The Floating Outfit 45

by J. T. Edson

  She halted at Brownlow’s table, resting her hands on the top and looking straight at him. “I couldn’t raise a single man, Vance boy,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “I could have if that Iowa Parsons hadn’t followed me every place I went,” the woman went on angrily, her voice a Texas drawl under the anger.

  “Did he say or do anything to you?” Vance snapped angrily and started to thrust back his chair.

  “Nope, so pull in your horns. Parsons wouldn’t let you get in close enough to get one of those ju-jitsu holds on him.”

  “This here Iowa Parsons, ma’am,” put in Mark, still on his feet, as were the other two Texans, having risen when the woman approached, “they do tell he’s a good friend of that nice Mr. Rambeau we’re all so fond of and pleased to know.”

  To give the woman credit, she’d hardly noticed the three Texans in her annoyance. Now she studied them with eyes which knew cowhands in general and Texas cowhands in particular.

  “He does,” she snorted. “That fancy dressed, scent-smelling Arbuckle hires Parsons as his boss gun, and meaner, colder, back shooting Yankee sidewinder’d be hard to find, man or boss.”

  “Way you all get to talking, ma’am,” put in the Kid politely and mildly, “a man’d think you didn’t like neither of them.”

  “Don’t like them!” the woman’s voice rose a shade. “Don’t like them. I tell you all. I’d as soon have the Earps, the Republican Party or two skunks settle on me than them pair. Why they make old Carpetbag Davis’s dirty State Police look like good and honest Southern gentlemen.”

  Dusty smiled, a broad smile which was mirrored by the grins of his friends as they took their seats again. The woman was not English, that was for sure. She was as Texas as the Alamo, the Lone Star flag or any of the three young men from Ole Devil Hardin’s Rio Hondo outfit. There was no doubting the State she hailed from, not with that accent or her reference to ex-Governor Davis’s State Police, a force which had been brought to Texas to replace the Rangers after the War. The State Police had a career which varied from rank incompetence to extortion and robbery instead of one of crime prevention and the Police finally disbanded when Davis was forcibly tossed from office. They were a force for which the average Texan felt nothing but scorn.

  “You wouldn’t be from Texas, now would you, ma’am?” Dusty asked as he drew out a chair for her to sit down.

  “I surely didn’t know it showed,” she answered, taking the seat and looking at the men. “I’ve been trying to hide it since I married Vance. Anyways, that King Rambeau’d make a prissy Eastern schoolmarm cuss fit to throw her teeth.”

  The three men were then introduced to Mrs. Birdie Brownlow and Mark turned his attention back to Vance once more.

  “You never got around to telling us about your problem, Vance.”

  “There’s no trouble at all, much. I’ve got a herd of five hundred head, all prime beef. I want to bring them into Tombstone in time for the County Fair.”

  “Which same’s not much of a problem,” drawled the Kid. “Unless there’s some more to it.”

  “There is just a trifle more,” Vance agreed. “I was oversimplifying things a trifle. My place is ten days’ drive from here, on the other side of the Carne River, which has only one decent crossing we can use to get here on time.”

  “And there’s maybe half the Apache nation just sitting somewheres between our spread and Tombstone, licking their fat old lips and thinking how good that same herd’s going to smell and taste in their stewpot.”

  “Which same’d make a tolerable large stewpot, taking five hundred head at one go,” remarked the Kid.

  Birdie gave him a cold look and then ignored him. “Trouble being we daren’t weaken the ranch crew any to run the herd in,” she told the other two, “which’s why Vance and I came in a week back. Now Rambeau’s sent Parsons out to make sure we don’t get the men.”

  “Why’d he do that, ’cepting for meanness, ma’am?” asked the Kid.

  “The price of beef is rising every day. Just before the Fair starts that herd will bring in five—six times as much as it would normally. I know it, so does Rambeau. He came to see me the first day into town and offered to get me all the men I’d need for twenty-five per cent of the gross price of the herd,” Vance explained, sensing the others were becoming interested and feeling hope rise.

  “Which same’s a tolerable fair spread for a man who is running on nothing more than muscle, happen you didn’t know,” Birdie went on.

