The Floating Outift 33

by J. T. Edson

  ‘He hadn’t a powder flask with him, I’d swear to that!’ an excited man told the others and a buzz of agreement rose to it as they discussed the matter, trying to discover if anybody noticed such a thing when the Texan fled.

  Nobody had seen one. This brightened the outlook considerably. Possibly the Texan might have combustible cartridges in his pockets although that was hardly likely. In any event he had been submerged in the river for a short time, emerging soaked to the skin and most likely the cartridges would be soaked also. Despite the high-flown advertising claims made by their manufacturers, combustible cartridges rarely operated after being soaked even for a brief time.

  ‘Let’s get him!’ whooped the sergeant, forgetting his wounded shoulder as he leapt for his horse.

  All this had taken time. Behind the cover of the log Dusty Fog had neither been twiddling his thumbs in anxiety nor going through the long process of loading a cap-and-ball Colt. Instead he made use of the advantages of the Model P.

  After sending his last bullet into the Remington rifle, Dusty sat down with his back to the log and prepared to reload his guns. He saw the Mexicans take cover and expected they would spend some time in potting at the log. They might send some of their number up and downstream to cross and move in, but would have to talk about it and decide who should volunteer for the risky task. In the meantime Dusty had to get ready to fight.

  Not for the first time in his life Dusty felt grateful for old Joe Gaylin’s skilled leatherwork and resourceful handling of problems. The old man’s suggestion of loops in which to carry twenty-four spare cartridges was already showing its worth for without them Dusty would have been left with empty guns, his spare ammunition in his bedroll.

  Working fast, but without fumbling or getting flustered, Dusty’s right hand set the Colt at half cock while the left extracted six bullets from the loops and retained them in the palm as he worked the ejection rod with his thumb, shooting the empty cases through the now open loading gate. He replaced the empty case with a loaded bullet and turned the cylinder with his right thumb so the next chamber lay under the ejector. Even before the sergeant had started to rally his men, Dusty slipped the sixth bullet into his gun. He closed the loading gate and laid the now ready weapon on his knee while he took out the right-hand gun and went to work on it.

  He finished just in time. Already the Mexicans were leaping on to their horses, waving their weapons and yelling as they launched a charge down the slope and across the opposite bank of the river. Grabbing a gun in either hand, Dusty rolled over to his stomach, then came to his knees. He fired left then right-handed and although the shots did not take effect they brought some confusion and a slacking of the attack.

  ‘Come on!’ bellowed the sergeant. ‘He’d only have time to load a couple of chambers!’

  One of the men, either through velour, a desire to make a name for himself, or because his horse was out of hand and could not be stopped, plunged into the water and the others followed his lead. Dusty sighted carefully, fired and tumbled this leader from his saddle. Once more the new guns had saved his life. The speed with which he had reloaded them prevented the Mexicans from being able to force home their attack and came as a complete surprise. If they had pressed on under the fire without that brief pause they might have swamped him by weight of numbers.

  The men were shooting as they came. A bullet whined in the vicious scream of a ricochet, missing Dusty’s face by a couple of inches and causing him to duck hurriedly. He came up again and lined his right-hand Colt on the sergeant who seemed to be determined to prove his theory about Dusty not having more bullets. Just as Dusty’s finger tightened on the trigger, he saw the sergeant jerk, rear up in the saddle, then fall forward on to the horse’s neck and slide down into the water.

  Shots sounded from behind the attackers, another one fell and the rest milled around in indecision. Dusty looked up to see who might have come to his aid. He saw the Ysabel Kid, riding like a centaur and with his lead-spitting old ‘yellow boy’ rifle in his hands, racing the brown horse down the slope with Sanchez of Salvamiento and half-a-dozen hard-riding, well armed vaqueros banking him.

  Caught on two sides and with no chance of escape, the soldiers took the only way out. Throwing down their weapons those who could raised their hands and yelled that they surrendered.

  The Kid did not even give them a second glance as he sent his horse racing through the water. He could rely on Sanchez to take care of the soldiers. A look of relief came to the Kid’s face as he saw Dusty rise from behind the log and walk towards him, holstering the new guns as he came.

