The Floating Outfit 12

by J. T. Edson

  Jaya ended the threat with a kiss, then said, “Mark never meant anything to me. Nor I to him. He acted as he did to make you jealous, so you would notice me as a woman.”

  For a moment Johnny did not reply. Although every muscle and fiber of his body ached, he could hardly see through his right eye and his nose felt twice its normal size, Johnny had never felt so happy in his life. Nothing else mattered except that Jaya loved him.

  “Reckon old Mark did just that,” he said.

  Then they were locked in each other’s arms once more and Johnny could hardly force himself to wait until they could find a preacher and get married. With any other girl he would not even have tried to resist.

  “Where’s Mark?” he asked, easing himself free from her arms.

  “I don’t know,” Jaya replied in a tone which implied she did not care either. “Oh Johnny, you’re hurt!”

  “I asked for it,” he grinned, getting to his feet and helping her rise, then feeling at the knot she had raised on his head with the shovel. “Don’t know as how I’d want to marry a gal that handy with a shovel—unless she knew how to dance in a HI bitty grass skirt.”

  “You wait until our marriage night,” she answered. “Then I will show you how the maidens really do it—where are you going?”

  “To find a preacher,” he grinned.

  “I help you,” she said eagerly, taking his hand.

  Instead of looking for a preacher, they walked to where

  Mark sat on the anvil in the forge. He turned towards them and showed simulated surprise when Johnny told him of the impending marriage.

  “I’d have never expected it,” he grinned.

  “We want you to be best man,” Jaya said, squeezing Johnny’s hand in a gentle warning that he had best agree.

  “Sure we do,” Johnny agreed whole-heartedly. “I know that’s the only part you ever want to play in a wedding ceremony.”

  “Do I get to kiss the bride without having a fight on my hands?” Mark asked.

  “That depends,” Johnny grinned.

  “On what?”

  “How long after the wedding it is when you kiss her.”

  Jaya looked from one man to the other. They were the first two men who had treated her decently, cared for her and showed her respect. She almost wished she had not been so free with the shovel head when they were fighting.

  A flash of light flickered up on the slope above them. Just a brief flick and then it disappeared. Mark only saw it from the corner of his eye, but his brain sent out a warning.

  “Duck it!” he yelled, shoving Jaya into Johnny and staggering them to one side.

  His move came only just in time. A bullet hissed down from the slope, but not from where Mark had seen the reflection of the sun on some part of a weapon. Even as the crack of the shot reached their ears, Johnny had Jaya in safety, between him and the wall of the forge.

  Two more shots, from different spots, came down. One struck the top of the anvil as Mark dropped behind it, then ripped off in the vicious whine of a ricochet. The other struck the top of the forge throwing brick chips into the air.

  “Wade! Johnny Wade!” yelled a voice. “You come on out here and take your needings.”

  “Who is it?” Mark asked, looking at the wagon in front of the house and wishing either he was there with his guns, or they were here with him.

  “Sounds like Big Tup,” Johnny replied. “Tilda-Mae’s oldest brother.”

  That figured, happen a man knew hill-folks and Mark reckoned he did. The girl had returned home with word of the affront to her person, and all her male kin took down their rifles to avenge her. Only it should be the head of the clan who did the talking.

  Watching the slope, Mark had three men spotted, the three who had fired at them. One lay up just on the rim, not far from where a dried-out water-course ran up the slope. The second appeared to be denned up between a couple of rocks out on the rim to the first’s right. From the flash and smoke, Mark figured the third man further to the right, down behind that big old chestnut tree. The speaker had been still further along.

  “How many are there in the family?” Mark asked.

  “Four boys and Tilda-Mae,” Johnny replied, feeling the girl’s warm body writhing at his side. “Their mammy died just after Tilda-Mae was born, pappy got killed hunting a silvertip grizzly a couple of years back.”

  “What do they want, Johnny?” Jaya asked.

  “Nothing much, honey,” he lied.

  “Wade!” yelled the voice again. “Talk up. Air ye ready to do the right by our lil Tilda-Mae gal?”

  “Come on down and talk it out, Tup!” Johnny called back.

