by J. T. Edson
When Churn Wycliffe’s gang killed Sailor Sam Carol, Mark Counter of Ole Devil Hardin’s legendary Floating Outfit swore to bring them to justice. Taking their trail, the blond giant matched his enormous strength and lightning-fast draw against the brutal, evil pack. In the end Mark found Wycliffe a prisoner of the Kaddo Indians, doomed to die by torture. But Mark aimed to take his old friend’s killer in for trial … even if he had to lick the whole Kaddo tribe to do it.
CONTENTS
Dedication
One – The Danger of Being an Innocent Bystander
Two – A Question of Ownership
Three – A Visitor for Mr. Counter
Four – A Lady Outlaw in Distress
Five – A Mistake Anybody Could Make
Six – The Death of a Friend
Seven – More Visitors for Mr. Counter
Eight – A Debt Repaid
Nine – The Secret of the Barrels
Ten – The Coming of the Ysabel Kid
Eleven – Sandel’s Gratitude
Twelve – The Remains of Pegler’s Trading Post
Thirteen – A Student of a Highland Pastime
Fourteen – A Primitive Piece of Mining Equipment
Fifteen – A Slender Change to Keep the Peace
Sixteen – Not the Way to Use a Lance
About J.T. Edson
Copyright
The Floating Outfit Series
About Piccadilly Publishing
For Brian Babani, even though he never published my Rockabye County stories.
One – The Danger of Being an Innocent Bystander
The wagon lumbered slowly along Hood Street in Austin, capital city of the State of Texas, carrying a pyramid of three huge wine barrels to some saloon or other destination. On its box sat a bulky, bearded driver looking half-asleep in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun. Plodding leisurely ahead, the two powerful draught-horses appeared to be fully aware of their delivery point, for the driver only rarely found the need to guide them.
Being something in the nature of a business and entertainment section of the city, Hood Street’s sidewalks attracted a mixed collection of people. Cowhands fresh off the range rubbed shoulders with town dwellers and ogled the passing women in admiration. Blue-clad soldiers, not quite so hated since the end of Reconstruction as practiced by Davis’ corrupt and inefficient government, mingled unopposed with supporters of the late Confederate States. A few buffalo hunters strolled along, their grease- and blood-smeared buckskins giving off an unmistakable odor to anybody unfortunate enough to pass close to them. Hanging on the arm of her mac, a pretty, garishly dressed lobby-lizzy paraded her wares to anybody who might be in search of female company; and ignored the obvious disapproval of such ‘good’ women who drew aside to let her go by.
Although young, the lobby-lizzy had been selling her body for long enough to know the genuine customer from the merely curious. Studying the male members of the crowd as the wagon approached, she noted a couple of potential clients and a man she felt she might be only too pleased to offer her services to free of charge.
The man who so attracted the young prostitute’s attention would catch the eye in any crowd. Six foot three in height, his head topped most of the crowd around him. On his head rode a costly white J. B. Stetson hat with a silver-concha decorated band, molded into the shape which marked a Texan to knowing eyes. Clearly he had been making use of a nearby barber’s shop’s facilities, for his curly, golden blond hair showed signs of recent attention. So did his tanned, almost classically handsome face, its cheeks as smooth as only a very good barber could shave them. It was a strong face, with intelligence and humor in its lines. His tan shirt looked freshly pressed and had clearly been made, like his levis pants, to fit his frame. That great spread of shoulders, lean waist and long powerful pair of legs could not be clothed so well from the shelves of a general store. Around his waist hung a fine-quality gunbelt. Matched ivory handled 1860 Army Colts, with the Best Citizen’s Finish to their metalwork, rode in the contoured holsters just right to permit ease and speed of withdrawal.
Everything about the blond giant hinted at wealth. Yet anybody who took him for a dressed-up dude stood a better than fair chance of being rapidly and painfully corrected. He walked with a long, easy stride, light on his feet despite his size, and those matched Colts flared their butts out just right for a reaching hand to grip them with the minimum of movement.
