by J. T. Edson
He scowled at the sentries who sat with the appearance of being half asleep, sombreros drawn down over their faces, rifles cradled across their knees. Margarita might have thought to try and make a better show for a visit from el Presidente Sebastian Lerdo de Tejada.
Then a grin replaced the frown. It mattered little what el Presidente might think of Marcus’s army discipline. In a very short time he would be the late el Presidente. Maybe Margarita had shown her usual shrewd wisdom in not having alert men in military attitudes standing watch. The very slovenly attitude would tend to lull any suspicions the Ranchero Lancers escort might feel. Those proud, smart and efficient Rancheros, who boasted that only el Presidente stood between them and God, would see no danger from a ragged, badly disciplined rabble of bandido soldiers.
It would be all to the good. The Rancheros were fighting men from first to last, fanatically loyal to el Presidente. Give them but half a chance and they would put up a stiff fight.
If Margarita had thought of all this she would act in the right way. Any way a man looked at it Margarita de Plonchet was a woman in a million. It seemed a pity that she gave her love to that thin, sallow, long-haired and unwashed dreamer who rode with Lerdo in the coach. Perhaps if a bullet should ‘accidentally’ cut down her beloved Roberto, Margarita might look with favor upon a real man, a man strong enough to rule Mexico alone.
Barrio had been surprised to meet el Presidente’s party while on patrol. Clearly the great Roberto’s communications system had failed for no word of Lerdo’s coming had reached Casa Almonte. However, Barrio made the best of a bad job. He faked news of a bandit raid and asked Lerdo to send his full company of Lancers to investigate. El Presidente agreed, with reservations, so all Barrio’s men and all but twenty Lancers went after the non-existent bandidos leaving Barrio to escort the coach. This would not be bad. Margarita had twenty men at least and the Gatling gun. They should be able to take Lerdo and his escort without trouble.
A startled oath ripped from one of the escort. Behind them the gates closed fast and men stood exposed, rifles in their hands. Other men came into sight at the right. The sentries on the wall had come to their feet, their rifles slanting down. To the left a stable door burst open and just inside, squat and evil looking, gleamed the fat brass cased five-barrel Gatling gun, a pair of Texas men standing behind, one with his hand upon the firing crank.
It was just as Barrio expected, with Margarita in command, things would be. A complete coverage of the men, holding them helpless.
Or was it?
The men behind the gates wore the dress of vaqueros and amongst them, alone not holding a carbine and with empty hands, a small, insignificant Texas cowhand. The other men did not seem to be any he had even seen before. The two Texans with the Gatling were not any of Chavez’s trio.
From above, on the balcony over the main doors, came the click of cocking rifles. Barrio looked up and saw his end. Don Francisco Almonte stood there, at his right a black dressed, babyishly innocent looking Texan and at the left Sanchez, each aiming a rifle straight at his chest.
‘Let no man move!’ barked Dusty Fog. ‘We mean no harm to el Presidente!
‘Greetings, Sebastian, old friend,’ called Almonte. ‘I make you welcome to my home.’
The courteous greeting as much as the threat of the weapons held the Lancers from trying to attack. They waited for their officer to give an order to charge. If it came each man would send his horse leaping forward, his lance lowered, to fight and die for el Presidente.
‘Sit fast, Lieutenant,’ Lerdo’s calm voice ordered. ‘We are in no danger.’
Suddenly the coach door burst open and a tall young man sprang down. He wore good clothes, though they were rumpled and carried more than a hint of voluntary dirt rather than such as might come whilst travelling. His long hair hung before his eyes, his sallow face worked with eagerness—or terror.
‘He is the one, señores,’ he yelled, pointing straight at Barrio. ‘I have suspected him for some time now. Kill him!’
A mocking smile played on Barrio’s lips as he swung from his horse. He measured the distance to his betrayer with a swordsman’s calculating eye and regretfully decided he could not reach with a thrust. His eyes went to the approaching men, to the small Texan—only suddenly he was small no longer, he seemed to have grown, put on a commanding presence which dominated the men around. In that moment Barrio knew who he faced.
‘You are Captain Fog?’ he asked.
‘I am. Drop the sword-belt.’
