The Floating Outfit 9

by J. T. Edson

  Normally the owner of a livery barn could be counted on as a source of information and gossip. Newcomers would be pumped for news and local gossip handed out in return. While that began to happen in Bonham, the first mention of the burned-out Hardin cabin brought an immediate change. Across the barn, a tall, gangling loafer spat a straw from his mouth and straightened up. At the same moment the owner recalled some pressing business to which he must give his attention. Taking the hint, Dusty left his horse jn a stall, hung his saddle on the inverted V-shaped wooden burro and walked from the building.

  Failing to gather any information at one source, Dusty headed towards what ought to offer his next best chance. Barbers as a whole were not noted for taciturn natures and he hoped to learn something while having his hair cut. While walking along the street, he saw the gangling jasper following. At first he thought nothing of the matter, but his suspicions rose when the other slouched into the barber’s shop and flopped into one of the chairs supplied for customers awaiting attention.

  As at the barn, the barber started talking cheerily enough. Then he clamped shut his mouth when Dusty spoke of seeing the Hardin place. Coming to his feet, the gangling man remarked that he would have to come back later and walked from the room. Darting a glance after the departing shape, the barber leaned closer to Dusty.

  ‘You want some good advice, friend?’ he asked in a low, urgent voice.

  ‘A man can always use that,’ Dusty admitted.

  ‘Then don’t start asking questions about that place you saw. It’s likely to get plumb unlucky.'

  ‘How come?’

  ‘You’re not taking my advice.’

  ‘I never said I would,’ Dusty pointed out, but let the subject drop.

  With the haircut finished and paid for, the barber whisked away his cloth and flicked at Dusty’s shoulders with a clothes-brush.

  ‘I don’t reckon you’ll take any notice, cowboy,’ he said. ‘But a smart feller’d mount up and ride out right now.’

  ‘I’ve only just come in,’ Dusty drawled, setting on his hat at a jaunty angle. ‘It wouldn’t be polite-like to ride off out without spending some money.’

  So the second possible source failed to pan out. Not entirely. It gave Dusty added proof that pressures had been brought to bear on the citizens of Bonham, causing reluctance to discuss any part of the Hardin family’s affairs. A more prudent man would have collected his horse and ridden out of town, to return with the Kid and Mark at his back. Although Dusty did not lack prudence, he felt he could make one more effort before leaving.

  The time being shortly before sundown, the Pronghorn Saloon had only a few customers scattered around its barroom. Behind the counter, a plump, red-faced man moodily wiped over some glasses with a cloth that had seen better days. He watched the small Texan walk up, dropped the cloth and waited expectantly.

  ‘Howdy,’ Dusty greeted. ‘I’ll have a beer and take something yourself.’

  ‘Thanks,’ the bartender replied, eyeing the roll of money Dusty took out with interest. ‘You’re new hereabouts.’

  ‘Just passing through on the way home from a trail drive.’

  That news, taken with the money, made the small visitor worth cultivating. No subject equaled the cattle industry as a talking point in Texas. Everybody in the State felt an interest in it and wanted to know the latest developments or news. After pouring out drinks, the bartender opened up with a question about the success of Dusty’s drive. For a time they talked cattle, with uncomplimentary references to the type of peace officers found in trail end towns. Then Dusty tried to introduce the matter which had brought him to town.

  ‘I hear tell this here’s a place where things happen.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’ countered the bartender, darting a glance at the four men who came through the batwing doors.

  ‘Like how this’s the place where Wes Hardin hailed from,’ Dusty answered, also studying the newcomers.

  ‘Weather’s been pretty fair for trailing cattle,’ said the bartender in a noncommittal tone.

  If Dusty required any further proof of a conspiracy of silence, the words supplied it. Normally a citizen of Wes’ prominence would have been eagerly discussed by the bartender. That he would not talk about him struck Dusty as highly significant. So did the fact that he flicked another look at the new arrivals and moved along the bar to resume his glass polishing.

  ‘Is it true that the State Police fixed it so Wes took the blame for one of their men shooting the sheriff?’ Dusty asked in a loud voice, keeping the quartet under observation in the bar’s mirror.

