The Floating Outfit 9

by J. T. Edson

  Not until he was sure that the other one lay dead did the Kid move. Ignoring the blood which smeared his chest and shoulders, he rose to his feet. No sound came from beyond the Sulphur to warn him that the killing had been witnessed. So he moved on. Unlike Salter, he did not commit the folly of entering the water from the open bank. Instead he talked along to where the bluffs converged with the river. Some of the urgency had left the situation. It seemed hardly likely that the State Police would cut loose with their rockets while a member of the posse was on the enemy’s side of the river.

  For all that, the Kid wasted no time. Feeling his way along the side of the bluff, he looked down at the water. Long action by the river’s flow had carved a deep pool under the wall. Carefully the Kid lowered himself into this and sank with barely a ripple. If Salter had been so selective, he might still be alive.

  Gripping the Bowie between his teeth, the Kid stayed underwater and struck out at an angle towards the posse’s side of the Sulphur. The need for air caused him to come to the surface, but his head rose above it with no more disturbance than showed when a much-hunted otter came up to reconnoiter. Submerging again, he swam on until his forward-reaching hands touched the gravel as the bed rose towards the bank. Still the Kid stayed under, crawling along the river’s bed and out on to the shore. Ahead of him, Wes’ dead horse still lay where it had fallen and across the trail, not ten yards along, one of the Negro pairs sat behind a rock. Being more engrossed in sharing a bottle of whiskey, they kept only a desultory watch.

  Taking the knife from between his teeth, the Kid slid forward on his belly. He wriggled on to the trail in a way which kept the body of the horse between himself and the Negroes.

  ‘What’s that?’ said a startled voice as the Kid reached the horse.

  ‘Where?’ asked the second Negro, lowering the bottle and following the direction of his companion’s pointing finger. ‘All I can see’s that dead hoss.’

  ‘I thought I saw something moving down there,’ replied the first speaker.

  Hearing the words, the Kid cupped his hands about his mouth and let out a near perfect imitation of a coyote’s yipping call. While the sound might not have fooled another coyote, or even a man raised in Indian country, it appeared to serve its purpose.

  ‘It ain’t but one of them lil prairie wolves,’ snorted the second Negro. ‘And don’t go knocking my arm again. Happen you make me drop this here bottle of miseries-medicine, I’ll raise lumps on your pumpkin head.’

  ‘Wonder when they’s going to start attacking,’ muttered the first man.

  ‘Soon, real soon,’ his companion answered. ‘Boy, them rocket things is something to see. I was with Massa Robbins when he used one against Preacher Hardin’s place up to Bonham. Never seed a house take fire so quick in my life, and them two fellers come out like a coon off a burning log.’

  With the men indulging in conversation, the Kid completed the tricky crossing of the trail. Once over the open ground, he rose and advanced at a faster but no more noisy pace. Going up the slope, he saw the bulk of the posse gathered ready to commence their attack. He ignored the sight, knowing that his duty was to scatter the horses or cause some other diversion, not tangle with them. Even as he went by, the Kid saw the posse halt and heard low, but excited voices.

  Continuing to climb in the direction of the rocket launcher, he heard the sound of running feet also ascending. Ahead of him, in the same place as before, he could make out the shapes of the rocket and man standing alongside it. Then the runner went by, heading for where Robbins was waiting to commence the bombardment. Although unable to overhear what passed between the two men, the Kid sensed that the newcomer’s news did not please the other. Letting out a louder curse than the rest of the speech, the burly man stalked away from the launcher and the other followed on his heels.

  ‘Damn it to hell!’ Robbins growled as he unsuspectingly passed the Kid. ‘Why did that bastard Salter have to cross the river? The lousy son-of-a-bitch’ll spoil everything.’

  ‘Don’t ask me, boss,’ the Negro who had brought the news answered. ‘He never said nothing, not even to Massa Bilsden. If one of the fellers who’d been on watch hadn’t spoked up, we wouldn’t’ve known.’

