The Floating Outift 33

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Are you loyal to the army of General Marcus?’ he snarled at the haciendero.

  ‘I am loyal to the government, if that is what you mean,’ Perez replied.

  The two things might be one and the same, depending on how a man looked at Marcus’s army.

  ‘Then take the Tejanos!’ the sergeant ordered.

  Seeing the position Perez found himself in, Dusty decided to help. He hoped the haciendero would have quick enough wits to catch his meaning and act on it. If Perez did so, much of his later trouble would be finished before it started.

  ‘The first man who makes a move, Mark,’ Dusty said, speaking Spanish so all would hear and understand. ‘We shoot the soldiers.’

  ‘Right through the stomach, Dusty,’ Mark replied, catching on to Dusty’s idea and enlarging upon it.

  Now all depended on how quick Perez reacted and if he caught Dusty’s idea.

  A half smile played on Perez’s lips, mirrored in the grin flickering on Sanchez’s usually sober face. They noticed how their men drew back, leaving the sergeant and his two men exposed to Texas fire.

  ‘Take the Tejanos!’ ordered Perez.

  The sergeant saw Mark’s right hand Colt line on him, sink down so as to make his stomach the target, saw also the hammer lay back ready to be dropped on a cap and send lead into him. In his time he had seen more than one stomach-shot man die in agony. Soon, unless he acted fast, he would be writhing on the floor with lead in his belly.

  Behind him the two men shuffled their feet and exchanged scared glances for both knew all too well their danger and did not like it. They heard the shuffling of feet and guessed the vaqueros were moving forward, ready, willing and eager to make the Texans open fire.

  ‘Wait!’

  The word crackled from the sergeant’s mouth. He knew the Texans were not bluffing and he didn’t aim to give them chance to cut loose at him.

  ‘But you said—’ Perez began, sounding as if he wished only to help the soldiers.

  ‘I’m telling you not to move!’ snarled the sergeant, suddenly realizing that he had played into Perez’s hand, but not having the guts to take a chance and alter the situation by forcing the haciendero to help him.

  ‘As you will. I am ready to tell my men to obey your orders.’

  Speaking loudly, Perez made sure that as many of the crowd as possible heard him state his willingness to help. Let Marcus try to blame him now and he could call on witnesses to state that the sergeant ordered him to do nothing.

  All movement stopped. The vaqueros stood around in a solid group behind the soldiers, with Sanchez, who had left his boss’s side, in the forefront of the crowd and ready to show the others what they must do when the time came. The sergeant and his men tried to back off, to hide themselves among the crowd, from where they might order an attack on the Texans without giving a chance of being shot at themselves. Dusty and Mark brought an end to such movement before it stood any chance of succeeding.

  ‘Hey, come along boys, and listen to my tale, I'll tell you of my troubles on the open trail,” came the sound of the Kid’s voice, with Waco joining in the chorus.

  ‘Come a yi yi yippee, yippee yi, yippee hey.

  Come a yi yi yippee, yippee hey!”

  Both knew the dangers of riding up unannounced and meant to let Dusty and Mark know who came behind them, saving them from the necessity of looking around, which might prove dangerous under the circumstances.

  Waco and the Kid rode into sight of the gate, leading Dusty and Mark’s big horses and holding their rifles ready for use. Their eyes took in the situation and guessed at what had happened.

  ‘When you’re ready, Dusty,’ called the Kid.

  For the first time since the trouble started Dusty saw the girl. She stood to one side, away from the crowd. Their eyes met for a moment and he read a mixture of hate, annoyance, respect and worry in her beautiful face.

  He had no time to think on this mixture, to delve into the reasons for it. Already Mark, holstering his Colts, backed to his blood bay and prepared to mount.

  ‘I’m up, Dusty,’ he said as he swung into the saddle.

  With Mark in his saddle, Dusty knew the time had come for him to make his own move. The guns whirled on his fingers and into leather. Behind him he heard the horses turning even as he holstered his weapons. He spun on his heel and ran to where the big paint stood waiting. Bounding up, Dusty leap-frog mounted over the paint’s rump, landed in the saddle, caught up the reins as Waco tossed them to him, found his stirrup irons and set the horse in motion.