Not that anybody but a stranger to Austin would have made such a foolish mistake as to play Mark Counter for a dude. He had been in the State capital long enough to establish his identity among the citizens. Any member of the great OD Connected ranch ranked high in the matter of salty toughness, and Mark Counter belonged to the elite of the crew, its almost legendary floating outfit.
Born the third son of a wealthy Texas rancher, Mark became rich in his own right when a maiden aunt died and left him all her considerable fortune. He could, if he so desired, have bought his own spread and possessed the ability to make it pay. However, he preferred to remain at the OD Connected, siding the man who saved his life in Mexico shortly after the war. i As Dusty Fog’s right bower, Mark stood high in the ranch’s hierarchy. Many who knew them both claimed that Mark’s knowledge of the cattle industry exceeded that of Dusty Fog, despite the other being segundo of the ranch. A dandy dresser, Mark’s taste in clothing dictated what the well-dressed Texas cowhand wore; just as during the War he had set the trend in uniforms among the bloods of the Confederate States Army.
Since the meeting at the Appomattox Courthouse brought, if not peace, a cessation of military hostilities, Mark built up a reputation approaching legendary dimensions as a cowhand second to none. Men spoke of his giant strength, told awe-filled tales of his ability in a roughhouse brawl. Yet, skilled as he was, few spoke of him as a gunfighter. In other fields he stood almost alone; there were very few could equal his muscular prowess. When using his matched Colts he was in the shadow of the fastest, most accurate of all, the Rio Hondo gun-wizard Dusty Fog. Yet the select few in a position to know stated he came a close second in speed and accuracy to his friend.
Normally Mark rode accompanied by Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid, a combination hard to beat in the fighting line; and also a factor that prevented his full expertise from showing. Circumstances caused a temporary separation of the floating outfit’s leading lights. After helping to bring off a successful peace treaty with the majority of the war-like Comanche nation, ii the Ysabel Kid stayed at Fort Sherrard to attend to final details and see his grandfather’s pehnane band housed on their reservation. On their return to the OD Connected, Mark hoped to accompany Dusty to the wedding of an old army companion. Receiving a message that his uncle, Tune Counter, needed help against a family of vengeance-seeking outlaws, Mark put off all thoughts of weddings, rode fast to Tennyson and became involved in the affairs of Town Marshal Counter, Calamity Jane and the woman known as Madam Bulldog. iii With the affair brought to a satisfactory conclusion, Mark began his return journey to the OD Connected at a more leisurely pace. His way lay through Austin, and no prominent Texas gentleman could pass his State’s capital without paying its sights a courtesy call. Although he found a telegraph message from his employer waiting at the Houston Hotel, he was not surprised, Ole Devil Hardin knew the blond giant’s tastes well enough to assume Mark would put up at the city’s best hotel. The message told him to stay in Austin for a few days in case Dusty Fog should need further help in untangling the threat to the newly-wedded couple’s life in their new home. iv Never one to object to orders, Mark settled down at the hotel and then went out to see what Austin might have to offer a gentleman of taste and discernment. As he strolled along Hood Street, he wondered how his two companions
in many a wild celebration handled their chores.
Despite being the State’s capital, Austin retained much of the traditional Texas cattle town. The site of the city had been selected in 1836 by a commission appointed from the Republic of Texas’ ministers to find the most attractive area in their territory on which to erect the seat of government. After some deliberation they decided on the bluffs over the Colorado River below Lake Travis. The Governor’s mansion, perched on a hill overlooking the city, the home built for France’s minister to the Republic and the homes of various civic dignitaries were as fine examples of Southern-colonial architecture as could be found anywhere in the country. To the east of those imposing structures rose the home of lesser citizens, their business premises and places of entertainment. Of the latter, Hood Street ranked as the site of many of the better-class saloons, a dance-hall, a theater, on whose boards trod some of the great names of the day, and gambling houses. No fine colonial dwellings here, only the false fronts and wooden walls to be seen in any other town above the adobe belt.