  The Kid moved on without waiting to hear any more, guessing that the man he had killed had crossed the river without consulting his companions. Cautiously approaching the launcher, he found no guards watching it. Apparently the possibility of an attempt to destroy it had never occurred to the State Police, which made the Kid’s work just that much easier. Going up to the launcher, he examined it and found to his delight that a rocket, friction tube and lanyard in place, was already loaded. Looking around to make sure that he was not observed, he unscrewed and lowered the bipod legs. When he had finished, the launcher no longer pointed across the river, but slanted down in the direction of the posse. Carefully he unwound the lanyard, backing with it to the shelter of the nearest rock.

  Before firing, the Kid paused and again looked around him. There did not appear to be any other members of the posse on the forward side of the slope, although he could hear voices beyond the rim. Judging by the sounds of horses moving, the speakers would be the guards of the State Police mounts. So he studied the best route to them as the next objective of his mission. Satisfied that there were no obstacles between himself and the posse’s remuda, he turned back to the launcher.

  Even as he took up the end of the lanyard, the Kid saw and heard the men below start moving towards the river. He held his fire, however, watching the two shapes approaching him instead of accompanying the main body. Soon he recognized them as the Negro who had passed him on his way up and the burly white man who owned the rocket launcher.

  Fury filled Robbins as he stalked back towards his weapon. On joining the main body of the posse he had spoken with Bilsden, second of the Delta officers, and what he had learned did not please him. In direct opposition to their carefully laid plans, Salter had crossed the Sulphur River. Although the man had announced his intention to wipe out the four Texans, Robbins doubted whether he could succeed in doing so. Bilsden had claimed Salter to be something of an expert in the art of silent movement, but Robbins felt little better at hearing the news. Let one of the quartet make an outcry and any who remained alive would be on the alert. Maybe they would make for their horses and charge across the river. Shooting in the darkness, the guards could easily miss and let the Texans escape.

  Showing more faith than Robbins in Salter’s ability, Bilsden had still agreed to move the men down the slope so as to give an added volume of fire should the rush be made. With his head full of thoughts of collecting the bounty on Wes Hardin’s head, Bilsden had failed to notice that Robbins did not accompany him. Instead of going along, Robbins had caught the arm of the Negro who fetched him down from the launcher. One of the original Bonham posse, the man had seen Eli help Robbins often enough to be of use.

  Realizing how hampered he would be without Eli, Robbins had made preparations for the bombardment. Normally he would not have thought of fitting the friction tubes to his rockets until ready to use them. Lacking his assistant, he primed four of the Hales, leaving them clear of the fiery backlash which would flash from the launcher’s trough. Five rockets ought to do all he wanted and even an untrained man could bring them to him.

  ‘Is you-all fixing to fire off that thing with Massa Salter on the other side of the river, boss?’ asked the Negro when Robbins finished explaining what he would be required to do.

  ‘Sure I am!’ Robbins snapped back. ‘That stinking son-of-a-bitch had no right to go over there.’

  ‘He could maybe get hisself hurt, boss,’ the Negro pointed out.

  ‘That’s his worry,’ Robbins answered. ‘Let him take his chance, he’s not going to spoil my chances.’

  ‘Sure, boss.’

  ‘You objecting to me doing it?’ Robbins barked.

  One thing a Negro learned, even among the liberal-intellectual ranks of the State Police, was
never to become involved in his white brother-officers’ troubles. That applied even more so when dealing with carpetbaggers such as Robbins and Salter. Out for their own profit, that kind brooked no interference and expected only cooperation from the colored members of the Police. So the Negro shook his head answered vehemently.

  ‘No, sah. It’s ’tween you and him!’

  ‘Come on then,’ ordered Robbins, sounding mollified. ‘Let’s get started. All I want you to do is bring me the rockets, one at a time, when I tell you.’

  ‘I can do that real easy,’ promised the Negro. ‘If they works as well as when we used them in Bonham, they’ll—’

  ‘What the hell!’ Robbins interrupted.