  ‘Yeeah!’

  Loud into the night rang the wild yell of the Confederate Cavalry. Four big, powerful horses, sprang forward as if pulled on a cord. Perez’s lights illuminated the street and offered a good sighting area through which the Texans must ride before reaching safety.

  ‘Get the Tejanos!’ bellowed Sanchez, springing forward and crashing into the two soldiers, staggering them into the sergeant before he could get his gun out, so eager was the big segundo to help.

  His spirited action inspired his men, all of whom caught the idea. With one accord they charged forward, jostling, pushing, and getting in several kicks and punches on the soldiers, effectively hampering them. The sergeant bawled out curses but he and his men were swamped under and pushed to the rear. Guns bellowed as Sanchez and his men reached the street, shouts sounded also, preventing the sergeant from hearing in which direction the Texans fled.

  ‘Mount up, after them!’ Sanchez yelled, vaulting afork his horse and charging off in a direction Dusty and the other three most certainly had not gone.

  The vaqueros could take a hint. They took it so well that by the time the enraged sergeant and his men reached the street their horses had been let loose and scattered while groups of men rode in every direction, tearing out of town and ruining any chance of finding tracks. By a curious coincidence the vaqueros appeared to have split themselves into groups of four, making further difficulties should the soldiers plan to try and track the Texans.

  Half an hour after Dusty’s departure, the vaqueros returned from their ‘hunting’ of the fugitives. Each group, or so it seemed, had been hard on the heels of the Texans when some unforeseen accident prevented them from actually making contact and capturing their men.

  Hooves drummed loud in the night and a large group of Marcus’s soldiers came tearing into Salvamiento to enforce the fine upon the haciendero. In the lead of the party, wearing a neat and clean uniform, rode a tall, slim young man whose handsome face bore a look of real cruelty. He halted his horse and looked in some surprise at his sergeant, then slowly raised his arrogant eyes to Perez.

  ‘I am Captain Barrio, of the army of General Marcus,’ he said, ‘What has been happening here?’

  There had been a time when Barrio had a different name, one with a de and a y between surnames. Scion of a good family, his evil temper and incurably vicious traits led his parents to disown him. He had fought for Juarez against the French and stayed on in the army of General Marcus, rising to his present rank. Perez knew all this and liked none of what he knew.

  Stepping forward, Perez told what had happened, turning the story so that the blame fell on Dusty and the others for causing trouble, as he guessed Dusty would wish him to do. The sergeant stood by scowling and muttering under his breath, but knowing he would have Barrio’s wrath piled on him for failing in his duty.

  ‘And you did not help my men against these Tejanos,’ Barrio purred, a more menacing sound than if he had snarled or raved.

  ‘We would have done so, but they threatened to shoot your sergeant and he ordered us not to help,’ answered Perez.

  ‘He did, did he?’

  ‘He most certainly did.’

  Turning towards the speaker, Barrio found him to be a priest and knew he must accept the words as true.

  After the departure of the soldiers, Sanchez turned to his boss and grinned.

  ‘We came out of it well, patron,’ he said. ‘Something tells
me we, and Marcus’s bandidos, haven’t heard the last of those four Tejanos.’

  For fourteen days Dusty and his pards ranged the Aquila country in the manner of the Texas Light Cavalry fighting the Yankees during the war. To Mark, who rode as a lieutenant in Bushrod Sheldon’s regiment; a formal outfit and handled in the conventional fashion; Dusty’s methods seemed unorthodox, though most effective. The Kid served as a private in Mosby’s Rangers and so had learned the secrets of such raiding under the Dixie master. Yet he soon saw that Mosby could teach Dusty nothing of the deadly game they played. Waco, being too young to fight in the war, learned much. He learned the tricks and tactics which made the name Captain Fog respected and feared by the Yankees. He also learned that tough a disciplinarian as Dusty could be when the situation demanded it on the spread, the toughness did not even start to approach his attitude as they rode on their Mexican raids.