  “There ain’t no talking out to do. You marry our lil sister, or we plant you out back of the house.”

  “Johnny,” Jaya said, looking up at him. “Did you ever tell the girl you would marry her?”

  “No, honey. Honest, I never did.”

  “That is all I wanted to know.”

  Saying that, Jaya pushed past him, wriggling free and darting across the forge. Johnny sprang forward, three bullets cut the air around him and he flattened down again. The girl ran out towards the slope and from it burst Tilda-Mae on the shaggy mountain scrub horse.

  Once more Johnny came to his feet, a fourth shot came down and ripped across his shoulder, tearing through flesh, but luckily not striking bone. The wound, on top of the fight he had fought, proved too much for Johnny and he dropped to the ground.

  Springing to his amigo’s side, Mark dragged him back into cover for another bullet sprayed dirt up between Johnny’s feet. Then Mark looked to see what Jaya was doing.

  Tilda-Mae had left her horse and stood before Jaya.

  “Please,” Jaya said. “I will leave, but you must promise not to harm Johnny or Mark.”

  “You’re going to leave, you little furrin slut!” Tilda-Mae replied. “But not ‘til I’ve done with you. I don’t take no furrin gal’s leavings.”

  And with that she lashed her hand around, the palm slapping across Jaya’s cheek. Jaya staggered back a few steps, caught her balance only to take another savage slap.

  “Dirty furrin whore!” Tilda-Mae hissed. “Don’t you have the guts to try and fight back?”

  Again her palm lashed out, straight into the grip of Jaya’s hands. Catching the other’s girl’s wrist, Jaya carried it up over her head, pivoting around under the arms, then bringing her hands down. Tilda-Mae howled, her feet left the ground and she thought the world had suddenly spun around. The thud with which she landed on her back jarred the wind out of her.

  Before Tilda-Mae could draw breath, she thought she had been jumped by a bobcat. Jaya sprang forward, landing on Tilda-Mae, hands lashing, clawing, tearing at hair, slapping, punching and gripping flesh. For a moment Jaya had it all her own way. Then Tilda-Mae caught her breath. The attack and throw had taken the hill-girl by surprise, now that surprise was wearing off, those hard little hands, ramming, squeezing legs and sharp teeth driving it away.

  Watching the girls roll over and over, Mark saw his chance. He glanced up the slope and saw the three men he had located earlier. They were all in plain sight now and yelling encouragement to their sister.

  Mark was reminded of the battle at Bearcat Annie’s saloon in Quiet Town, both by the wild savage way in which the girls went at it, and in the way the men up the slope stood watching. Maybe he could turn Jaya and Tilda-Mae’s brawl to his advantage as Dusty Fog used the fight between the three female deputies and the saloon girls to let him get his male deputies inside the saloon and take a bunch of gunmen without firing a shot.

  “You all right, Johnny?” he asked.

  “I’ll live!” Johnny replied weakly and thickly. “Go help Jaya afore Tilda-Mae kills her.”

  A glance at the girls showed Mark that Johnny’s fears were, if not groundless, at least not urgent. From the way Jaya went at it, they were on their feet now, she looked like she could take care of herself. Mark had not forgotten the different ways Jay
a had shown her strength, both at the store and since. She might be smaller and lighter than Tilda-Mae, but he would not say she was weaker or less able to take care of her end in the hair-yanking brawl.

  “She doesn’t need help. But you stay put here, or they’ll make wolf-bait of you. I’ll do what I can.”

  Turning, Mark slipped from the cover of the open-sided blacksmith’s forge building and darted across the open land. At any minute he expected to feel lead either slap by him, or drive into him. Yet none came and he lit down in the comparative safety of the mouth of the water-course.

  “Go at her, Tilda-Mae gal!” a voice screeched from above him.

  Looking upwards, Mark saw one of the brothers, a tall, gangling youth in a torn old shirt and bib-overalls. The youngster, for he seemed to be young, stood on the rim, waving his rifle over his head as he encouraged his sister.

  Mark started forward, keeping in the water-course and climbing up over the rocks on its bottom. Under other conditions this would have been a suicidal route, but happen the fight lasted long enough, and it showed no sign or sound of abating in fury, he might reach the top unseen by the youngster.