  By that time they had come into sight of the launcher and he realized that something did not look right. For a moment he could not decide what was wrong, then he became aware that the angle of the tube had been changed.

  While a number of ideas for the alteration sprang to Robbins’ mind, they did not include the correct one. He discarded the possibility of tampering by a member of the posse. Neither of his white companions had been up the slope to the launcher and the Negroes showed a marked reluctance to go near it. So he concluded that either the weight of the rocket in the trough had sunk the bipod legs deeper into the soil, or that the retaining screw had loosened in some way to allow the subsidence. Whatever the cause, he knew that adjustments must be made before discharging the rocket.

  With that thought in mind, Robbins walked straight towards the launcher. He did not see the Kid who lay flattened on the ground close to the right side rock, being interested only in correcting the line of the tube and turning loose its rocket before the posse drew too close to the river. All too well Robbins knew how uncertain was the flight of even a Spin-Stabilized Hale and wished to avoid accidents among his companions.

  From his position, the Kid had seen the preparations for the attack and intended to disrupt it by sending a rocket down among the posse. While his intention had been to put the launcher out of action if presented with a chance, he never expected such a stroke of luck. Deciding it would be ungrateful to look a prime gift from Ka-Dih in the mouth, he prepared to make the most of his advantage. Across the Sulphur, Dusty waited for some signal before carrying on with the escape plan. He could be relied upon to act correctly when presented with such a fine opportunity.

  Before the Kid could make his move, he saw Robbins coming closer and his marksman’s ability told him that the tube pointed directly at the other. No Comanche would think of overlooking such a possibility. There walked the man whose efforts had caused the burning of Wes Hardin’s home and the death of two comparatively innocent people. So, as the Kid saw it, simple yet effective justice would be done if he gave Robbins a taste of the same medicine.

  With that thought in mind, the Kid tugged snappily at the lanyard. Lying on the ground, he found himself forced to make the pull in the correct slightly downwards angle desired by the friction tube’s designer. For a moment the bar held, then drew its jagged edges over the percussion mixture.

  Suddenly Robbins heard a familiar sound, yet its full implications failed to register on his mind. Full of angry thoughts at Salter’s idiotic treachery, he continued to walk straight towards the yawning tube of the launcher. Just too late he realized that the sound had been the bar of a friction tube scraping at and igniting the mixture beneath it. His eyes caught a slight movement at the side of the right hand rock and he reached for his holstered revolver.

  ‘Look out, b—!’ began the Negro, suddenly and shockingly aware that something was very, very wrong.

  The warning came as the main propellant charge took fire. Even as Robbins’ brain clicked on to its danger, he saw flames and sparks gushing from the launcher’s trough. With sickening, paralyzing horror, he realized that in some way the rocket had ignited and was rushing through the tube towards him.

  One single terrified scream burst from Robbins’ lips, almost drowned by the whooshing roar of the rocket belching from the barrel. Letting out a shriek of terror, the Negro flung himself backwards. He saw the rocket crash into Robbins’ chest, heard the man’s scream chop off as the impact flung him over. Then the detonating charge in the nose exploded into the ‘liquid damnation’ which burst over Robbins in a sea of living flame. However, the force with which the rocket struck home must have killed him instantly.

  Thrown back by the impact, the shape, still a blazing travesty of human form, went tumbling down the slope. Giving out another screech, the Negro turned and fled into the night. Not even the Kid’s Comanche-hardened stomach could hold down a certain queasiness at the sight. Nothing his Pehnane teachers had ever described as a means of killing an enemy equaled that sight.

  No Comanche wasted too much time in brooding on the manner in which a foe died. After a brief moment staring at the sight, the Kid rose and leapt to the pile of primed rockets. Gathering them up, he carried them to the panniers and rested all but one inside the containers. Backing off to what he hoped would be a safe distance, he hurled the rocket at the panniers. It struck and burst into flames, the fire licking up and around the leather cases. Then, without waiting to see the result of his work, he darted up the slope.

