collins snapped, his tone angry. ‘I don’t mind you getting killed, but I’d sooner not have it happen when it could spoil our fun.’

  ‘Hell, yes,’ supported Sam Bass, swinging a disdainful gaze from the man he had thrown to the floor to the other protestor. ‘The English gent there’s been lucky, sure enough. But there ain’t no call to go saying’s how it’s anything else ’cept luck.’

  ‘We can right easy prove whether it is or isn’t,’ Waco declared and looked at where the bulky owner of the saloon was approaching. ‘Would you check over the cards and this gent for us, Mr. Shafto?’

  ‘There’s no call for either,’ the owner asserted. ‘They’re a house deck and I’ve been by a couple times watching how they was used.’

  ‘Just the same,’ the blond youngster drawled, glancing at Roxton. ‘What’s been said about this gent and Miz Freddie, I reckon’s how it’s better proved so nobody’s got any doubts.’

  Wise beyond his years, the youngster was aware that what he had said would be repeated around the town. He knew there some of the population who did not approve of Freddie’s competent administration as mayor and resented the possibility of the British Government being involved in the making of the spur-line to Canada. They would be eager to use anything which might show her, or a member of the British Railroad Commission, in a bad light. In fact, he had noticed one of her most frequent critics on both counts was watching and listening with great interest. Medium sized and undistinguished looking, albeit well dressed, Bruce Millan could be counted upon to shed doubts unless these were refuted completely before they were uttered.

  ‘I agree, sir,’ the English aristocrat asserted. ‘And I’m willing to let myself be subjected to any tests you feel are necessary.’

  ‘You can do it, Waco,’ Joel Collins suggested, making the offer in his capacity as the trail boss who had brought the other Texans in the game to Mulrooney. ‘We’ve been hearing tell how well Frank Derringer’s been teaching you and’d like to see what you’ve learned.’

  ‘Go to it, deputy,’ Shafto agreed. ‘Whatever you say’ll be good enough for me.’

  ‘And me,’ Sam Bass seconded.

  ‘I’ve not the slightest objection to whoever is satisfactory to the rest of you gentlemen making the examination,’ Roxton declared, giving Waco a smile and nod which indicated he understood why the suggestion of a check was made. ‘Carry on, old boy.’

  ‘You and Mr. Millan’s amigo over there’d best watch to make sure I do it right,’ Waco suggested, nodding to the gambler seated at the table with the man he had named.

  Waiting until the gambler came over, the youngster conducted a thorough examination. First he subjected the deck of cards to the tests he had been taught by Derringer to ensure they were not marked, then handed them to Millan’s crony for verification. This was given and he turned his attention to Roxton. Although he felt certain he would find nothing, he checked as he had been instructed for hidden cards identical to those in play, or devices to help make them. Neither were forthcoming, so he looked at the aristocrat’s hands. These proved to be devoid of the stains which always showed when ‘daubing’ was carried out and neither the signet ring nor the fingernails were suitable for making secret signs of identification. 51

  ‘Nothing,’ the youngster declared, after concluding an examination which none of the professional gamblers in the room could have faulted. ‘Do you gents agree?’

  ‘He’s clean,’ Shafto supported and Millan’s crony gave reluctant concurrence.

  ‘We never thought it’d be otherwise,’ Collins stated, then glanced pointedly at the cousins. ‘You pair look a mite peeked, so you’d best head to bed and get some sleep. We’re pulling out in the morning.’

  ‘Do you fancy some more poker, friend?’ Bass inquired and, remembering how he and Collins had used their acquaintance with Ginger to get the Englishman into the game, he went on ruefully, ‘Although, way you play, I’m not sure’s how that’s a good idea.’

  ‘No thank you, much as I enjoyed the game,’ Roxton replied, but his manner was polite. Wanting to indicate the refusal was not caused by the incident, he gestured to the red haired girl and continued, ‘I’ve kept Ginger waiting far too long. However, I never like to leave the table a winner. So take what’s there and buy drinks as far as it will go.’

  ‘Everybody looks satisfied, ’cepting maybe Mr. Millan and his tinhorn,’ the Kid commented as he and his companion were going towards the main entrance. They had received an assurance from Collins that Murphy and Hogg would not try to take the matter further and watched the Englishman leave with Ginger while the other players—including the cousins—went to the bar to partake of his largesse. ‘You handled things real good, boy.’

  ‘When don’t I?’ Waco replied, but he was clearly pleased by the praise. ‘Tell you what though, Lon. Happen Joel Collins and Sam Bass don’t learn to play poker, they’re going to lose a heap more than they can afford one of these days.’

  If either had remembered the comment some time later, when hearing that Joel Collins and Sam Bass were wanted for trying to recoup gambling losses by committing an armed robbery, the Kid would have decided his companion was a pretty fair prophet.

  As it was, the two deputies had kept the peace and
prevented an incident which might have had an adverse effect upon the negotiations between the British Railroad Commission and Todhunter. Now they were going to carry on with the task they had been given in the assurance that there was nothing further to worry about at the Longhorn Saloon.

  Chapter Eleven – Talk to Me, Amigo

  ‘Well just take a look at who-all we have here, boy,’ the Ysabel Kid requested, sounding delighted, as he and the blond youngster stepped from an alley to confront a man approaching in the light thrown by the window of a general store about half an hour after they had left the Longhorn Saloon.

  ‘I’m looking,’ Waco replied, his voice holding a similar timbre of well simulated pleasure, although he would not have accepted the appellation given by his black clad companion from anybody else except the other members of the Mulrooney town marshal’s office. They all treated him like a favorite younger brother and he often wondered when, if ever, he would cease to be ‘boy’ to them. ‘Isn’t he just the sight for sore eyes, Lon?’

  ‘You don’t have no right to keep a-hounding me!’ asserted the man about whom the comments were made, ensuring he kept both hands in plain sight and away from his sides. His voice had a whining Chicago accent and, glancing around as if contemplating flight or seeking assistance, he continued, ‘I ain’t never done nothing wrong!’

  If David ‘Mousey’ Nellist had had the slightest inkling that he might meet any of the local peace officers and that pair in particular, he would have taken very rapid steps to avoid doing so. Not that, as he claimed, he had any reason to fear apprehension for some criminal act. His disinclination to make contact with them stemmed from knowing they, as had lawmen in every other place he had been, frequently sought him out for information regarding illicit activities in their bailiwick. He did not have the slightest moral objections to supplying such news when it came his way. In fact, he spent much of his time seeking it. However, he preferred to pick his own time and place for imparting what he had discovered. By doing so, he could often obtain a better price for his wares.