  On the evening after leaving Salvamiento they had their first success, finding a group of Marcus men returning from collecting taxes at a haciendo. Although the odds were three to one, Dusty insisted they trail the party and attack when they made camp for the night.

  As far as possible Dusty tried to avoid contact with Mexicans other than the Marcus army. Occasionally they came across vaqueros working a range and at first the vaqueros thought little of the meetings. Yet the prairie telegraph worked as well below the line as above it. Word passed around that four Tejanos riding two paints, a white and a blood bay were repeatedly striking at Marcus’s men, killing, scattering horses, taking money gathered for taxes. Secretly the hacienderos informed their loyal men that these four must be helped in every possible manner.

  For a week Barrio’s company tried to gather taxes. Yet so effective were Dusty’s raids that on the eighth day, when Barrio should have headed back to Casa Almonte, little money had come in and the soldiers were tired from chasing shadows.

  With the increased aid of their vaquero contacts Dusty formed a clear picture of the way Barrio and the Marcus men felt. He also gauged just the right moment to pull out and make further south ahead of Barrio’s company. In this way the four Texans could hit at other Marcus parties before word of their arrival leaked out.

  They lived a life of danger and hardship during those days. Mostly they lived off the land, only taking a chance of visiting a small village as a last resort. In some cases they did not need to buy, should they catch a tax gathering party doing its work in the village. Then the villagers, hearing their money would be taken and hidden so that other soldiers could not come and grab it after the four left, would do their best to supply Dusty and his friends’ needs.

  ‘Fourteen days of it,’ said Mark as they made camp for the night in a bosque and by a small stream. ‘By this time Don Ruis should at least have seen the Governor and know what he thinks about Marcus’s plan.’

  ‘On a thing as important as this, they’ll need time for thought, Mark,’ Dusty replied. ‘You know that Uncle Devil’ll be working it so no word of what Marcus hopes to do leaks out and spooks folks into foolishness.’

  Ole Devil had invited the Governor of Texas and General Handiman, current head of the U.S. Secret Service, to visit him on the pretext of arranging a cougar hunt. The rancher’s social standing and position in the State stood high enough to make it most impolitic for the Governor to refuse the invitation; even if he was not an old friend and enjoyed his cougar hunting. Handiman had often shared a rousing cougar hunt, with the accompanying celebrations, and could be invited as guest without arousing comment as to his coming. He was a smart man as well as a good friend and fully capable of reading between the lines of the invitation, so would not fail Ole Devil.

  However, before they could all gather, discuss the news from Mexico, hear Don Ruis’s story and form their own opinions, Marcus might gain the power to move. Ole Devil needed time, so Dusty, Mark, the Kid and Waco were buying him that time. With the calm assurance of the gallant defenders of the Alamo, four young Texans stood willing to throw away their lives that time might be granted to prepare their country’s defense.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ drawled Waco. ‘You-all been out having fun. I was two days stuck in that little valley watching the hosses.’

  ‘That’s what we brought you along for, boy,’ grinned the Kid, thinking of Waco’s furiously muttered protests at being left in a hidden valley for two days, guarding the horses while they rested up. ‘All Injun raiding parties take a couple of herd boys along with ’em.’

  ‘I ain’t no danged Injun!’ Waco wailed. ‘Even if I can’t say the same for the rest of the company.’

  The others eyed him tolerantly, like older brothers when their young kin got uppity over something. Mark laid a big hand on Waco’s face and brushed him aside like a man shooing off a fly. The youngster rocked over backwards and lay grinning up at the sky, wondering when, or if, he would ever cease being the boy to these three men for whom he would gladly give his life.

  ‘What about tomorrow, Dusty?’ the Kid asked. ‘We’re on the Don Francisco’s north line now.’

  Dusty nodded. On their contacts with Mexican people the Kid always asked if any word had been heard of his old friend, Almonte, but without result. Now they had reached the area of Almonte’s hacienda and the Kid wished to see what he could learn on the home ground.

