The Hide and Tallow Men (A Floating Outfit Western. Book 7)

by J. T. Edson

  When the captain had first learned of the agreement on the ownership of the Company, he had realized what it meant to his ambitions. He would have to dispose of the four male partners, leaving Marlene as the sole surviving owner. With that in mind, providing his own life would not have been endangered, he would not have been averse to the gang starting to shoot. De Froissart would almost certainly have been killed. However, if Mark Counter accepted the outlaw’s offer, that would not happen.

  Even as Dolman reached his conclusions, he noticed that he was no longer being watched by any of the outlaws. In fact, although the trio was still covering de Froissart, none of them was taking any notice of Dolman. They were dividing their attention between the Creole and Mark Counter, who was standing on the right side of the trail and some distance beyond the table.

  Moving his right hand very slowly, Dolman lowered it towards the rosewood butt of the Navy Colt in his ‘clamshell’ holster. Hardly daring to breath, in case doing so might draw unwanted attention his way, he completed the movement without being seen or challenged.

  Studying the nervous tension being displayed by the five outlaws who were nearest to the table, the captain could imagine how the remainder would react if he fired at one of them. Like rats in a trap, they would start to fight back. If good luck favored Dolman, Mark Counter would be killed as a bonus to de Froissart.

  Dolman realized that to start shooting would involve a certain risk to himself. However, he considered that he had one thing in his favor. Having opened fire, he would be ready to avoid the consequences. Unfortunately, he could see that the same would not apply to Marlene. There was no way in which he could warn her of his intentions. She would, he concluded sourly as he thought of how she had treated him since meeting Mark Counter, have to take her chance. If the worst happened, he could always use Gianna Profaci—with whom he was also on excellent terms—as the means to attaining his end. If anything, the Italian woman would be easier to handle.

  Having decided what to do, Dolman waited to hear how the blond giant would respond to the lanky outlaw’s offer. Once he knew that, he could make his move accordingly.

  ‘I’ll go along with you on that,’ Mark declared, knowing a refusal might cause the gang to panic and start throwing lead.

  ‘How’s it stand with you, mister?’ Widge asked, remembering what he had been told about the Creole’s ability as a fighting man and looking at him.

  ‘I’ve no intention of trying to stop you leaving,’ de Froissart stated, relaxing.

  Although the Creole’s voice showed his relief, Dolman had found a new source of anxiety. If the gang’s leader looked at him, the position of his right hand would be a warning of his intentions. He wondered if he should remove it and forget what he had hoped to do. Before the captain reached a decision, Mark spoke and prevented any of the outlaws from looking at him.

  ‘Back off real slow and easy,’ the big blond ordered, wanting to see the men on their way before anything could go wrong. ‘And keep the barrels of your guns pointing at the ground.’

  ‘Do like the gent says, boys,’ Widge advised, accepting that Mark was taking a reasonable precaution. While offering the people at the table a measure of protection against treachery, it would not leave the gang defenseless. ‘They’ll play square.’

  Listening to the arrangements, Dolman wondered if he should allow the men to start carrying out Mark’s instructions before making his move. To do so might reduce the danger to himself, but it would also improve de Froissart’s chances of survival. Not only that, none of the outlaws were looking at him. Their attention was directed mainly upon the big blond. There would be more chance of somebody noticing what he was doing as they were backing away.

  Having drawn his conclusions, Dolman stabbed his forefinger through the Colt’s trigger guard and on to the holster’s switch. Instantly, the mechanism operated and set the revolver free. Tilting the seven and a half inch long barrel upwards, he cocked the action with his thumb.

  Hearing the familiar triple clicking sound, Dirk became aware that all was far from being well. Yet he could not believe that he was in danger. In addition to having decided that Dolman was a harmless dude, he had felt sure the other could not draw a revolver without having to rise, or otherwise making his intentions obvious.