  A shocked silence fell on the room as his words carried around it. Only three of the four men advanced towards the bar and they exchanged glances. The other man was the lean jasper from the livery barn and he remained leaning against the rear wall.

  Each of the three men approaching Dusty wore a deputy sheriff’s badge and looked a rough handful. Baker, heavily-mustached, bulky, wearing range clothes and low hanging Remington Navy revolvers, and Sturgis, a taller, leaner man with a taste for gambler-style dress, had come with Spargo on his arrival. To help maintain a dignified silence on the matter of Bill Waggets’ death, the new sheriff brought in Tod Ritson, the third member of the party. Tall, well built, flashily handsome, he sported a town suit, derby hat but wore an Adams revolver in an open-topped holster on a western pattern belt. Taken all in all, they made a dangerous trio but dispensed an indifferent brand of law enforcement.

  ‘What was that you said, boy?’ demanded Baker, halting at Dusty’s right side while the other two completed a triangle of bodies around the small Texan.

  Turning as if aware for the first time of the deputies’ presence, Dusty faced the speaker. By all appearances, he imagined Baker to be alone or discounted the other two. Which was just what he wanted them to think.

  ‘I was just saying something I heard on the trail,’ Dusty replied,

  ‘Well ask it again, boy,’ Baker growled. ‘I’m a mite hard of hearing.’

  ‘I said that I’d heard Wes Hardin didn’t kill the sheriff, but that the State Police blamed him for it because one of their men did.’

  A silence that could almost be felt followed Dusty’s words. Every customer in the room knew the main task of Spargo’s deputies was to prevent such comments being made. So the citizens of Bonham waited and watched, wondering what would happen to the rash visitor.

  And very rash Dusty appeared to be. Every one of the deputies stood taller and out-weighed him by many pounds. It seemed that nothing—for no citizen felt inclined to intervene—could save the small Texan from a brutal beating. Baker’s companions clearly thought so and showed no precautions as they prepared to hand the beating out. If Sturgis edged closer to Dusty’s back while the other looked at Baker, it was merely to take a more rapid part in the proceedings.

  In a way Sturgis had his wish granted. Confident of success, the man failed to stay alert. To do that just sat back and begged for bad and painful trouble when dealing with Dusty Fog.

  In exculpation it must be said that none of the trio recognized their victim as Dusty Fog. Even with such information, they could hardly be expected to have heard of the peculiar talents of Ole Devil Hardin’s valet. Many Occidental people thought Tommy Okasi was Chinese when, in fact, he hailed from Japan. He brought with him a knowledge of strange Oriental unarmed fighting and had passed on the secrets of ju-jitsu and karate to the smallest male member of the Fog, Hardin and Blaze clan. Backed by his surprising physical strength, that knowledge gave Dusty a vast, unexpected edge when dealing with enemies who knew only Occidental methods of brawling.

  Darting a glance at the mirror, Dusty decided that the man behind him was close enough to learn better manners. Suddenly, without giving the slightest intimation of his actions, he drove his right elbow back to smash into Sturgis’ solar plexus. Although Dusty did not have time to raise his fist to the required ear-level by which the Ko-Empi, rear elbow, blow of karate gained its full power, he fo
und no cause for complaint. Driving slightly upwards into Sturgis’ middle, the hard bone of Dusty’s elbow arrived with disconcerting force. A startled, croaking gasp broke from the man and he staggered away, wondering how the hell a mule had kicked him in the middle of the saloon.

  Letting out a surprised yell, Ritson lunged forward. From striking Sturgis, in a continuation of the move, Dusty brought forward and lashed around his hand at Ritson. The way Dusty hit him looked strange to eyes used only to western-world fist-fighters, yet proved very effective. Instead of ramming the front of his fist into Ritson’s face, he whipped it up and drove the protruding knob of the second knuckle so that it caught the man’s nose. Again Dusty could not gather the full power behind the blow, but the uraken, back fist, left little to be desired. Nose spouting blood and pain almost blinding him, Ritson’s lunge altered direction and he shot off at a tangent with hands clawing at his face.