Suddenly the doors of a saloon across the street from Mark burst open and a scared-looking townsman appeared. Hotly pursued by a screeching saloon girl, the man bounded from the sidewalk on to the street. Realizing that she could not hope to catch him, the girl halted and raised her right hand, which gripped a Remington Double Derringer.
‘You lousy, no-good piker!’ she squealed. ‘I’ll teach you to go making eyes at that damned Sally-Mae! ’
With that she jerked the trigger and cut loose a shot. Even in the hand of a skilled man the stubby Derringer lacked accuracy. Used by a woman who did not spend time at target practice, and was also wild with indignation-fired excitement, it became less so. Missing its intended mark by some feet, the .41 bullet punched a neat hole through the ear of the nearside horse of the wine wagon and brought a scream from the injured horse. It reared, forelegs in the air, and swung to crash into its partner. Equally startled by the unexpected assault, the offside horse slammed into its breast harness with some force and swung away from its hurt teammate. Taken by surprise as the wagon swung violently, the driver pitched off his seat and ploughed a furrow in the dirt of the trail.
Dragged forward by the plunging horses, the wagon’s wheels scraped on the edge of the sidewalk. Rain running from the edge of the sidewalk porch had eaten away at the edge of the trail and formed a hollow under the planks at the footpath. Usually wagons missed the weakened area, but as this one scraped along so its off wheels crushed through the crumbling earth and sank down. Doing so brought the wagon to an abrupt halt and caused it to tilt over. Although secured by ropes, the pyramid of big wine barrels began to move dangerously. Nor was their security helped by the rearing and lunging of the two horses, the knots of the holding ropes started to slip. The upper barrel immediately began to sink, forcing the other two apart.
When the wagon raked into the sidewalk the man saw its danger. Thrusting the girl from his arm, he sent her staggering into the wall of the nearest building and bounded along until clear of any possible chance of being caught by the slipping barrels. Shock twisted at the lobby-lizzie’s pretty face as she stared at the enormous barrels. Not an intelligent girl, she could still guess what would happen when the ropes parted. She wanted to run, but her legs seemed to refuse the frantic dictates of her mind. Horrified, she watched the ropes moving inexorably towards the point where the knots must cease to function. When that happened all three barrels, weighing well over two hundred pounds each, would come down upon her.
Mark read the situation even more rapidly and took steps to avert it. Leaping forward, he ran by the horses. Long before they could be brought under control, the knots would part. Nor did he think there was time to lift and carry the girl to safety. Even as he reached that conclusion the first rope flew free, fortunately at the center of the barrels, although that would merely speed the disintegration of the other knots.
Halting with his back to the girl, Mark placed both hands against the center of the bottom barrel. The forward knot came free, its end whipping into the air and a moment later the last fastening parted. Instantly Mark felt the barrel begin to move. Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the weight. His shirt leapt and writhed as the muscles of his shoulders took the strain. Though ample, the cloth of his shirtsleeves drew tight under the expansion of his deltoid and biceps muscles. The boots he wore had been made by the El Paso leather-worker Joe Gaylin, designed so that their high heels would spike into the earth and hold firm against the pull of a wild horse or longhorn bull when roping on the ground. Often Gaylin claimed that nothing short of a miracle could rip the heels from any boots he made and, not for the first time, Mark concluded the old timer spoke nothing but the truth. While they had not been made to grip on wood, the heels caught and held at a time when to slip would have been fatal.
Attracted by the sound of the shot, people gathered quickly about the wagon. Seeing what confusion her shot had caused, the saloon girl put aside thoughts of extracting revenge on the fleeing man and disappeared hurriedly into her place of employment. Although a good-sized crowd formed, at first nobody made a move to help Mark. Amazement at the feat of strength they were witnessing held men and women alike immobile. At first it seemed impossible for even so large and powerful a man as Mark to hold the barrels, but he did so, despite the jerks caused by the two horses tugging at their harness.