  Leaping down from his horse, the Kid sprang towards Dusty, his right hand held out. Not until that moment did the Kid remember Dusty’s orders about not taking chances and leaving him even if knowing he had found trouble.

  ‘Never was worth a cuss at taking orders,’ grinned the Kid, pumping Dusty’s hand.

  Following the Kid ashore, Sanchez swung from his saddle and held out a big hand to Dusty.

  ‘I am pleased we came in time, Captain,’ he said.

  ‘Run into Sanchez early last night,’ the Kid explained. ‘Been up west on business. I told him how things stood and he sent a couple of his boys to let his boss know how things stand, brought the rest along to lend a hand.’

  ‘There have been meetings among the hacienderos, Captain,’ Sanchez went on. ‘We now know what brought you here and my patron had told me to put myself and my men at your disposal when I met you. What can we do?’

  ‘Get my saddle out of the river, catch one of their horses, then put some distance between us and here.’

  ‘And the prisoners?’ asked Sanchez. ‘I think it would be better if you left them to us. We have a quaint custom in Mexico as you know.’

  All too well Dusty knew the quaint custom to be ley fuga, but he did not intend to let that happen even to Mexican bandidos.

  ‘Fasten them to their horses, blindfold them and bring them along,’ he said. ‘There’s just a chance they might be able to tell us something we need to know.’

  Soon after, astride the best of the soldiers’ horses, Dusty rode with his party, heading for the cliffs of el Laberinto. Not until they approached the high sheer wall did Dusty think of the problem ahead.

  ‘This’s going to take some doing, getting through to Don Francisco’s hideout,’ he remarked to the Kid. ‘I should have let you through on Pancho’s heels so you’d have had a better chance to remember the way.’

  ‘Don’t reckon I’ll have no trouble at all in getting through,’ replied the Kid. ‘Fact being I’ll lay you an even five dollars I gets through on the first go.’

  ‘They say a fool and his money’s soon parted,’ Dusty grinned. ‘You’re on.’

  At that moment a cowhand yell rang out. Turning to look, Dusty saw Waco and his three assistants in the substitute el Cuatro coming into view. The youngster whipped off his Stetson, waving it over his head as he sent his paint leaping forward in his eagerness to greet Dusty and the Kid.

  ‘You saw them,’ Dusty growled at the Kid.

  ‘And you-all missed. Come on, pay up and don’t be mean.’

  Twelve – Marcus Gets His Guns

  General Marcus paced the big library at Casa Almonte, his fat face working with anxiety. The last few days had not been calculated to keep his nerves steady, or make him feel more secure in his position. From a man who until a few weeks before had been undisputed ruler of the Aquila country, he had turned into a frightened prisoner within the walls of the old house. Where once his men rode forth gaily to extract loot in the form of taxes and fines, masters of all they surveyed, they now showed reluctance to leave the safety of the walls. Only the driving force of Barrio’s personality made the men obey and it had taken him three summary executions, with a quickly drawn sword and shrewd thrust, to send the men forth into that hell of raiding which began after the departure of the arms buying commission.

  Ever since Margarita de Plonchet left, the Four had inc
reased their malignant pressure. They came from nowhere it seemed, struck like wraiths, killed like a cougar amongst a flock of sheep, disappeared only to appear somewhere else far away and strike again. The ‘yeeah!’ of the Confederate Cavalry, once dreaded by the Union Army, shattered the air in the Aquila and brought terror to Marcus’s men.

  Never an intelligent man, Marcus did not pause to wonder how the Four could strike in one place at ten o’clock in a morning, raiding a tax gathering party—for Marcus’s insatiable greed forced him to send such parties out—and at half past ten the same day strike at a group watching a hacienda with the intention of taking cattle, some sixty miles away. If the truth be told, Marcus had started to give credit to the belief common among his more ignorant and superstitious men, who whispered of ghosts, evil spirits and that el Cuatro had supernatural powers.