  “Do tell, ma’am,” drawled Mark. “I haven’t been around much.”

  “That I could tell one eyed,” she replied.

  “Anyway,” Vance spoke up, marveling, as he always did, at the casual and relaxed way in which his wife became friendly with cowhands, “I told Rambeau he’d the wrong chappie and that I declined his offer. Then his man, Iowa Parsons, started passing the word he’d kill any man who hired to me.”

  The Ysabel Kid was seated so he could see the window of the room and through it he saw three men pass by. He saw the shape of one of them at the door and a grin came to his face.

  “Do you reckon to be lucky, Vance?” he asked.

  Vance Brownlow looked at his wife and smiled. “I think I am.”

  “You’ve never been luckier than now,” drawled the Kid as the door opened.

  The three men who entered were Texas cowhands, top hands too, if the signs did not lie. In the center was a tall, slim, somehow military looking young man. There was an air of command about him, the look of a man used to giving orders. His clothing was functional cowhand rig, yet expensive, and around his waist was a gunbelt built for speed, with a low tied ivory handled Colt Cavalry Peacemaker in the holster. His face was handsome, or would have been but for the saber scar which twisted and marked his right cheek.

  The other two were cowhands, Texas cowhands at that. Their hats were thrust back and both were red heads, the taller’s hair a fiery thatch, the shorter’s a rusty mop. The taller was handsome, wide shouldered, lean waisted and tall as the Ysabel Kid. He wore a gunbelt and in the holster at his left side was a staghorn butted Army Colt, one of the old 1860 percussion fired models, but still in a fast draw holster with the tip tied down. The last of the trio was not as tall, he was cheerily good looking, stocky and his low hanging, plain handled Colt was no decoration, even though he did not have the look of a real fast man about him. He was laughing at something one of the others had said, when he came to a halt, the laugh died and a hard expression took its place as he looked towards Brownlow’s party.

  “Say, Johnny,” he said in a cold voice. “It’s that Rio Hondo varmint. We owe him some from last time. Don’t we?”

  “We sure do, Rusty,” replied the taller red head. “Let’s hand it to him now.”

  The two men moved forward, their friend standing at the door with a half-smile playing on his lips as he watched them bearing down on Dusty Fog.

  For his part, Dusty gave no sign other than to move back his chair so he was free from the table. The two cowhands were approaching, Johnny slightly ahead of Rusty. Then suddenly the taller man’s hand lashed out, folded in a fist, at Dusty’s head. It was a blow hard enough to drop an ox and would have knocked Dusty clear across the room had it landed.

  Dusty left his chair with the speed which had made his name a legend. His hands came up to trap the cowhand’s wrist as it whistled towards his head. Jerking the arm upwards over his head, Dusty pivoted and turned, bringing the arm down once more. Johnny had no choice but to go over; he gave a yell as his feet left the ground, then he lit down again flat on his back. Rusty let out a yell and tried to get around his friend and into the attack.

  Throwing back his chair, Vance started to come to his feet, wondering why Mark and the Kid were not offering to rise and help Dusty. He might also have wondered why two men wearing guns and so obviously able to use them, were fist fighting. Even before Vance could get round the table he was too late.

&nbs
p; The cowhand called Johnny lit down on his back. To make sure he did not rise, Dusty moved fast. He released the wrist with one hand, but the other still held the arm stretched out and his foot lifted to stab down with the high heel gouging into Johnny’s armpit in a painful manner. With Johnny out of action, Dusty was all set to deal with Rusty’s attack.

  Rusty’s fist drove out right into Dusty’s gripping hand. Dusty’s thumb bit down on the spot just below the joining of the first and second fingers, on the nerve centers, Rusty gave a squawking yell, his arm was twisted until he was turned and Dusty held it bent up his back. Then Dusty hooked his foot between Rusty’s leg and shoved him. Rusty gave a yell and went sprawling at the feet of the tall, scar-faced man. Looking down, the scar-faced man asked, “Don’t you ever learn?” Vance stood with his fists clenched, not knowing what was happening. He saw the Kid lean forward and look at the agonized face of Johnny and ask, “What you doing down there, Johnny?”