  “Yank her bald, sister!” howled the youngster.

  So engrossed had he become that he did not see the shape inching through the bushes toward him. Mark had reached the head of the slope and now crawled forward on his stomach, using every bit of cover he could find. His path brought him to a halt behind the young man and his hands reached out.

  The first sign the youngster had of his danger came when a pair of hands clamped hold of his ankles and heaved. Letting out a screech like a drunk Sioux Indian, the youngster landed

  on his face and felt himself being hauled down off the rim. His rifle had gone as he felt the hands grip him and he twisted around, fanning his right hand towards the butt of his bowie knife. Mark took aim and hit with all his skill. His fist caught the youngster’s jaw, snapped his head to one side and dropped him in a limp heap on the ground.

  Moving on, keeping to what cover he could find, Mark advanced towards the second brother, knowing this one would be harder to take. He looked maybe four or five years older than the one Mark had silenced. There seemed to be a hard, mean look about him and he cradled the Henry rifle with a negligent ease that did not deceive the big Texan. Give that feller half a chance and he would come spinning around with the rifle ready for use.

  Yet there was no way to move in on him from behind. A feller with his looks did not pick a place where he could be sneaked up on. He leaned against one of the rocks, a coonskin cap on his head and wearing dirty buckskins, right out in the open, clear of anything even an ant could hide behind.

  Bending, Mark took up a lump of rock about the size of a baseball. Then he started forward, hoping the girls kept the hillman’s attention for long enough to let him get in close.

  Mark took three steps, then the man glanced back. He must have been expecting one of his brothers, for he just glanced at Mark, then turned back towards the fight—and whirled around again. The rifle started to come from his arm. Mark whipped back his arm and hurled the rock. It shot forward and caught the man on the front of his coonskin cap. From the thud, Mark knew he had put the man out of mischief, but hoped not too permanently. Without a sound, the man crumpled up and flopped to the ground.

  Instantly Mark went back into cover. He thought he would be shot at, but the remaining brothers must have been too absorbed in what sounded like a humdinger of a fight to see what was happening on the rim.

  This proved to be the case with the third brother. In age he seemed to fit between the first and second. Leaning his back against the chestnut’s stout trunk, his rifle resting at his side, the third brother gave the girls his full attention, ignoring the possibility of an attack.

  A big hand came around the tree trunk and clamped on the brother’s shoulder. He let out a startled squawk, grabbed down at and missed his rifle, then shot around the trunk to catch Mark’s other fist full on the side of his head. He went down as if he had been boned.

  Which only left Big Tup, always provided the second man had not been he. There should only be the four of them. Mark reckoned Tilda-Mae’s honor would be strictly family business, so only the direct kin should be along.

  “You move nice, stranger,” a voice said.

  Mark halted, he had been moving towards a clump of bushes where he suspected Big Tup to be hiding. The man sat in front of the bushes, his rifle on his knees, not aiming at anything in particular. In size he equaled Mark and looked like he weighed maybe ten—fifteen pounds heavier. Given that he was fresh and fit, Mark could have taken Big Tup, maybe after a hard fight. In his present condition he doubted if he could.

  “Must have hill-blood in you,” Big Tup went on. “Didn’t hurt none of the boys bad, did you?”

  “Beaned the one with the Henry with a rock, maybe bust his head,” Mark replied, wondering if he could get in close and jump the other before he rose.

  “That’d be Lenny. Serve him right. He allows to know it all about hunting. The young ’uns all right?”

  “They’ll likely not feel like chewing raw beef for a couple of days.”

  “Happen you put ’em off their food, I should be thanking you,” Big Tup grunted. “Set a spell and let’s see how that fracas ’tween Tilda-Mae and the lil furrin gal comes out. Boys’ll be tolerable riled that you made ’em miss it. Ain’t seed a cat fight as good as this since Maw caught Paw with that medicine show gal one time.”

  Then Mark got it. The code of the hills, the code of the mountain men. Tilda-Mae brought her brothers to deal with Johnny, make him marry her, but when she went down and took Jaya on it made the matter personal between the two girls and the family would not intervene as long as nobody else did. Tilda-Mae must stand or fall alone. Mark could have saved himself some time—provided Jaya licked Tilda-Mae in the fight.