Then help came. Thrusting himself through the crowd, a tall, middle-aged man in range clothes took in the scene and acted fast. From his hat down to the high-heeled boots on his feet his clothes spelled Texas cowhand, lean as a steer raised in the greasewood country. His tanned, mustached face bore an expression of authority. Certainly he gave orders like a man long used to doing so.
‘Grab those hosses’ heads and hold ’em still, one of you!’ he barked. ‘And let’s have some help down there.’
Given the stout guidance and leadership of the cowhand, a man leapt to lay hold of the horses’ reins. Swiftly he brought the animals under control, even calming down the injured one. However, the cowhand found difficulty in persuading other members of the crowd to follow him. If the barrels rolled from the wagon’s bed, anyone who got in their way stood a better than fair chance of being spread like a flapjack over the sidewalk.
Only the barrels did not roll off. Exerting all of his giant strength, Mark not only held them but started them back into their original place. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the top barrel started to inch its way upwards under the pressure of Mark’s push. Sweat poured from a face that bore mute signs of the tremendous effort he made.
‘Come on, blast you!’ yelled the lean cowhand, walking swiftly along the boards until he reached Mark. ‘Hold her steady, boy, I’m coming by.’
Carefully avoiding touching Mark, the cowhand stepped by him and ordered a couple of men following him to watch how they moved. Clearly a man of decisions and action, the cowhand snapped rapid orders which received immediate obedience. Two men on each side of Mark got their hands to the barrel and, adding their strength to his, forced the bottom barrel back to its original place while the cowhand grabbed hold of the first rope.
‘Just keep her steady, boys,’ he said and started to fasten it to the side of the wagon. ‘Hold it while I get the other end.’
Passing behind the men, the cowhand knotted the second rope into place. He then crept under the barrel holders and secured the central fastening. Checking on the security of the knots, he backed out and nodded in satisfaction.
‘Ease off slow and easy until we see if they’ll ride,’ he suggested.
Carefully the men relaxed their hold on the barrels, ready to stop them should there be any sign of movement. None came and they stepped clear, grinning in the pleasure of achievement. Pushing herself from the wall, the lobby-lizzie ran to Mark’s side and steadied him as he staggered slightly. For a moment he struggled to catch his breath, then rubbed a hand across his brow.
‘You saved me!’ the girl gasped, clutchi
ng at his arm. ‘I thought I was a goner for sure.'
‘Now that’d be a real waste,’ Mark replied, having recovered enough to take an interest in the object of his rescue. ‘I’m—’
At that moment his eyes located a member of the crowd who made him forget whatever he had meant to say. While the lobby-lizzie was real pretty, she could not compare with the girl who caught and held Mark’s attention. Topped by a stylish little hat, flaming red hair framed a truly beautiful, almost regal face. Nor did the figure below detract from the beauty of the features. The elegant dark dress of the latest Eastern cut emphasized the rich curves of a magnificently proportioned female body. Expensive jewelry, in perfect taste, flickered on the girl, just enough of it to add to her charms. Standing at the side of a man Mark knew to be the president of the Land & Trust Bank, the beautiful young woman’s face lost its expression of concern and took on one of blank lack of recognition.
‘She’ll hold if they pull her out, easy, Mark,’ said the cowhand whose timely arrival had jolted the crowd into assisting the blond giant.
‘Huh?’ Mark grunted, jerking his eyes from the gorgeous redhead to the speaker. ‘Hey there, Tule, long time no see.’
‘That’s for sure,’ grinned the cowhand. ‘You could’ve got hurt just now.’
‘Somebody had to do something.’
‘And you was fool enough to do it. All you Counters’re the same.’
Having been with Mark’s father ever since Big Ranse Counter had come into Texas and helped to build the great R over C ranch, Tule Bragg could speak with some authority on that subject. From his birth until riding off to join Bushrod Sheldon’s Confederate cavalry during the Civil War, Mark had known and respected Bragg as second only to his father. From Bragg came much of Mark’s knowledge of cattle work, the foreman being an acknowledged master in that field.