The Floating Outfit 45

by J. T. Edson

  There was a light-hearted and happy-go-lucky air about the camp. They were past the most serious danger now, or would be by nightfall tomorrow. Birdie went to the bed wagon and collected a towel, some soap and a change of clothing. She also dug out her husband’s razor and clean clothes, strolled over to him and remarked:

  “You look like you’ve spent a week in a hawg-pen. There’s all that clean water down there, let’s go try some of it.”

  Birdie and Vance were away a long time. They walked back towards the camp, passing several of the trail crew who were headed upstream to wash the dirt and dust from them. Vance had his good arm around his wife. She smiled up at him.

  “Vance honey,” she said gently. “Wouldn’t it be funny if our first baby got his start on the banks of the Carne River?” Vance chuckled and squeezed Birdie. “I think it would, anyway, I hope it’s a girl.”

  She looked the cowhands over on their return, remarking they all looked like strangers. This brought Chow in with a growl about them being all right until they had to eat woman’s fixings and the feud was started afresh.

  Laughing in delight because she’d put one over that Chow couldn’t top, Birdie walked away before he could find an answer. She found Doc Leroy sitting on the edge of the bed wagon and joined him. Doc’s long, slim and almost boneless looking hands were busy, rolling some cloth to form a bandage.

  “Is Vance’s shoulder going to be all right?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Doc replied.

  “Where’d you meet up with Dusty first?” she went on, talking because she was too happy and excited to think of sleep.

  “Up to Quiet Town, in Montana just after the war. We ran the law there under him. He taught me there’s a whole lot more to wearing a badge than hauling a drunk to jail and settling back to take a cut of the fine.”

  “Is he fast?”

  “He’s faster than fast and twice as accurate,” Doc replied. “Mark’s real fast too. They’ve got a boy rides with them now, he bust his arm and couldn’t come with them on this. His name’s Waco and he’s near on as fast as either of them.” Doc chuckled. “I bet young Waco near turned the air blue when he heard he couldn’t come. That boy’d walk into a gun, knowing he was going to get killed, if Dusty told him to.”

  “Dusty’s only a small man, I suppose,” Birdie remarked thoughtfully. “It’s a funny thing though. I can never think of him as being small.”

  “Neither can I. He stands a full seventeen hands high from where I ride. Put me a choice between him and Stone—well I surely wouldn’t want to make a choice.”

  Birdie sat back. “You handle doctoring real well.”

  “Sure,” Doc answered. “I read medicine for a time. Then my folks were killed in an Indian raid and I lost a brother on one of the early drives with Stone. I was just on eighteen when I left it. I’ve learned all I could, read books, talked to doctors. One day I’ll maybe get a chance and go back to medical school and really be able to put M.D. after my name.”

  That day came, but it was not for four years and by that time much had changed in the hectic life of Doc Leroy.

  Birdie climbed down from the wagon and headed back to her husband. She thought of the men who rode their herd. In the few days she’d come to know them all probably better than she knew her own ranch crew. They were a varied bunch, each man a rugged individualist in his own right, yet they formed a good team, even the new hands taken on in Tombstone just for the drive. The regular Wedge crew were loyal to each other and to their boss. Yet she also felt that a good part of their admiration and loyalty was also given to that small, soft talking, fast moving man from the Rio Hondo, the man called Dusty Fog.

  “We’re through the worst of it now, aren’t we?” she asked squatting cowhand style on her haunches by her husband, Dusty and Stone.

  “Just about,” Stone replied.

  “I still think we’ll have to watch ourselves at that draw near Tombstone,” Dusty warned. “That’ll be Rambeau’s first, last and best chance to hit at us.”

  Eleven – Orders From the Syndicate

  King Rambeau stamped into the King Saloon in no mood to make conversation or even think of returning the greetings of the bartender who handed him a small and unopened package. It was four days after the death of Iowa Parsons and he was returning from a very unpleasant interview with a leading member of the Syndicate who had come by fast coach from Tucson.