Now Barrio knew what he must do. No man of his family should end his life before a firing squad, or face down in the dirt of a trail, shot ley fuga. He ought to die with a blade in his hand, with the blood of his most noble enemy upon it. Captain Fog was such an enemy. A foe any man could be proud of. The only pity was they could not meet blade to blade, but probably the Texan had never used a sword and so would make a poor showing. In which case Barrio did not wish for an anti-climax. He must die and he would give Captain Fog the honor of dying facing him, a sword through his chest.
Reaching down both hands, Barrio unbuckled the belt. As if to steady and prevent it falling, his right hand gripped the hilt of the sword. By accident, it seemed, the sheath slipped down the blade.
Barrio brought his hand forward. The blade’s finest Toledo steel bent like a bow as it slid forth, then snapped erect and straight the moment it came clear. Out stamped his right foot, his right hand sent the blade in a perfect, classic thrust.
On the first move, Dusty’s left hand went across his body. The Colt just seemed to appear in the center of his body and roar. There was neither need nor time to aim for at that range he could not miss. The heavy bullet smashed into Barrio’s chest and flung him back a full pace on to his heels. Yet so close had it been that the sword’s point touched Dusty’s shirt before the impact of lead caused it to withdraw.
Once more Dusty Fog owed his life to the Colt Model P. That extra split second it carved from his draw had again stood between him and death.
He stepped forward, ignoring Lerdo and the other man who came from the coach, taking not a glance at the sallow face of Barrio’s betrayer.
‘Don’t listen to him!’ the thin man gasped. ‘It’s lies!’
The mocking smile twisted Barrio’s face as Dusty bent over him. He lay dying and he knew it.
‘We took an oath never to betray each other!’ Barrio gasped. ‘I’ll keep my part of it. My—my sword—where is it?’
‘It’s here,’ Dusty replied.
‘I—take it—Captain—I—want a man—to own it. My—my one—regret is we—could not—meet with—swords—but that would not have been f—fair—to you.’
A shudder welled through Barrio’s body, blood gushed from his mouth. He died without knowing that, had he asked, Dusty Fog would have met him with swords; or that the small Texan learned the art of fencing from a New Orleans master and managed to keep his hand in whilst on the OD Connected.
Straightening up, Dusty looked at the three men from the coach. The President of Mexico; the fat, pompous gray-haired man who might be aide, chief minister or merely just a friend; and the thin, sallow faced young man. One of them, unless he should be a Lancer, was the man to whom Margarita wrote her indiscreet letter.
Before he could ask his question the door of the house burst open and Margarita came from it. She must have broken out of the cupboard and her room, Dusty thought, although it was later discovered her maid heard her noise and let her out.
‘Roberto!’ she screamed, running forward to throw her arms round the neck of the sallow young man. ‘It is all finished, my darling, but at least we are together.’
Rage and hate twisted the sallow face. With an effort the man thrust her aside and swung his hand across her cheek. Then he staggered back before the accusing eyes.
‘No!’ he screamed. ‘No! She lies. I’ve never seen her before. She’s a French spy—I’ve—’
Even as Dusty moved forward, his hands cle
nched ready to smash the man down, two shots crashed out. He felt the wind of the bullets and saw Moreno stagger back and fall, blood running from a pair of holes where his eyes had been.
‘Pig!’ Margarita hissed, looking down at Moreno’s body as it twitched its last upon the floor. The Derringer she had kept concealed, for none of the men offered to search her, hung at her side. ‘I gave you my love. I would have died for you, I came to die with you, side by side, in each other’s arms. Now I know you only used me. You never loved anybody or anything but yourself.’
Dusty waved his hand, bringing Mark and Waco from the Gatling gun and they led the sobbing girl away.
The sun hung on the horizon as Dusty Fog, Mark Counter, the Ysabel Kid and Waco sat in Almonte’s study with the President of Mexico. His eyes went to each face in turn. Four young men, no different in appearance to thousands of Texans who rode the ranges working cattle, went to town with their pay and whooped things up. Yet these four had stopped what might have become a war with the United States, broke the power of a revolutionary army and saved el President's life. Sebastian Lerdo de Tejada had much to thank them for.