  After the first few days of raiding to the south Barrio came in demanding more and more men for his patrols. Never had Casa Almonte been so poorly defended as while Barrio spread his nets in the hopes of taking the Four. Marcus lay awake at nights in a muck-sweat of anxiety. He could close the gates against the coming of the Four, keep his men on watch night and day, wear his ornate Army Colt forever in an open holster, or sleep with it in his hand. He had done all this. No man could enter the grounds without being under the guns of his guard. His men grew heavy-eyed with watching, his Colt never left his side. Yet would all this help should el Cuatro really possess supernatural powers?

  One of the twenty or so men remaining at the house came into the library, having been given the task by his sergeant who he suspected held a grudge against him for having won at a game of Spanish Monte the previous night. He showed a remarkable amount of caution on entering and not without good reason. Only the previous morning Marcus’s orderly entered the room behind his general’s back, made a slight noise and died an instant later with a bullet in his head.

  The soldier coughed and ducked for Marcus gave a startled yelp, whirled like a scalded cat, clawed out his Army Colt and planted a .44 ball into the wall which would also have passed through the soldier’s favorite head had he not bent forward.

  With a ghastly attempt at a laugh, Marcus holstered the gun and looked at the man.

  ‘You stood up to the test very well. I will promote you to corporal.’

  This might prove a mixed blessing as the soldier well knew. Promotion, except to officer status, carried neither extra pay nor privileges in the Marcus army. It did, however, give the one promoted a better share of any loot which came the way of a patrol he might be on. Promotion also carried one very serious disadvantage. El Cuatro had a marked preference for corporals, sergeants and officers as targets and wearing the two stripes of the rank would single him out as one who had risen above the herd.

  Being a wise man the newly-promoted corporal mentioned none of his doubts. Marcus might have holstered the gun but he could soon enough draw it again.

  ‘The wagon is almost here, General,’ he said. ‘Señorita de Plonchet is with it.’

  Marcus felt his heart give a jump. Despite his reservations about her purpose in siding with him and his suspicions for the future, he felt much better when the girl was in the house and could be called on for opinions and support.

  ‘Who else is with the wagon?’ he asked.

  ‘I do not know, General.’

  Which was about what Marcus could have expected as a reply.

  Sweeping past the man, Marcus headed along the passage and kicked open the main doors. He strode forward across the grounds, making for the gates which his men threw open. A sinking feeling hit Marcus as he saw the small size of the party which entered the grounds. Just Margarita and the three Texans were with the big Conestoga wagon. All the horses looked almost ready to drop for they had been hard pushed. Nor did the party with the wagon look in any better shape. Whang and the two men, used to long hours in the saddle and fast traveling, showed signs of the exhaustion they felt while Margarita was gray with fatigue, her beautiful face showing the ravages of the past days.

  The girl almost fell from her horse, yet even in that condition ordered two of the gawking soldiers to care for the animal. She staggered and Whang sprang forward to help her as Marcus did not offer.

  ‘I—I’m all right!’ she gasped. ‘We have the weapons, Marcus.’

  ‘Where is Chavez?’ he replied, throwing a look at the wagon. ‘Why didn’t you bring the men in w—?’

  ‘Out of the way, afore I walk over you Marcus!’ growled Whang, this gal’s about dead on her feet.’

  Without waiting for a reply Whang half-lifted, half walked the girl into the house and along to the library where he sat her at a table. A fuming Marcus followed, intending to ask why Whang addressed him in such a manner. He came into the library with his mouth hanging open ready to roar.

  ‘Get some of that fancy wine you’ve got stashed away,’ Whang ordered before the man could say a word.

  For a moment their eyes locked, Marcus straining for mastery and to impose his will upon the lean Texan. Then he saw something in Whang’s eyes which warned him not to try his luck or even to speak again. Whang looked tired, had neither washed nor shaved since leaving Lodgepole. Standing there by the girl’s side he looked meaner than a winter-starved grizzly bear on its first appearance in the spring.

  Marcus look the wiser course. He opened the drawer of his desk and produced a tray with wine bottles and glasses. Margarita drank one glass of the wine and Whang tilted half the bottle down his throat before either showed they knew Marcus still stood by.

  ‘Chavez is dead,’ the girl said. ‘Captain Fog killed him.’