  The red head managed a grin. “I’m good now, Dusty. Get your foot off’n me.”

  Mother Handy had emerged from the kitchen with a broom gripped in both hands when she heard the noise, but she could see there was nothing worse than cowhand high spirits, for Dusty was helping Johnny to his feet and the other two men were coming forward with grins on their faces.

  “I sure figured we’d got you made there, Dusty,” Johnny remarked, rubbing his hip. “Which same only goes to show, now don’t it?”

  Vance Brownlow stood still on his feet as the three newcomers began noisy and cheery greetings, shaking hands with Dusty, Mark and the Kid, demanding to know about friends and not waiting for any answer. At last Vance could no longer restrain his curiosity.

  “Will somebody tell me what in the name of Sam Hill is going on?”

  Dusty took a seat, sliding along to make room for Rusty and Johnny, who were bringing chairs from another table. The talk died down and Dusty gave a laughing answer:

  “Vance, Birdie, meet Stone Hart, boss of the Wedge and two of his worthless hands, Johnny Raybold and Rusty Willis”

  “The Wedge?” Vance repeated as he looked at the scar faced young man whose name was spoken of as being one of the finest trail bosses alive. Then Vance remembered the Kid’s remark about being lucky and guessed what the words meant.

  “I’ll take two of your specials, ma’am,” said Johnny Raybold, the Wedge’s scout, as Mother Handy came alongside them.

  “How about your friends?” she answered.

  “They’d be tougher than old leather to eat,” Johnny drawled. “I’ll just take two specials and apple pie to follow.”

  “Two is it?” yelped Mother Handy indignantly. “No man living can eat two of my specials hand-sitting.”

  “You wouldn’t want to bet on that, would you, ma’am?” asked Rusty Willis eagerly.

  “That I would not. But I’ll make this agreement with you. If he eats the two specials I’ll give him them free. If he doesn’t I’ll bend my broom over his head.”

  “She’ll do it too, Johnny,” warned Birdie.

  “I’ll just bet she will at that, ma’am,” answered Johnny without sounding unduly worried. “Do I get the pie free to follow?”

  The old woman gave Johnny a long stare of amazement, snorted and headed for the kitchen to make sure her always well-filled plates were piled up extra high to teach the redheaded upstart a lesson he’d never forget.

  “You’re a mite off your home range, Stone,” the Kid drawled as they finished their meals and waited for Johnny to wade through his.

  “Sure. We were offered a herd to drive for an outfit near hear. The Clantons. So I brought the boys along and came down here. We should have been back in town for the Fair, old Chow’s entered his chuck wagon for the race. Anyway, I decided not to take the herd on.”

  “Wouldn’t want to be out ’n’ out nosy,” drawled the Kid, “and ask why—why?”

  “Their earmark’s what’d be called a grub on the near and a sharp on the off. Then for brands they kind of go in for variety. Mexican maps and greaser madhouses and all from different herds. With that kind of a herd a man’s likely to wind up wearing a hemp bandanna at the cottonwood hoedown.”

  Stone Hart did not need to explain the words to the others. Grub and sharp earmarks were rarely used on cattle. They were special ways of cutting an animal’s ear, brutal and cruel, but little used in the normal line of cattle business. The grub was made by cutting both an under and over slope and left little of an ear to the animal. The sharp was done by cropping the ear to a short point, like that of a boxer dog. Both the earmarks had merit only to a man who wanted to remove the traces of previous and more legitimate earmarks from his cattle. Mexican maps and greaser madhouses were the terms given to the large and complicated brands the ranchers south of the border used on their herds. The Clantons’ herd consisted of cattle branded with a variety of such brands, pointing that they came from different herds and were most likely stolen. For a man to be caught driving a stolen herd could bring him a hemp bandanna at a cottonwood hoe-down, or in plain and unvarnished English, to a hanging as guest of honor.

  “Those Clantons will go too far one of these days,” Vance remarked.

  “You’re not riding with anybody then, Stone?” Birdie put in eagerly. She was more concerned with getting their herd to Tombstone than with the possible end of the Clantons.

