The Floating Outfit 35

by J. T. Edson

  ‘They must be a hell of a long ways off,’ the deputy declared. ‘I can’t see hide nor hair of them.’

  ‘Which’s likely why the sheriff had Lon and not you riding the point,’ drawled Waco.

  Although Narrow let out a hiss of annoyance, he made no reply. Early in the hunt, he had found out that his assumption of tough superiority did not impress Waco. So he sat back in his saddle and watched the Kid with an air of disbelief. At the moment, Narrow found himself tom between two desires. While he looked forward to a fight with the

  Indians, he also hoped the Kid would prove to be wrong. Then the sheriff would stop listening to the cowhand and pay more attention to his deputy’s opinions.

  ‘Reckon he’s joshing us about them Kweharehnuh, Waco?’ asked a posse man called Bretton.

  ‘He wouldn’t know how at a time like this,’ the young blond replied.

  With each sequence of hoof-beats in the stallion’s walking gait carrying him deeper into danger, the Kid maintained his ceaseless vigilance. Detecting the whole of the Antelope party might spell the difference between life and death. So, although he slouched casually as if a part of the horse, he had never been more alert.

  Give them their full due, the Kweharehnuh braves sure knew how to keep out of a man’s sight. Like the Kid, they must have taken seriously their childhood games of nanip’ka, ‘guess over the hill’, in which the players had to hide so that the one who was ‘it’ could not locate them. It offered mighty good training in concealment as well as for the discovery of hidden men.

  That is, all but one of them remembered the lessons of nanip’ka.

  Flattened on a slope behind a fair-sized rock, the solitary transgressor had allowed the single eagle’s feather of his headdress to rise into view. He must be a tuivitsi 6 fresh from horse herding and on his first man’s chore. Happen he did not improve his technique, he would never make a tehnap 7 much less reach the honored state of tsukup. 8 The feather’s movement in the breeze had been sufficient to attract the Kid’s attention and so spoiled what would have been an effective ambush.

  The nearer the Kid rode, the more uneasy he became. So far, he had picked out twenty braves and feared that there might be others still hidden from him. A gentle touch on the reins of the stallion’s hackamore ended its forward motion about sixty yards from the nearest located Indian. That ought to leave him sufficient distance to turn and get the hell back to the posse happen things should go wrong.

  Gripping the rifle at the wrist of the butt and end of the barrel, he elevated it above his head. That allowed the Kweharehnuh to see the red, white and blue patterns on the buckskin container. With such a well-planned ambush, there must be a tehnap present who would be able to identify the medicine symbols. If so, they would know the container to be a Dog Soldier’s medicine boot; given to each member of that hardy, savage lodge on his initiation.

  Three times the Kid raised and lowered the rifle. Then, taking his right hand from the butt, he turned the rifle so it pointed forward with the barrel still in his left fist. After that, it was just a matter of waiting. He had let them see the medicine boot and made a sign identifying himself as a Dog Soldier who asked to make talk. That put the play into the Kweharehnuh’s hands. The next move must come from them.

  It came!

  Rearing to kneel on the rock, the tuivitsi who had betrayed the ambush flipped the butt of his rifle to his shoulder and pressed its trigger.

  Chapter Two – You’re Not About to Be Coming Back

  ‘They’re attacking him!’ screeched Bretton as the young Kweharehnuh brave appeared and fired in the Kid’s direction.

  ‘Come on!’ Narrow shouted, starting his horse moving. ‘Let’s go—!’

  Remembering the Kid’s orders and seeing that his amigo had not been hit, Waco jumped his horses to swing into the other men’s path.

  ‘Stay put!’ the youngster snapped and the fore-grip of his Winchester slapped into his left palm as he prepared to enforce the demand should it become necessary. ‘Lon’s all right and he’s not high-tailing it back here.’

  ‘Do like Waco says!’ the sheriff commanded. ‘Form a line, just in case, but hold your fire unless I tell you different.’

  When the bullet flung up dirt less than a yard in front of his horse, the Kid uttered a silent prayer that the posse would not attempt to intervene. He stiffened just a trifle, alert to pivot the stallion around and go like a bat out of hell should the need become apparent. So far, only the tuivitsi had thrown lead. Other Kweharehnuh came popping out of their hiding places, many of which hardly appeared to offer enough cover to conceal a jackrabbit. However, they made no hostile gestures.