‘Señorita de Plonchet has made a full confession,’ he said. ‘She returned to Mexico meaning only to visit her father’s grave. In Mexico City she met Roberto Moreno—ah, that Moreno. I took him at the recommendation of his village priest and had him educated, paid his way through the Mexico National College. He was a brilliant student, a thinker, an intellectual. And like most of his kind he found the world of we lesser mortals to be wrong. So he tried to straighten it out. Only he found what his kind always find. That other people are satisfied with their lot and do not wish to change. Like all his kind he hated everyone with more than he had and despised those who had less.
‘He planned a similar coup earlier with a group of his kind but it failed because they lacked the courage with which to force it through and did not have trust in each other. He sought around and found Barrio and Margarita de Plonchet. He made love to the girl and twisted it to persuade her to help his plot. She gave thought to revenging her father and went along with the plan.’
‘Without her they wouldn’t have even got started, sir,’ Dusty put in. ‘That girl had the organizing ability and mind of a military tactician.’
‘Yes. It was she who found Barrio, who approached and negotiated with Marcus and who organized things. I heard vague rumors, of course, then the message from your Government told me the full plot. I suspected the brain behind it. So I brought Moreno along with me on a tour of ceremony. I think he believed he had tricked me into coming. These intellectuals are all the same and all make the same mistake. They think that nobody but they have intelligence enough to think, plan or draw conclusions. He did not know that the full regiment of Ranchero Lancers were never more than two hours’ ride behind us. Luckily Barrio did not see them when he met us and pretended to be searching for a large bandido band.’
‘You took a chance coming here though, sir,’ Mark said.
‘Perhaps, I suspected a trap and came to spring it. I’m afraid that had you not been here, Moreno would have died first. I had a gun hidden under my carriage robe. My men knew what to do. If they found I had been killed they were to lay siege to the house, rouse the hacienderos, bring artillery and wipe out the nest of revolutionaries.’
‘That would have taken time,’ Dusty remarked.
‘Not so long. By a strange coincidence I have a regiment of artillery not a day’s ride away. Their orders were to open fire whether I lay dead or stood upon the walls as a hostage.’
‘What about Margarita de Plonchet, sir?’ Dusty asked.
‘The firing squad is the answer for what she has done.’
‘I’d like her sparing, sir. Put her on a boat for Europe, I doubt if she will return.’
Lerdo nodded. ‘It will be done. Now, may I see these new model Colts you carry, I have heard much of them.’
He took the Model P Dusty held out, turning it over in his hand. ‘Such a small thing, yet it helped to keep the peace—between two mighty nations,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty replied, taking the revolver and returning it to the holster. ‘Colonel Colt’s guns have been doing that ever since he made the first at Paterson and put it out for sale.’
‘These new ones are the best yet,’ Mark went on. ‘It looks like Colonel Sam’s brought out another peacemaker.’
About the Author
J.T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson’s works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized “West That Never Was”, at a pace that rarely slackens.
The Floating Outfit Series by J. T. Edson
The Ysabel Kid
.44 Caliber Man
A Horse Called Mogollon
Goodnight’s Dream
From Hide and Horn
Set Texas Back on Her Feet
The Hide and Tallow Men
The Hooded Riders
Quiet Town
Trail Boss
Wagons to Backsight
Troubled Range
Sidewinder
Rangeland Hercules
McGraw’s Inheritance
The Half-Breed
White Indians
Texas Kidnappers
The Wildcats
The Bad Bunch
The Fast Gun
Cuchilo
A Town Called Yellowdog
Trigger Fast
The Trouble Busters
The Making of a Lawman
Decision for Dusty Fog
Cards and Colts
The Code of Dusty Fog
The Gentle Giant
Set A-Foot
The Law of the Gun
The Peacemakers
... And more to come every month!
THE FLOATING OUTFIT 33: THE PEACEMAKERS
By J. T. Edson
First published by Brown Watson Ltd in 1965
Copyright © 1965, 2019 by J. T. Edson
First Digital Edition: March 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
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More on J. T. EDSON
i Told in Comanche.
ii Told in Trigger Fast.
iii Told in The Fastest Gun in Texas.
iv Told in The Ysabel Kid.
v Grulla: mousy brown color like a sand-hill crane.