  What the outlaw did not know, never having seen one, was the advantage a ‘clamshell’ had over practically every other type of butt-to-the-rear holster. The weapon could be extracted from it just as easily and swiftly when its user was seated as would be possible when he was standing.

  To add to Dirk’s alarm and consternation, he found that his revolver was no longer pointing at the ‘dude’. Before he could rectify the situation, there was a sharp crack and smoke belched from the muzzle of Dolman’s Colt. The captain had taken the extra split second to make sure of his aim and his bullet struck the outlaw between the eyes. Dirk was jolted backwards and killed instantly. Although his forefinger tightened spasmodically on the trigger, the bullet flew harmlessly into the air as he fell.

  Having removed the most immediate threat to himself, Dolman dived sideways and down. Even as he started to disappear under the coach, he heard startled exclamations. These were echoed almost immediately by the crash of detonating black powder, but none of the bullets came his way. He hoped that the sounds meant de Froissart was a victim and wondered briefly how Marlene was faring. Not that he tried to look and find out. He was too busy, wriggling rapidly beneath the vehicle.

  Realizing what Dolman’s action would cause to happen, de Froissart grabbed for his sword-cane and tried to rise. By doing so, he ensured that the outlaws’ attention would be drawn his way. Although they had been on the point of withdrawing, Widge and the man on either side of him responded as the captain had predicted. Spitting out curses, they fired their weapons practically in unison. By pure chance, rather than accurate aim, none of the heavy caliber bullets missed their mark. Hurled backwards with three holes in his chest, de Froissart was dead before his body struck the ground.

  For her part, Marlene had already decided what she would try to do if there was any trouble. However, like de Froissart, she had believed that Mark had ended the matter without it. Although she had caught Dolman’s surreptitious movements from the corner of her eye, the idea that he might be contemplating drawing and shooting had not occurred to her. She had thought that he was merely taking a precaution, perhaps an ill-advised one, against treachery by the outlaws.

  Then she had seen the Colt lifting into alignment!

  Momentarily, Marlene had still not believed that Dolman would fire. To do so would ruin all hope of the outlaws departing peacefully and put her party’s lives in deadly peril.

  While the shot caught Marlene unprepared, she recovered quickly and showed remarkable presence of mind. Even as de Froissart was killed, she jumped to her feet. Sending her chair flying and overturning the table, she spun around and flung herself towards the rear end of the coach. Instantly, the man who had been keeping the Negroes under observation started to swing the barrel of his revolver in her direction.

  Once safely underneath the coach, Dolman crawled rapidly to the other side. The thunder of guns continued, but still nobody was firing at him. Emerging, he rose and looked at his Colt. Not that he intended to take any further part in the fighting at that moment. He meant to let Mark Counter bear the brunt of the outlaws’ attack and finish off the survivors after they had disposed of the big youngster. With that thought in mind, he returned the revolver and closed the flap of the holster. Then he looked to where his Henry rifle was in the boot of his McClellan saddle. That would be a more suitable weapon for what he had in mind.

  Up until the moment that Dolman had fired, Mark was confident that he had brought about a satisfactory settlement. Taken by surprise, he was unable to save de Froissart. Noticing the man who was attempting to draw a bead on Marlene, he changed his point of aim from Widge. He sighted and fired just as the man was starting to squeeze the trigger. Ente
ring the outlaw’s throat, the flat-nosed .44 bullet broke his neck. It spun him around and caused his own lead to fly by the woman. Then she passed around the end of the coach and Mark knew that she would be safe for the time being. His own position was far less secure and was growing more dangerous by the second.

  ‘Rush the big bastard!’ Widge screeched, knowing that there was no chance of them reaching the horses while covered by the blond youngster’s repeating rifle. ‘He can’t down us all.’

  Accepting their leader’s advice, the remaining pair of dismounted outlaws started to run forward. They fired as they advanced and, although running was not conducive to accuracy, lead screamed by Mark’s head. Satisfied that Marlene was temporarily out of danger, he turned his attention to protecting himself.