  The inquest on Iowa Parsons was long over and the verdict had been brought in ‘Died of a case of slow’, a verdict which had been used more than once on the victims of the killer.

  “A kid brought this in while you was out, boss,” remarked the bartender.

  Rambeau did not need to ask or even think what was in the parcel. It contained the most expensive bracelet he could buy in Tombstone and had been delivered with a note suggesting a meeting, to Cindy Alban. The girl had not even opened the package and the note, torn into pieces, was found inside the envelope, which was stuck to the back.

  At any other time this might have driven Rambeau into a rage but not with the worries he had on his mind. The Syndicate man had been brief, brutally brief. Iowa Parsons had been sent to Tombstone to handle trouble at the saloon and the Syndicate wanted to know how he came to be killed. There was no lying or arguing either, the man knew about Rambeau’s manipulations, knew that Parsons was breaking one of their strictest rules when he sat in a game which did not concern him.

  Stamping up the stairs and opening his room door, Rambeau still could hear the man’s cold, impersonal voice:

  “You started this game, Rambeau. Now you’ve got to finish it. The word’s all through the Territory that a Syndicate man started in to take over a herd and folks are waiting to see how it goes. You’ve got to handle that herd, get it one way or another.”

  To Rambeau’s request for more guns the man merely pointed out that there were any amount of men around Tombstone who would be pleased to hire out their skill with a Colt. Not another man would the Syndicate send. They’d lost one of their best and nothing was worse for their kind of business than to have it known their guns were capable of being beaten.

  So it all fell on Rambeau. He must succeed or—well, the Syndicate had no use for living failures at whom men who lived under Syndicate inspired terror might point a finger and gain courage by.

  “Forget that actress and concentrate on the herd,” the Syndicate man had said before dismissing Rambeau with a casual wave of his hand. “You’ve too much on now to become involved with the likes of her. You can’t afford to buy her fancy bracelets. The men you hire to take that herd are going to come out of your end.”

  That was the first time, although he’d suspected it all along, that Rambeau was sure he was being watched by spies for the Syndicate. He found himself wondering who they might be; the bartender? possibly; any of the dealers. It could be any of the people he employed. Or it might be anyone, for the Syndicate was a large organization with members in all walks of life.

  On the table in Rambeau’s room was a carpet-bag. He glanced at the bag, not knowing what it was, then realizing it would be Iowa Parsons’ belongings, released to his ownership. He did not know if there was anyone who might want the killer’s belongings and was about to sweep the bag to the floor when he realized that Parsons was a frugal man who never spent money if he could help it. The man was one of the best paid guns of the Syndicate and his fees for killing ran to four figures. He might have banked his money, if so there could be a clue to where the money was. Rambeau needed money, for his share of the profits would hardly cover what he would need to pay out to get the herd.

  Tipping the bag upside down over his bed Rambeau allowed the contents to fall out. There was little enough, a change of underclothing, a new shirt, two boxes of bullets, one for the .45 Colt revolver, the other .41 Remington rimfire loads, and a wooden box.

  Rambeau was about to sweep the articles back into the bag and toss it out of the room when a thought struck him. He lifted up the box
and opened the lid, hoping to find some hint as to where Parsons stashed his money. Inside was nothing of the kind. The box contained only two things. One was a Remington double derringer, the weapon the second box of bullets would be used for. The other object appeared to be a type of card hold-out machine. Rambeau knew something of card hold-outs, they were made to be strapped to the wrist and by an arrangement of springs would catapult the held-out cards into the palm. Rambeau ignored the hold-out for a moment, then a thought struck him. Parsons would never risk any of his money on gambling, in fact, never played any gambling games and so would have no need for the hold-out.

  It was then that Rambeau saw the clip, instead of the usual shape, being wide enough to hold the desired playing cards, was made in the shape of a U, just large enough to grip the barrels of that derringer.