  This brought up another problem. Marcus took over the Almonte house, used the hacienda as the center of his operations. Here would be the thickest concentration of his men, the most chance of meeting them and with the least profit. Like a wise commander, Dusty thought his moves. His duty was to inflict the maximum damage to Marcus’s army with the minimum amount of loss to his small party. If forced to it he would have led his three friends in a headlong charge full at the entire Marcus army. Given the chance he would avoid unnecessary risks.

  However, he knew the Kid’s unswerving loyalty to anybody he once called friend, a loyalty Dusty himself had good cause to bless. The Kid would do whatever Dusty asked but he wished to at least try and learn what happened to the man who had been like a father to him.

  ‘We’ll take a few days to look around,’ Dusty said.

  He could have asked the others’ opinion for to delay here might cost them dearly. Yet he did not. Dusty made the decision alone, that was the way he had been brought up to act.

  ‘One man’d stand a better chance than four,’ answered the Kid. ‘I’ll go in comes morning and see what’s to be seen.’

  ‘We’ll stay here then,’ Dusty replied. ‘Rest up the horses. How’ll you get word to us happen you need help?’

  ‘Put up smoke. Three puffs close together, then a long plume. Watch for it, mark where it comes from and then swing down about a mile to the right of it. I’ll lay up and watch for you.’

  Other eyes could see smoke and the Kid did not aim to hang around once he sent up his signal.

  ‘It’s your play,’ drawled Mark.

  ‘Sure’ agreed Waco. ‘Go ahead and make a fool of yourself.’ Trouble was, thought the Kid as he rode away from the bosque in the cold gray half light before dawn, the boy could be right. Nobody but a fool would be riding into danger the way he was. Sure he had his old Thunder horse between his knees and the pick of the mounts taken from Marcus’s men. With them he ought to be able to ride any pursuit into the ground. Only he might not get a chance to avoid it in a long chase. Not in a country swarming with enemies.

  This latter proved to be something of an overstatement for the Kid saw no sign of Marcus soldiers, or any other human life, during the first five hours or so of his scout.

  Fresh hoof tracks brought the Kid’s horse to a halt. He swung down and examined them carefully. A small patrol, maybe a dozen strong, passed this way, not more than an hour before.

  ‘Best follow ’em, Thunder hoss,’ he told the white stallion, swinging astride once more. ‘They might be doing something interesting.’

  They might be, as the Kid admitted to himself, going to visit a prisoner hidden out somewhere a
way from inquisitive eyes. In that case the Kid’s risk in trailing them would be worthwhile.

  Not that the Kid rode with his attention fixed on the tracks and ignored all ahead of him. Such an act had never been the Kid’s way. He kept under cover as much as he could, never showing himself without first examining the ground ahead of him.

  For almost a mile he followed the tracks through the rolling, lush grassed hill country. Then the big white stallion halted, nostrils expanding in a snort as it tossed its fine head back, staring ahead.

  Instantly all movement ceased. Two horses and rider sat as if turned to stone. The second horse brought along by the Kid had been well trained by somebody who knew just what traits a man needed in a mount for such delicate work as riding scout. Though not as adept at its work as the big white stallion, the second horse could be relied on to stand in cover and make no sound for a long period of time.

  Faintly the Kid heard voices coming from ahead. He swung from his saddle, drawing the rifle even as his feet hit the ground. Leading the two horses he advanced slowly through the bushes, keeping to a stretch of low ground.

  ‘Where is your patron?’

  The Kid heard the words clearly and not too far ahead. Quickly he looped his two horses’ reins about the saddlehorns. He knew he could rely on Thunder to obey and hoped the other would follow the white’s lead. He heard another voice reply:

  ‘Where you will never find him.’

  Like a shadow the Kid glided forward, then flattened down behind a bush on the edge of a large clearing. It looked like he had caught up with the bunch of men he’d been trailing—and at the right time.

  They stood around the clearing, eleven ragged-looking, vicious-faced Marcus soldiers. The Kid studied them, noting the short captain who looked even more like a shark than a shark did. From the captain, the Kid’s attention went to the tall vaquero who sat his grulla v horse, his arms bound to his sides and under the limb of a tree. A stout noose fitted around his neck, the rope going up, over the limb and down to be bound to the bottom of the trunk.