  ‘C—Captain Fog?’ gurgled Marcus.

  ‘Him and the Kid trailed us to the border,’ drawled Whang.

  The cigar which Marcus had taken from his desk fell unheeded from his hand. His face, when he turned to the others had taken on an ashy gray tint and fear, real, deep, raw and panic-stricken fear filled his eyes.

  ‘But that is not possible. Every day el Cuatro have struck at my men down to the south. Now you say two of them were up at the border to kill Chavez at the same time?’

  ‘They sure get around,’ growled Whang dryly.

  ‘Ghosts I do not believe in,’ Margarita said, her voice tired but maintaining enough of its old snap to make Marcus watch her and listen. ‘And evil spirits which ride horses over vast distances in very short times, then kill men, I believe in even less. We never did discover what really happened to the Almonte men.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Whang. ‘The Kid and ole Don Francisco were bueno amigos. If the Kid got together with Almonte he’d have men to spare.’

  ‘Or it could have been Perez’s segundo, Sanchez,’ the girl went on. ‘I assure you, General, that these men are not ghosts and have no supernatural powers.’

  For the past few days, on his rare visits to the house, Barrio had given the same assurance but Marcus could not entirely force himself to believe it.

  ‘Where are Captain Barrio and the men now?’ Margarita asked.

  ‘He has taken them out, sent them scouring the country for el Cuatro,’ Marcus replied and brightened a little as another thought struck him. ‘We can bring them back now, no?’

  ‘No. Barrio is right. El Cuatro must be caught, killed, before they can spread word of our plans and rouse the hacienderos against us.’

  ‘Be best,’ Whang drawled. ‘Tell you, Marcus, I don’t sleep easy at nights knowing Cap’n Fog and those other three are on the prod out there. You run ’em down afore you try to march out of here and take Mexico City. If you don’t, you’ve got the best damned cavalry leader in the Confederate States Army on your flank. He’ll make you wish you’d never been born.’

  Even now Whang did not know of the plan to raid the Texas border and bring the United States into conflict with the Mexican Government.

  ‘Señor Whang is right,’ said the girl, shaking her head to keep the sleep from welling over her. ‘If any of the patrols come in send them ba
ck out again. You will tell them that no man comes in from patrol until the bodies of el Cuatro can be placed in a row on the floor of this room. Make sure also that they know we will not accept stories of burial on the range, or of bodies falling into deep gorges where they could not be recovered. Also that the men are aware that we know all of el Cuatro and will accept none other than they.’

  Sudden anger welled up in Marcus’s breast. The girl went too far with her orders and demands. He opened his mouth to snarl a refusal, perhaps even to bawl for guards to arrest Margarita and Whang, but stopped himself just in time. If he gave the order he would be fully committed in it. He most likely would also be dead along with the first men to try and answer his call. Whang might not be in the class of the late Chavez, but could still make a creditable performance with his guns.

  ‘Do it, Marcus!’ growled Whang, seeing the girl did not intend to rest until she saw her orders obeyed. ‘Move yourself, hombre. I’m tired, mean and short on temper.’

  ‘I will see it done,’ replied Marcus, but his eyes glowed hate at the Texan.

  ‘See you do,’ Whang warned. ‘Now you go get some rest, Miss Plonchet.’

  ‘You also, my friend,’ she smiled in reply.

  On weary legs Margarita went up the stairs to her room. It took all her will-power to lock the door, then stagger across the room and fall fully dressed upon the bed.

  When Margarita woke she found it to be night, although how long after sunset she did not know. For a few moments she lay on the bed, thinking of all that had happened over the past few days. Perhaps el Cuatro would have been taken. Perhaps the men at the border prevented Captain Fog and the Ysabel Kid crossing, killed them even. She could hope this might have happened for that small, insignificant man her first inclination had been to dismiss as a nobody wearing two guns to try and look like somebody, that same man offered the most serious block to her plans.

  It took an effort to rise, find matches and light a lamp, then walk on stiff legs to the door, open it and yell for her maid. The maid, a young Indian girl who came in with one of the bandido gangs, had many failings as a servant, but could be relied upon to fetch hot water.