  “No, ma’am, we’re not.”

  For an instant Birdie was startled by the brusque way Stone replied and the way he did not, had not since he sat at the table, looked straight at her. She felt annoyed for a moment, then the annoyance died away. Stone Hart was seated so the unscarred side of his face was towards her. It was a handsome face and the scar was not as bad as he apparently thought. She realized that he must feel bitterly about it and would have liked to tell him that it was not so bad as he imagined, but common sense held her tongue. She knew he would resent bitterly any words about hi's disfigurement from a stranger.

  “Would you care to handle a drive for me, old chap?” Vance asked, catching on to his wife’s idea. “A small herd, five hundred heads A hundred miles or so to town and a few hundred Apaches waiting to stop us. I’ll pay double the normal rate if you will.”

  “Pay us the normal rate,” Stone answered with a grin. “I’m no Yankee to gouge a man when he’s in a tight. Are you riding, Dusty?”

  “I’m here for Uncle Devil, doing something for Texas John,” Dusty replied. “I’d sure like to ride with you, amigo, but I’ll have to see how he wants things playing first.”

  “How about you, Kid?” Stone went on, turning to the Kid. “Johnny’s a fair scout, but he’s always worked against Northern Indians and not against Apaches. I could use an extra scout.”

  “I’ll ride if Dusty can spare me,” replied the Kid. The thought of Apaches and danger never troubled him. He hoped to get a chance to ride with his good friends of the Wedge once more.

  “Let’s leave her lie on how Texas John wants us, Lon,” Dusty suggested. “If you get a full crew, Stone, and we’re free, we’ll come along for the ride.”

  “Where’s Doc and Waggles and the rest of the crew, Stone?” Mark asked.

  “Made camp on a stream outside town. They allow it’ll be cheaper than buying a hotel room.”

  “We’ll go out there if you like,” Vance suggested. “As soon as Johnny finishes eating. You’re the trail boss, Stone. I’ll take you out to my ranch, then lend a hand on the way in. Birdie won’t stay in town now, or back at the ranch, so she can lend the cook a hand.”

  There were startled expressions on the faces of the Texas men as they looked at Vance. He wondered what he’d said to bring about such a change in them. He was soon to learn that Stone Hart’s old cook, Chow Willicka, lived by two beliefs. The first was that no woman ever born, even his own mother, knew how to cook. The other belief was that women’s cooking would plumb soon ruin a man’s innards.

  Birdie did not need to be told this, she’d heard cowhands talk of Chow Wi
llicka, who was acknowledged a master of his trade. She knew his beliefs and decided to place a dainty and ladylike foot on them right now from the start.

  “You can just set in and tell that fool old chow-spoiler he’s going to have him a real-live female lady louse helping him on this trip,” she warned Stone. “And if he objects or gives me sass I’ll ram his biggest skillet so hard on to his head that his corns’ll be pushed out of his boot soles.”

  The men all chuckled at the spirited words. They could see there would be stirring times around the camp fires on the drive when Chow Willicka and Birdie locked horns. The Kid was hoping they would be given a chance to ride with the Wedge if only to see the fun.

  “How many will you need, Stone?” Vance asked.

  “Normally I’d take a herd that size with just my regular crew, but with the Apaches out I’d like to take on a few, say four or five more riders. If that suits you.”

  “My dear chap, you’re the boss. I’m just curious and interested,” Vance replied and looked for Mother Handy, waving for the bill to be brought.

  The old woman came to the table and found that Johnny’s two plates were empty and that he was just finishing the last of the enormous slab of apple pie. He hardly showed any sign of consuming a meal which would have foundered many a man.

  “I don’t believe it,” she gasped. “I just don’t believe it. That boy must be all stomach, clean down to his feet.”

  The others all laughed, although the Texans were far from surprised at Johnny and his capacity for putting away food. Mother Handy joined the many other cooks who noted Johnny’s trim figure and thought they could out feed him. It was a thought which had saved Johnny more than a few dollars in eating houses from Texas to Kansas along the cattle trails.