  At which point the realization that all was going wrong sank into Baker’s head. He could hardly believe his eyes as he saw the small ‘victim’ suddenly turn into a high-effective aggressor. As Ritson staggered away, Baker jerked mobility into frozen limbs and launched a punch at Dusty’s head. Going under the blow, Dusty demonstrated that he could also fight in the conventional manner. Hooking his right fist savagely, if a mite low, into Baker’s middle he caused the man to draw back and fold over. Following on the heels of the first blow, Dusty’s left hand collided with offered jaw and lifted Baker erect.

  Before Dusty could send the third blow at Baker, he felt a hand close on his shoulder and swing him around. While partially winded, Sturgis could still handle himself well enough to be dangerous. Swinging Dusty around, he drove a fist at his head. Showing the reflexes that allowed him to draw a gun at blinding speed, Dusty threw up his left arm and blocked the attack. Swinging back his right elbow, he propelled it forward at Sturgis. Again he did not use conventional methods, but struck with the tegatana, the hand-sword. Fingers close together and extended, rammed into Sturgis’ already tender solar plexus and his forward impetus added to the result. Feeling as if somebody had rammed a blunt spear into his body, Sturgis doubled over and fell back once more.

  Figuring the time had come to leave, Dusty headed on the run towards the batwing doors. Letting out a yell which sounded three parts fear, the gangling man thrust himself forward and reached for his gun. While he saw the man was no gunfighter, Dusty took no chances. Bounding into the air, he brought off a Mae Tobi Geri forward jump kick. Caught in the center of the forehead by Dusty’s boot heel, the man slammed back into the wall, hung there for a moment and slid down with his gun still not clear of leather.

  Landing back on the floor from the kick, Dusty hurled himself through the doors. Too late he saw two people walking by and they showed no greater awareness. Before he could stop himself, he crashed into the nearer, a tall young U.S. Cavalry captain. The impact bounced them both backwards, Dusty colliding with the saloon’s wall and the captain catching his balance before hitting the young woman at his side. Even as Dusty prepared to dive by the officer, his eyes went to the girl and he hesitated in his actions.

  A dainty Eastern hat perched attractively on smartly coiffured rusty-red hair. The beautiful face showed intelligence, though it was slightly marred by a studied air of condescending superiority. For a moment the latter emotion wiped off as she stared at the small Texan, but returned quickly enough. Slim, though far from skinny, her stylish Eastern travelling suit set off her figure. A vanity bag hanging from her left wrist and a parasol across her right shoulder completed the picture of an elegant, wealthy young lady taking a stroll with a presentable gentleman of the U.S. Cavalry.

  To give him his due, the captain recovered fast from the collision. Rage twisted his face as he lunged forward. Knotting his gauntleted right hand, he drove it solidly around to crash against the side of Dusty’s jaw. Taken by surprise, Dusty slammed back into the wall and slid dazed to the sidewalk. Then the captain swung towards his companion.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Montoon,’ he began. ‘But—’

  Before he could say more in his explanation, the batwing doors again flung open. Gun in hand, face wild with fury, Baker burst into sight. He skidded to a halt, looked down at Dusty and moved forward, drawing back his foot for a kick.

  ‘Don’t you dare do that!’ shouted the young woman in a clipped New England accent. ‘Stop him, Captain Grare.’

  Although a hint of reluctance crossed the captain’s features, he stepped forward. ‘Cut it out, deputy!’ he snapped. ‘Miss Montoon doesn’t approve of violence by peace officers.’

  Baker’s foot quivered in mid-air then sank to the sidewalk again. Bending down, he jerked the Colt from Dusty’s waistband. Then he turned to the girl and removed his hat.

  ‘This bas—jasper jumped a feller in the saloon and run out. I figured to arrest him, ma’am.’

  ‘So I saw,’ the girl answered dryly. ‘Do you usually kick a man who is on the ground?’

  ‘I never ki—!’ Baker began.

  ‘While I am out here as my father’s representative investigating allegations of malpractice by peace officers, I have no desire to interfere with the normal working of your office,’ Miss Montoon announced pompously. ‘By all means arrest the man, but don’t try to practice your vindictive violence on him.’