  Quickly Rambeau removed his coat and dropped it on to the bed, then turned up the cuff on his right shirt sleeve and fixed on the straps of the hold-out. He took up the derringer and clipped it into the restraining U. Then he opened his wardrobe door and faced the full length mirror. Pressing his arm against his side he saw the derringer jerk forward. It did not quite reach his palm so he adjusted the hold-out lower. This time the squat little weapon came correctly into his palm. It arrived in a split second and he brought it up and lined. That was fast, almost as fast as the way that small Texan drew his guns.

  Turning down the shirt sleeve after setting the gun again Rambeau donned his jacket and then tried the hold-out. There was no pause as the derringer flashed into his hand and lined again. That was just what he needed, a secret, hidden weapon which could be produced with the speed that these fast men drew their Colts.

  Going down the stairs once more Rambeau halted and looked around. Two of his men lounged at the bar, the two who had been with him earlier that week when he tried in the barber’s shop to force Vance Brownlow to his will. They caught their boss’s nod and came forward, falling in behind him like courtiers following their liege lord. Where he was going they did not know, what he was going to do was not yet explained to them, but they followed him.

  Cindy Alban and Miles Hamish followed their usual route from the boarding house in the respectable part of Tombstone to the theater, where they were due to rehearse their new play. They had to pass through one of the rougher sections of town to reach the theater but so far had met with nothing but friendly nods and politeness.

  In the few days since her arrival Cindy had become well known in Tombstone and well liked. Her songs, her pathetic actions as the poor, down-trodden heroine of some tear-jerking drama, met with almost universal approval. She brought with her a nostalgic note of home, the comfort of a good woman, to men who saw little of female company and less of good women. Of all the men of the town only King Rambeau showed any sign of having designs on her virtue. He was the type of villain which nightly met his well-deserved fate at the hands of the handsome hero, Cindy mused, although he was by far more dangerous, for his threat was real.

  “I was always taught never to escort the same lady twice running,” Miles Hamish remarked with a smile at the girl. “‘This makes the fourth day, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” she answered. “You’ll be having me think it is something serious soon, Miles?”

  “Don’t you think it is?”

  Cindy was about to make a reply when she saw the three men who came from a side street and stood blocking the sidewalk. Her fingers bit into Hamish’s arm. “Miles, look! It’s Rambeau.”

  Hamish looked forward, saw the way the men stood and knew there was likely to be trouble. The young actor was neither a coward nor a rash fool. He could handle himself in a rough-house brawl but he knew he would have no chance against three men. He also knew Rambeau meant to force his attentions on the girl and could not stand by watching it.

  “Hello, songbird,” Rambeau said, nodding as the man and girl approached. “I sent you a letter and present.”

  “Which I returned to you,” Cindy answered. “I’m not interested in you or your presents, now I’d like to come past, please.”

  “Is that so?” Rambeau sneered, then his eyes went to Hamish. “You’re not saying much, play-actor. Maybe you’re not so much of a hero off the stage.”

  “Send your two men away and we’ll see about it.” Rambeau grinned. “Hear that, boys. The play-actor’s getting all uppish. He needs taking down some, doesn’t he?”

  “We could handle him I reckon, boss,” said the taller man, a tough, who was known by the name of Dutchy Schwarz in Tombstone.

  “You know, I reckon we could,” Rambeau agreed. “Let’s see.”

  Hamish pushed Cindy aside and the girl moved clear, having more sense than get in his way when he would need every chance to move freely. Her eyes went to the three men as they moved towards Hamish. She thought of running for help, but knew that before she could get to the theater and bring back Joe Raymond and a couple of stagehands it would be too late. Miles Hamish would be battered into a bloody wreck and never able to play a hero again.

  “Three to one. Now that’s what I call good odds.”

  The words were spoken from an alley nearby and brought the attention of the entire group to it. Standing with one shoulder resting against the wall was a thin, sallow man in gambler’s dress but with the butt of a ten gauge shot pistol showing from under the left side of his coat, where it was held in a shoulder clip.

  The three men halted their advance. They froze like rabbits when faced by a weasel and the description was very apt for that thin man was Doc Holliday and his reputation built him to be every bit as wild and dangerous as any weasel.