  With a sensation of relief, the Kid noticed that a few obvious tehnap and a war bonnet chief were present. The latter barked an order for the tuivitsi to refrain from further shooting. That indicated a willingness to talk. On the other hand, to add to the Kid’s concern, he observed that every man—even the youngest tuivitsi—carried a rifle.

  And not just a rifle!

  The weapons they held were all repeaters!

  Looking closer, the Kid saw the big side-hammers and distinctive trigger-guards of Spencer carbines. In addition to brass-framed Winchester Model of 1866 ‘yellow boys’, there were a few all-steel Model ’73’s. What was more, from the raw tuivitsi to the war bonnet chief, each warrior had at least one belt with bullet-loaded loops on his person.

  ‘Who are you, white man?’ called the chief in the quick-tongued dialect of the Kweharehnuh. ‘You wear the clothes of a ride-plenty, but signal that you are a Pehnane Dog Soldier.’

  ‘My name is Cuchilo, the Knife,’ replied the Kid, using the slower-spoken Pehnane accent fluently. ‘My grandfather is Long Walker. I come to make peace talk with my Kweharehnuh brothers.’

  ‘I have heard of Long Walker, and of Cuchilo,’ the chief admitted as the Kid rode up to him. ‘But it is said that you are now a white man. And all men know that Long Walker eats the beef on the reservation.’

  ‘Long Walker has made peace with the white men, as did chiefs of other bands,’ answered the Kid, watching the braves coming closer to hear what might be said. ‘Just as I now live with them. But if any man doubts that I am still one of the Nemenuh—’

  While addressing the chief, the Kid had eased the boot from his rifle and draped it across the stallion’s neck. Giving no hint of what he planned to do, he let the one-piece reins fall, swung his left leg forward and up, jumping to the ground on the horse’s Indian side. 9 As he landed, he snapped the Winchester to his shoulder. Now his left hand held the fore-grip, while the right inserted its forefinger into the trigger-guard and curled the other three through the ring of the lever. Almost as soon as his feet touched the ground, he had the sights laid. Three times in a second and a half, blurring the lever through its reloading cycle, he sent .44 caliber bullets spinning from the muzzle.

  Once again Waco displayed his quick grasp of the situation. Realizing from the Kid’s apparently passive acceptance that the tuivitsi’s shot had been no more than a test of courage, the blond cowhand had been waiting for his amigo’s response. Knowing him, Waco had expected the answer to the challenge to be something sudden and dramatic.

  ‘Keep the guns down!’ Waco warned, even before the Kid’s Winchester had started to crack. ‘He’s all right.’

  Shock twisted at the tuivitsi’s face as he realized that the black-dressed ride-plenty, cowhand, was lining a rifle at him. Before he could make a move to counter the threat, bullets started slamming between his spread-apart knees and spattering his bare legs with flying chips of rock. Letting out a startled yelp, he bounded into the air. Coming down, he slipped from his perch and landed rump-first on the ground. Although the descent and arrival proved painful, he retained his grip on the Spencer carbine. Spitting out furious words, he tried to raise it and avenge his deflated ego.

  Having expected such a reaction, the Kid was already bounding forward. Giving the tuivitsi no opportunity to point the Spenc
er his way, he lashed up with his left foot and kicked it from the other’s hands. In a continuation of the attack, the Kid elevated his Winchester and propelled its metal-shod butt against the side of the brave’s head. Down went the tuivitsi, flopping limply on to his side. Without sparing his victim as much as a glance, the Kid returned and vaulted afork the stallion’s seventeen-hand back as if it stood no higher than a newly born foal.

  Hoots of laughter burst from the stocky, thick-bodied warriors in the antelope-hide clothing. Like most Indians, the Comanches had a lively sense of humor when amongst their own kind. They had appreciated the manner in which the Kid had handled their companion. That had been the way of a tehnap dealing with a tuivitsi who had forgotten his proper station in the band’s social structure. Fast, painful and very effective.

  No matter how the Kid might be dressed, the Kweharehnuh braves now accepted that he was a Comanche. Every action he had made since being fired at by the tuivitsi had been that of an experienced name-warrior.

  ‘Well, chief,’ challenged the Kid. ‘Am I still Nemenuh?’

  ‘You are still Nemenuh, Cuchilo,’ confirmed the chief. ‘I am called Kills Something.’