  Sturgis and Ritson charged out of the saloon. Any intentions they might have felt of practising vindictive violence on seeing Dusty sprawled before them ended rapidly.

  ‘Get him on his feet and haul him to jail!’ ordered Baker.

  ‘I’ll do that all ri—!’ Ritson started, speaking thickly due to the swollen state of his nose.

  ‘And do it easy!’ Baker snapped. ‘This here’s Miss Montoon.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt you’ve heard of me,’ the girl purred.

  ‘We sure have, ma’am,’ agreed Sturgis, trying to sound as if having heard filled him with pleasure. ‘What do we do about this here miscreant, Tod?’

  ‘Better take him to the pokey to cool for the night and turn him loose in the morning,’ Baker answered, glancing at the girl.

  ‘I know you won’t mind if I come over and look at your jail,’ Miss Montoon remarked.

  ‘When, ma’am?’ Baker growled.

  ‘Either sometime tonight, or early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Come any time, ma’am,’ Baker offered, sounding a touch bitter as he saw his chances of revenge on the small Texan departing.

  Annoyance and dislike showed on three faces, although they tried to conceal it from the girl. Ever since hearing that Miss Eliza Montoon planned a tour of Texas, including the visit to Bonham, Sheriff Spargo had repeatedly warned his deputies how they must act in her presence. Daughter of a prominent Eastern Radical Republican newspaper owner, she possessed power not usually found in a young woman of the day. Well-educated, her name ranked high among the liberal-intellectuals back East. Like most of her kind, she felt disturbed about the conditions around her. In her desire to revolt against what she regarded as the mismanagement of society, she had developed a stupid admiration for criminals, regarding them as being at war with the conditions of which she disapproved; Just as stupidly she had come to regard the law enforcement officers as enemies rather than guardians of life and property.

  So, receiving word of her visit, Spargo guessed what kind of ‘investigation’ she planned to carry out on behalf of her father’s newspaper. It would, unless he missed his guess, be a deliberate attempt to blacken the reputation of every peace officer who crossed her path. While not over-worried about how the local citizens regarded him, Spargo wanted to create a good impression with a young woman in a position to further his political ambitions. With that thought in mind, he continually warned his men to watch their behavior in her presence.

  Much as they wanted to repay their injuries at Dusty’s hands, none of the trio saw a chance of doing it with the girl in town. Hauling the small Texan to his feet, Sturgis and Ritson started to half-carry, half-drag
him across the street in the direction of the sheriff’s office.

  Still dazed, Dusty could think well enough to know better than make an attempt at escaping. Enough of the conversation had sunk into his fuddled mind for him to know he would not be mishandled—at least as long as the girl remained in town. However, if he tried to escape, the trio of deputies would be presented with a good excuse to treat him very rough.

  Hauling Dusty into the office, the two deputies glared at their leader in Sheriff Spargo’s absence.

  ‘Let’s hand him his needings, Tod,’ suggested Ritson.

  ‘Not while she’s in town,’ Baker answered, ramming the muzzle of his revolver hard into the base of Dusty’s spine. ‘But when she’s gone, toss him into a cell and leave him to cool off.’

  ‘Boy!’ Sturgis growled in Dusty’s ear as Baker dropped the Army Colt into the desk’s drawer. ‘You’re sure lucky. If that lousy soft-shelled liberadical ix whore wasn’t in town, we’d tromp you, but good.’

  With that the men heaved Dusty into the center of the three cells, slammed and locked its door.

  Eleven – Southrons Hear Your Country Call You

  After locking Dusty in the cell, Baker and the other two deputies went into the office. As they left the door open, he could hear their comments on Miss Montoon’s presence in town and figured himself lucky for it. There did not appear to be any chance of escaping, so he settled down in the novel position of being a prisoner. Later the chance might arise and if it came he wanted to be ready for it. Ruefully he touched his jaw and winced. That Yankee captain threw a good punch. However, he had recovered from its effects and felt able to do whatever might be necessary to escape.