  “Are you cutting in, Holliday?” Rambeau asked.

  “Now that’s a good question,” came the mocking reply. “Make your play and find out, one way or the other.”

  Rambeau felt scared and could almost feel the fear in his men. They might chance stacking against Doc Holliday in a pinch, or when primed for it by bottled brave-maker. They were neither primed, nor fighting drunk right now and they were not willing to match shots with Holliday. He was a dying man, they knew that, his life meant nothing to him, or so rumor had it. A man did not stack against someone who was not worried if he lived or died, without great provocation, or great risk. There was another thing stopping those hired guns. The shot pistol Holliday carried had only two barrels but each barrel carried a deadly nine-buckshot charge which would tear a man in half at close range. He would certainly get one of them, possibly both. If a survivor killed Holliday he would be no better case for he would have the Earp brothers hunting him to avenge the killing of their friend.

  “Reckon you boys have business some other place, haven’t you?” Holliday asked coldly, his eyes flickering to the two gunmen.

  The two men licked their lips and glanced nervously at their boss. For a moment Rambeau thought of using his wrist holstered derringer, then a nagging doubt hit him. He was far from the East and in New York the gangster’s weapons were his hands, feet, a club, a knife, or a set of Tammany mittens, as knuckledusters were called. The gun had little or no use in the work of the New York crook and Rambeau was such a man. He had made the incredible blunder of not checking to see if the derringer was loaded. If he started to draw and the weapon was empty he would be dead before he even knew it, for there would be no hesitation in the way Holliday acted.

  “Clear the sidewalk, all of you.”

  There was no mild request in Holliday’s words. It was an order and one which only a roaring Colt could refuse to obey.

  “Do you want to hold his men off my back, Doc?” Hamish inquired, for he knew Holliday, having been introduced at a party given in the show’s honor by a prominent Law and Order Party member.

  “I’m doing it for the young lady, not for you, Hamish,” Holliday answered. “I reckon a fist fight might be amusing, but she doesn’t want her hero with his face all marked up.”

  “Please, Miles,” gasped Cindy urgently, gripping the actor’s arm once more.


  Hamish wanted to stay behind and try conclusions with Rambeau, to prove to the girl that he could handle things off-stage as well as on. Yet he knew that Rambeau would go all out to damage his face and he did have the show to consider. Without Hamish to play the hero roles Madame Paula would be in trouble. Regretfully, dealing with Rambeau must be postponed until some later date.

  Rambeau and his men cleared the sidewalk and Cindy took Hamish’s arm, forcing him by the other men. Holliday stood as he had all the time, his sallow face showing nothing of what he thought.

  “The actor might find himself a shy girl one of these days,” Rambeau snarled, watching the man and girl walk away.

  Holliday’s lips drew back in a cold smile like the death’s head grin as his talon-like right hand lifted towards the butt of his shot pistol and for a moment Rambeau thought he’d gone too far.

  “You’ve got a yeller streak, King!” purred Holliday, his eyes catching the fear which flickered across the saloon keeper’s face. “Now listen to me, and listen real good. If anything happens to that girl, or the actor, I’ll kill you on sight. Just remember, anything at all. You can take my word on it.”

  Rambeau looked at the thin face and read death on it. Any attempt at revenge on either the girl or the actor would have to wait now. Holliday was a strange man and might easily forget the stand he’d taken in a few days’ time.

  For all that, in the days which followed, Rambeau found a cooling air in the way the Earps acted towards him. No longer was his saloon on their list of places to stop for drinks. There was a different air around the town too, the men who had backed away from Rambeau as a Syndicate man now grew bold again.

  There was another problem facing Rambeau. He could not get men to handle the stealing of the herd. The hired guns who hung around Tombstone grew evasive or even disdainful when he asked them. Those hired fighting men knew the reputation of the Wedge trail crew and more, they knew the reputation of the three men from the Rio Hondo country who rode with the cattle.