  Without the need for conscious guidance, Mark’s right hand had already pivoted the Winchester’s lever through its reloading cycle. Showing no sign of being frightened, or even flustered by the near misses, he lined his sights on Widge. He was counting on Dolman, who had started the affair, to help out with the other members of the gang.

  What the big blond did not realize was that Dolman had no intention of shooting until after he had been killed by the outlaws.

  Five – You Might Have Got Me Killed!

  Although Widge’s companions had dashed forward on his orders, he did not go with them. Conscious of the blond giant’s rifle swinging in his direction, he allowed them to advance and weaved behind the man at his right. Remembering what had happened to Dirk, he guessed that the ‘dude’ might prove more dangerous than they had expected. In which case, the attack was doomed to failure. With that in mind, he turned towards the waiting horses. They were showing their alarm at the disturbance by snorting and swinging away, but Dog-Ear had managed to grab hold of the reins of Widge’s mount so as to prevent it from bolting.

  With his rifle’s sights seeking out Widge, Mark Counter saw him disappear behind the outlaw nearest to the coach’s side of the trail. Expecting Dolman to appear and continue what he had so recklessly—as Mark thought—started, the youngster gave his attention to the other member of the gang. Running faster than his companion, he was rapidly approaching a distance at which he might be expected to make a hit with his revolver. Keeping the barrel moving until it was aiming in the required direction, Mark tightened his right forefinger and drove a bullet into the man’s head. There was a spray of splintered bone, blood and shattered brains and the stricken outlaw collapsed as if he had been boned.

  Flame and smoke gushed from the second outlaw’s weapon. Feeling the wind of the bullet fan his cheek as he was working the Winchester’s lever, Mark could not help stepping sideways. He was compelled to lower the rifle from his shoulder to keep it from striking against the trunk of the tree. Thinking fast, he decided that to return to his original position would be both foolish and dangerous.

  Still assuming that Dolman would take a hand, Mark swung to his right and darted swiftly around the tree. He burst into view of the trail in time to see Widge racing towards the horses. There was still no sign of Dolman, however.

  Then the big blond came close to being killed!

  Unaware of his leader’s desertion, the remaining outlaw had anticipated what Mark was doing and cut loose with a shot on his reappearance. Caught high in the crown by the bullet, the youngster’s hat was thrust from his head. Snapping against his throat, its barbiquejo chinstrap prevented it from leaving him entirely and it dangled on his back. Snarling curses, the man began to thumb back the hammer of his revolver to try again.

  When Marlene had seen Widge turning instead of accompanying his companions, she did not hestitate. Darting around the coach so as to put its body between her and the lanky outlaw, she found herself confronted by Harlow Dolman.

  ‘Do something!’ the woman screeched, staring at his empty right hand. ‘One of—’

  ‘I’ll get my Henry,’ the captain replied, without letting her finish the warning.

  Before Marlene could say any more, Dolman went by her and looked cautiously towards the trail. What he saw caused him to emerge from behind the coach and start moving towards where the weapon lay in its boot on his saddle.

  There was no time for Mark to return the butt of the rifle to his shoulder. With it held no higher than waist level and pointed by instinctive alignment, he started to fire as swiftly as he could operate the mechanism. Unlike the Spencer, its only serious rival in the repeater field, the Winchester did not require its hammer cocking manually. So it could produce a very rapid rate of fire in skilled hands, one that was highly disconcerting and unnerving to a man who was confronted by it.

  Six times in four seconds, a cartridge was detonated and lead was blasted from the Winchester’s muzzle. Turning the barrel slightly while blurring the lever up and down, but before each pressure on the trigger, Mark sent the bullets in an arc that encompassed his assailant. Caught by the third, fourth and fifth of them, with his own weapon cocked but unfired, the outlaw went spinning like a child’s top away from the big blond. He flung aside the revolver involuntarily. It went off harmlessly in the air and, oozing blood from a trio of holes in his torso, he crashed lifeless on to the grass at the side of the trail.