  “Reckon I’d best get down and see how Johnny is,” Mark said.

  “You ’n’ him been fussing?”

  “A mite.”

  “That boy must be able to fight, happen he stood up to a feller like you,” Big Tup said soberly. “Hope Tilda-Mae licks the furrin gal, we could use some good fighting blood like that in the clan. He hurt bad?”

  “Caught him a bullet in the shoulder just now.”

  “Land-sakes!” Big Tup grunted, coming to his feet. “Why’n’t you-all say so at first. Go on down to him. I’ll look to the boys, then come on down myself.”

  Mark did not know how far he could trust the big hill-man and so watched as Big Tup, moving faster than one might have expected of a man of his size, went to examine his brothers. He showed no great concern about any of their conditions and waved Mark down the slope.

  It must have been some fight if the girls’ appearance was anything to go by. Tilda-Mae had lost her shirt and her face carried marks. Jaya had come off better in the matter of clothes. Her skirt was torn from hem to hip and trailing behind her, her long hair in a dirty tangle, her face bruised and bloody.

  Even as the men reached the foot of the slope, Tilda-Mae fell against the corral rails, hung there and reeled forward. Jaya braced herself and kicked up. While visiting New Orleans, Mark had seen French savate fighters and was reminded of them in the way Jaya kicked, except that they wore shoes and used the toe while Jaya’s feet were bare and she kicked with the ball of her foot. The result was just as effective. Caught in the pit of the stomach, Tilda-Mae gave a scream and dropped to her knees. She landed on to Jaya’s other knee as the little girl leapt forward and brought it up. Coming erect again, Tilda-Mae went backwards, hit the corral rail and hung there, then her knees buckled up and she crashed forward on to her face. Reeling forward, Jaya fell against the corral fence and held herself up on it.

  With no more concern than he showed when looking at his brothers, Big Tup walked forward, bent and dug his hand into Tilda-Mae’s hair. He lifted the girl’s head from the ground, looking at the dirty, bruised features and glazed unseeing ey
es. Releasing Tilda-Mae, he let her flop to the ground once more and turned to look at Jaya who supported herself by the corral rail, gasping for breath, sobbing and trying to hold the ripped top of her dress together.

  “You whupped her fair ’n’ square, lil furrin gal,” Big Tup said. “She won’t bother you or your man again.”

  Bending, he lifted his sister and carried her to her horse, draping her face down over its back.

  At the same moment Johnny came up, limping and with his wounded arm hanging limply at his side. In his good hand, he held a Colt.

  “Let it lie, Johnny!” Mark snapped, stepping into his line of fire.

  “Look at what she did to Jaya!” Johnny growled, turning his eyes to the little girl who had sunk to her knees.

  “You should see what Jaya did to her,” Mark grinned. “Boy, when you’re all married off to her, you do what she says. That gal fights like Dusty, uses a lot of the same tricks.”

  At another time Johnny might have been interested to know of somebody who could use the fighting techniques so ably practiced by Dusty Fog. Right now his only interest was Jaya.

  Dropping the Colt, Johnny sprang to the girl’s side. She turned her face to his.

  “I—I would have gone away—rather than let them hurt you,” she said.

  With his good arm, Johnny lifted the girl to her feet and supported her as he headed her for the house. Mark turned to watch Big Tup leading the scrub horse and its burden up the hill and saw two of the brothers on their feet. The youngest turned and jumped to where his rifle lay, but Big Tup bellowed and waved a hand to Tilda-Mae. Lowering the rifle without lining it, the young man moved down to meet Big Tup and his sister.

  Picking up the Colt Johnny had dropped, Mark looked at it, then turned.

  “Hey, Johnny!” he called. “The next time you decide to throw a gun around in the dirt—do it with one of your own.”

  ~*~

  Mark looked at the other two occupants of the room and grinned as he sank stiffly into a chair at the breakfast table.

  “What’s so funny?” Johnny growled, limping up and taking his seat.

  “I was thinking what a sorry looking bunch we look,” Mark explained.