  Attracted by the noise, the two horse herd holders came running the other way. Letting out a Comanche war scream, the Kid burst into their sight and charged at them. Already startled and concerned, the two Negroes fell back before the apparition. One of them tripped and sat down, his carbine banging harmlessly across his knees. Half deafened by the most hideous sound that could emerge voluntarily from a human throat, the second man discarded his weapon, spun around and fled.

  Ignoring the pair, the Kid dashed towards the remuda. He saw that the horses had been off-saddled and were showing signs of nervousness. For all that, he made for what his instincts told him to be the best of the horses. Before the animal could bolt, the Kid bounded astride its sixteen-hand-high back like a coon hopping on to a doghouse roof. Powerful legs locked around the horse’s body and strong fingers gripped its mane. Once more that wild Comanche yell shattered the air, ringing out above the sound of shooting on the other side of the rim. The horses needed no more encouragement. From milling and fiddle footing, they broke into a panic-stricken flight. Notwithstanding their natural instinct to remain in a bunch, the frightened animals broke and scattered in every direction. The Kid doubted if the posse would recover more than a handful of their mounts, and then only the poorest. If his friends made good their escape, there would be no further pursuit to bother them.

  Satisfied that he had done his work well, the Kid swung the racing horse in the desired direction and aimed it in a line that would bring him to join his companions—assuming that they had managed to break through the State Police without taking lead.

  Part Two – The Saga of the Hooded Riders

  Nine – I’m Going In Alone

  ‘They’re coming down at us,’ Wes Hardin reported, moving back to where Dusty and Mark stood alongside the horses. ‘Nothing from Lon yet.’

  ‘We’d’ve heard, happen they’d seen him,’ Mark stated.

  ‘I reckon we’d best get ready to go,’ Dusty went on. ‘Lead them up almost to the top of the slope, Wes. Don’t jerk off the covers though.’

  Despite the even manner in which he spoke, Dusty knew just how dangerous charging across the river in the face of the posse would be unless the Kid provided some kind of diversion. Since their first meeting on the Brownsville trail, the Kid had never failed Dusty. However, he faced by far his most difficult task that night.

  Swinging astride his huge paint stallion, Dusty first checked that the leading ropes of the two spare horses were securely fastened to his saddlehorn. Then he gripped the cords which ran from the horn to the tops of the structures carried by two more of the horses. At Dusty’s side, Mark repeated the precautions. Then Wes led the four horses which carried the bizarre loads built during the late afternoon, taking them almost in sight of the river. Dusty an
d Mark followed, making sure there would be no premature uncovering of the hooded upper parts.

  With the horses in position, Wes returned to and mounted the animal he would be using. He noticed that the Kid’s white stallion followed the other horses. From what he had seen, the white no more than tolerated even the Kid’s close friends and so felt disinclined to take liberties with hackamore and lead rope.

  ‘They’re moving quieter than I’d expect,’ Mark breathed, standing in his stirrups to watch the dark mass of the posse advancing down the slope.

  ‘Sure are,’ Dusty agreed.

  Then he gave his attention to the horses ahead of him. None of the four selected to carry the special loads bore an ownership brand. Nor could any of the items on their backs be traced to Mark. Provided his party broke through the State Police without being captured, there was nothing to connect Ole Devil’s floating outfit with Wes Hardin’s escape.

  Dusty knew that to be a consideration of major importance. One thing his uncle had stressed before sending the trio to help Wes had been that they must, as far as possible, avoid open conflict with the State Police. Circumstances had prevented Dusty from carrying out the order, but he intended to lessen the chances of his being tied into the affair. If his part in Wes’ escape could be proved, it would cause Ole Devil great embarrassment and might even jeopardize the work already done to bring back a decent, honest, elected government to Texas.

  ‘It’ll soon be time to move whether Lon comes through or not,’ Mark said, wondering if the covers at the end of the cords would have put out the lamps they prevented being seen.

  Dusty did not reply for a moment, but estimated the distance to the posse. While he felt little respect for the average State Police officer’s shooting skill, he did not want to present them with too easy a target.