  ‘The fame of Pakawa has reached my ears,’ the Kid said conventionally, using the other’s Comanche name.

  ‘Why do you bring white men into the land of the Kweharehnuh, Cuchilo?’

  That had an ominous ring to it. Normally there would have been more talk; a lengthy delivery of compliments, or an exchange of tribal gossip. So the Kid felt puzzled by its omission. Something else was wrong, too. With Glover’s gang so near, the warriors must have seen them. Yet there had not been time for the Kweharehnuh to have killed the five men silently and then taken up their ambush positions. It seemed unlikely that Pakawa would permit the smaller party to pass and go for the larger.

  ‘We are hunting for thieves,’ the Kid answered frankly, knowing that stealing from one’s own people rated as a serious crime amongst the Comanches. ‘The men who went by here not long ago.’

  ‘What is it you want from us?’ Kills Something inquired, but his voice held no hint of making an amiable request for information.

  ‘To go after them and take them back to their people.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘They are like mad wolves, Pakawa,’ the Kid pointed out. ‘As long as such live, nobody, red or white, is safe from them.’

  ‘I must still say no,’ the chief stated.

  ‘Can I ask why?’

  ‘It is the order of Paruwa Semehno and the medicine woman Pohawe. They say that no white men, except the chosen, may enter our land.’

  ‘And the four white men and the half-breed are the chosen?’

  ‘Yes. The man of no people has the medicine, so we let them pass. Tell the men with you to turn back, Cuchilo.’

  ‘What if they won’t do it?’

  ‘You are a tehnap, Cuchilo,’ Kills Something replied. ‘So you will know when it is time to fight and when to ride away. There are three of us, each with a repeating rifle, for every one of you. If you come, there will be dead men in the Land of Good Hunting. I do not think they will be Nemenuh. And tell the one with the star to think well on what he orders. There are young braves with me who want to count coups. Let them taste blood, and they will go, looking for more. If they do, many will die.’

  ‘All this I will remember, Pakawa,’ promised the Kid. ‘May your squaws give you many children.’

  With that, the Kid turned his stallion and rode towards his companions. He did not look back. To do so would be discourteous in that it would imply a lack of trust in the warriors he was leaving.

  ‘When do we take out after ’em, Kid?’ demanded Narrow, before any of the others could speak.

  ‘I don’t reckon we can,’ the Kid replied flatly.

  ‘But we’re not more’n a mile behind ’em,’ the deputy protested.

  ‘And there’s twenty or more Kweharehnuh brave-hearts less’n half a mile ahead of us,’ warned the Kid.

  ‘So?’ grunted Narrow. ‘They was talking peaceable enough to you.’

  ‘Why sure,’ the Kid agreed. ‘Only they’ll stop acting peaceable happen we try to go by ’em.’

  ‘I’ll be damned if I’ve rid’ this far to be turned back by a handful of tail-dragging Injuns!’ Narrow bellowed, still refusing to let the others get a word in. ‘I say we go on and the hell with what they figure to do about it.’

  ‘You try it, deputy,’ drawled the Kid, ‘and you’re not about to be coming back.’

  ‘It’s as bad as that, huh Kid?’ the sheriff put in, silencing his deputy with a scowl.

  ‘It’s that bad,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘Every one of them, down to the youngest tuivitsi’s toting a repeater and enough bullets to start two wars. And they’ve been told by old Chief Ten Bears ’n’ their medicine woman to keep white folk out of the Palo Duro. Unless that ’breed who met Glover’s with ’em.’

  ‘We could go ’round ’em—’ Narrow began.

  ‘There’s not even part of a hope of doing it,’ the Kid declared. ‘They’ll have a couple of scouts trail us and, happen we’re loco enough to try, the rest’ll be on hand so fast you’ll think the hawgs’ve jumped us.’

  ‘Damn it all, Kid!’ growled the sheriff. ‘Why should they let owlhoots go through and stop us?’

  ‘I don’t know, sheriff. It’s medicine business and, rightly, they don’t talk about that even to a feller from another Nemenuh band.’

  ‘So you’re saying we should go back, Kid?’ asked posse man Hobart.

  ‘That’s what I’d say, was I trail bossing this posse,’ the Kid answered. ‘If we push on and get wiped out, those young bucks’ll think they’ve got real strong war medicine and set off to try it out. Folks’ll die then. But I’ll go along with whatever the sheriff says we do.’