  Automatically manipulating the rifle’s lever and replenishing its chamber, Mark saw Dolman appear with empty hands from behind the coach. Guessing that the captain was going to collect the Henry, the youngster turned his attention to Widge. Instead of trying to avenge his companions’ deaths, the lanky man was deserting them.

  With the rest of the horses scattering like quail that had been startled into flight, Dog-Ear set his own and Widge’s mounts into motion. Seeing the sole survivor of his gang approaching, the lanky man dropped his Colt. He heard the revolver shots that preceded and followed the rapid blast of the Winchester’s response but did not look back. Instead, he converged with his horse, caught its saddle horn in both hands and swung himself around, then astride its back. Once there, seeing that he had only Dog-Ear left, he snatched his reins from the other’s hands and turned his mount to the right. Giving a yell and applying further encouragement with his spurs, he sent the animal bounding into the woodland. Followed by Dog-Ear, he headed at an ever-increasing pace up the slope and selected a route that he hoped would put trees or bushes between himself and the big blond’s rifle.

  Whipping the Winchester to his shoulder, Mark did not fire. Already Widge was leaving the trail and was among the trees before he could take aim. Nor did he attempt to shoot at Dog-Ear. An efficient gunfighter, Mark did not kill for the sake of killing. If the pair had tried to attack him, he would have gunned them down without hesitation. Seeing that they were fleeing, he was content to let them go; especially as there was a chance that one of the others might still be able to continue the fight. Wounded and without any means of escape, such a man would be as dangerous as a boxed-in and stick-teased diamondback rattlesnake.

  With that sobering thought in mind, Mark looked along his rifle’s barrel from one to another of the quartet. From all appearances, the only person to whom they were going to cause trouble was the undertaker who would have to come and collect their bodies for burial. That figured. Under the circumstances, there had been no hope for more merciful shooting. It had been a case of going for an instantaneous kill to save Marlene’s, or his own life. Obviously Dolman had been equally unable, or was disinclined, to try to capture his victim injured, but alive.

  Satisfied that the danger had passed, for the fleeing pair showed no suggestion that they might be considering halting and resuming the fight, Mark looked at the other members of his party. The Negro driver was hanging on to the lead ropes of his team and preventing them from bolting. Although they were snorting and moving restlessly, Mark’s blood-bay stallion and Dolman’s bay gelding were so accustomed to the restrictions placed upon their movements by being hobbled that they made no attempt to run away. De Froissart was lying supine and motionless. Studying the blood that spread across the front of his white shirt,
Mark assumed that he was dead. The Creole’s valet hurried forward and knelt alongside him.

  However, Marlene and Dolman attracted most of Mark’s interest. Although the captain had reached the McClellan saddle, he left the Henry in its boot. Instead, he turned to face Marlene as she stalked from behind the coach. Being unaware that Dolman had fired without justification, Mark was worried by the woman’s furious expression. He wondered if she was holding him responsible for her narrow escape and would terminate their friendship. Only by retaining it could he hope to complete his assignment, so he hoped that she would not. One thing he knew for sure. Dolman would use the incident in an attempt to discredit him and to lose him Marlene’s good offices.

  ‘Why the hell did you have to shoot that man?’ the woman hissed and, to his delight, Mark saw that her furious words were directed at Dolman. ‘You might have got me killed! ’

  ‘Hey, Dolman!’ the big blond barked, taking his cue from Marlene and cutting in before the captain could defend himself against her comment. ‘What the hell did you have to gun that feller down for? I had them all set to back out peaceful until you pulled that fool play.’

  ‘I—!’ Dolman spluttered, looking from Marlene to Mark and back as they converged upon him.

  ‘It’s no damned thanks to you that Marlene wasn’t killed along with Pierre there,’ Mark continued, ranging himself in a protective fashion alongside the woman. He was determined to press home his advantage, so went on, ‘After you’d started the fuss, you just dived into your hidey-hole and left her to face him. One of ’em was all set to down her when I dropped him.’