  ‘Couldn’t we set up camp here and wait ’em out?’ asked Bretton.

  ‘Happen they got short on patience, they’re more likely to jump us than head for home,’ the Kid replied. ‘I could maybe get through alone and talk to old Paruvua Semehno. Only, way Pakawa spoke, I reckon I’d be wasting my time. For some reason, he’s shielding them owlhoots and a whole lot farther east than I’d’ve figured on. Fact being, I was counting on taking Glover tonight and well clear of the Kweharehnuh’s range. Those bucks won’t let it happen.’

  ‘So was I,’ Laurie admitted.

  By bringing only a small, handpicked posse, the sheriff had hoped to catch up with the gang before they penetrated too deeply into the Palo Duro country. Faced with the present situation, he could see only one answer. To go on meant fighting, probably getting killed. Given a victory to whet their appetite, the young bucks would sweep off on a rampage of looting and slaughter.

  ‘What’ll we do, Ian?’ Bretton wanted to know.

  ‘We go back,’ the sheriff replied quietly and bitterly.

  Although the townsmen, the Kid and Waco nodded, their agreement, Narrow registered his disapproval.

  ‘So we’re going back with our tails dragging ’tween our legs?’ the deputy snarled. ‘That’ll look good comes next election.’

  ‘So’d going on and stirring up an Injun war, hombre,’ drawled Waco.

  ‘It’s easy enough for you to talk about pulling out,’ Narrow answered. ‘You didn’t have money in our bank.’

  ‘I did!’ Poplar, the third member of the posse, injected coldly. ‘Likely more than you did, Eric. But I’m still ready to go along with whatever Ian says we should do.’

  ‘There’s no way out, Kid?’ Laurie asked.

  ‘It’s turn back, or go all the way and likely stay permanent. You want me to, I can maybe sneak by the Kweharehnuh in the dark and go after Glover. Only there’ll be none of them coming back with me and, way I’ll have to travel after it’s done, I’ll not be able to fetch back your money.’

  ‘I want justice, not that kind of revenge,’ Laurie answered. ‘No. We’ll all go back.’

  Guiding their horses around, the
dejected posse began to ride in the direction from which they had come. Without making it obvious, the Kid kept a watch to the rear. As he had expected, they were followed at a distance by two braves. After they had covered about three miles, the sheriff joined the Kid and Waco behind the party.

  ‘You said all them bucks had repeaters, Kid?’ Laurie asked.

  ‘Every last blasted one.’

  ‘That’s not usual, is it?’

  ‘It’s damned unusual, sheriff. You’ll mostly find a few repeaters in each village. But it’s near on always the chiefs and name-warriors who own ’em. And bullets’re mostly in short supply.’

  ‘Then somebody must’ve been selling them to the Kweharehnuh,’ Laurie said.

  ‘What’d the tuivitsi have to buy them with?’ countered the Kid. ‘It’d take a whole heap of trade goods to buy a repeater. More than a tuivitsi’d be likely to own.’

  ‘Couldn’t the tuivitsi’ve had the rifles give ’em?’ Waco inquired. ‘You told me a warrior often gives his loot away.’

  ‘Not a repeater, especially if there’s so much ammunition around for it,’ corrected the Kid. ‘And, happen a war party’d pulled a raid that brought in so many rifles, we’d’ve heard about it.’

  ‘It could’ve happened a fair time back,’ the sheriff pointed out.

  ‘Not all that long,’ objected the Kid. ‘Some of them were toting Model 73’s and they’ve not been around a year yet.’

  ‘What worries me as a peace officer,’ Laurie said soberly, ‘is why they let a bunch of owlhoots through.’

  ‘And me,’ admitted the Kid. ‘Comanches don’t cotton to thieves.’

  ‘How about when they’re wide-looping hosses?’ challenged Waco.

  ‘That’s not stealing, it’s raiding,’ the Kid explained. ‘And they don’t do it again’ another Nemenuh.’

  ‘Do you think that old Ten Bears’s been paid, either with money to buy them or the rifles and ammunition, to let Glover and his men through?’

  ‘You mean that Glover’d fixed it up, through the ’breed they met, sheriff?’ Waco asked. ‘It could be, Lon. If Glover was getting hard-pushed by the Rangers and figured the Nations to be unhealthy for white owlhoots, he might’ve decided to come this way.’