The Floating Outift 36

by J. T. Edson

  Much to the Kid’s further puzzlement, a leathery-faced tehnap, who had been bending to take Hubert’s revolver from its holster, dropped the weapon. Yelling an order to the nearest tuivitsi, the old warrior discarded his trophy and ran to Giselle’s side. Jerking his lance from the body of the saloon girl he had impaled, the tuivitsi darted to join the tehnap. Neither of them offered to use his weapon on the small woman, but bent to grab her by the ankles. With their holds obtained, they headed towards the trees.

  The Kid shot the tehnap in the head, figuring him to have posed the greater threat to the brunette. Even as the Winchester started to turn, Dusty’s, Waco’s and Kitson’s revolvers thundered and all three bullets found their mark in the tuivitsi’s vital areas. Spinning around, the dying brave crashed across Giselle’s flaccid body.

  Then, with the same abruptness that had marked their arrival, the remainder of the Comanches fled. They darted swiftly into the darkness from which they had erupted not five minutes earlier and were gone from sight. Four of the saloon girls, Hubert, two soldiers and ten Comanches lay dead or dying.

  Screaming hysterically, Giselle Lampart was trying to wriggle from beneath the tuivitsi’s body. Having come within inches of being shoved into the fire, Emma Nene staggered clear of the flames. Covering her face with her hands, she sank to her knees and sobs shook her. Belle dropped from the wagon and moved cautiously towards the blonde. Regardless of the Manhattan in the lady outlaw’s hand, the second living saloon girl dashed into her arms and clung on hysterically. On her hands and knees again, Red was shuddering and backing away from the body of her assailant.

  At the first hint that the badly mauled Kweharehnuh were calling off their attack, the Kid had swiveled around and slanted his Winchester ready to cover the horses at the picket line. To his amazement, not one of the departing braves made any attempt to approach the restless animals. The omission merely added a further puzzling aspect to the various unusual actions of the attackers.

  The Kid did not for a moment imagine that the Kweharehnuh braves were fleeing in panic. They had gone because they had seen that the attack was becoming a costly failure. Brave as they undoubtedly were, the Antelopes would not throw their lives away uselessly on a doomed project when they could escape. Nor would a Nemenuh brave-heart, forced to retreat, pass up an opportunity to regain something of his lost honor.

  So why had the departing warriors ignored the line of horses?

  Maybe the whole bunch could not be liberated simultaneously; but any tuivitsi old enough to follow his first war trail should have been able to cut loose, mount and ride away on one of the horses.

  Yet none of them had offered to do so.

  It was baffling behavior, completely unlike anything the Kid would have expected from Comanches in general and Kweharehnuh—who he admitted to be near on as good warriors as the Pehnane—in particular. By birth, training and natural inclination, the Kid had developed a dislike for unsolved mysteries.

  There could be an explanation to the departure without acquiring the horses. The braves might be planning to regroup and launch another attack. Not a likely contingency, but possible in view of so many departures from normal Comanche behavior.

  Usually night was a time for undetected travelling, raiding—called horse stealing by people who did not belong to the Nemenuh—but not for making war. Of course, presented with a suitable opportunity, the chance to count coups and gather loot would cause warriors to fight during the dark hours. After losing so many companions, that particular war party would be regretting its decision and were unlikely to return.

  Or would be unlikely, if they were acting like typical members of the Comanche nation.

  ‘Watch out in case they come back, Dusty!’ called the Kid, lowering his rifle and bounding across the clearing. ‘I’ll see what they’re doing.’

  ‘Bueno,’ the small Texan replied. ‘Waco, tend to the horses before we lose some of them.’

  ‘It’s done,’ the youngster answered, thrusting the Colt into his waistband and running to obey.

  Lowering his smoking Peacemaker, Kitson turned slowly and looked around. His eyes flickered from Brill to the second dead soldier, then moved on to where Waco’s ‘watcher’ was sitting up and shaking his head in a dazed manner. The sergeant was rising, also studying the situation.

  ‘Are you all right, Tebs?’ Kitson demanded.

  ‘Huh?’ grunted the soldier, gazing around with growing awareness of what he was seeing. ‘What— What’s happened?’

  ‘He was down all through the fight, sir,’ the sergeant commented, holstering his revolver. ‘Come out of it better’n Chiano and Brill, they’ve both cashed in.’

  ‘Did they get you, sergeant?’ the lieutenant inquired.

  ‘Nope,’ admitted the non-com and nodded to one of the dead Kweharehnuh. ‘He would’ve if that Blood feller hadn’t given me back my gun.’

  Hearing the words reminded the young officer that he too had been saved by the return of his revolver. They also brought back to him a recollection of why he had been pointing it at his rescuer. If that damned troublemaker Brill had not acted in such a stupid manner, there would have been no need for Kitson to lose his Colt—or to be in debt to a man who he must now arrest, take in and most likely cause to be hanged.

  Well, Brill was beyond any reproach for his actions. That left the small Texan. Kitson sucked in a breath, squared his shoulders and turned with the intention of doing his duty.

  Two Civilian Model Peacemakers lined their .45 caliber muzzles directly at the lieutenant’s stomach, hammers back at full cock and forefingers resting lightly on the triggers. Unnoticed, the small Texan had got up and was ready to resist being arrested.

  ‘Just holster your gun, mister,’ Dusty requested. ‘Leave yours be, sergeant and have your trooper do the same.’

  ‘Keep your hand offen it, Tebs!’ growled the non-com as the soldier grabbed towards his holster. ‘He could drop Mr. Kitson before you clear leather.’

  ‘I can’t let you ride off, even though you saved my life,’ Kitson warned, showing no inclination to do as Dusty had suggested.

  ‘All I’m wanting is a chance to talk,’ the small Texan drawled. He twirled his Colts around, allowing the hammers to sink without setting off the waiting powder charges, and returned them to their holsters. ‘Maybe this’ll show you that I’m not asking for anything else.’

  ‘You’ve got nothing to lose by listening, Mr. Kitson,’ the sergeant remarked politely. ‘They could’ve let us get killed, but they didn’t.’

  ‘They maybe figured we’d be more use alive than dead right then,’ Kitson pointed out. ‘Well, my grandfather always use to say that nobody was ever a loser by listening. Talk ahead, Mr. Caxton.’

  ‘First off, mister,’ Dusty said. ‘I’d sooner you called me by my real name.’

  ‘What would that be?’ Kitson inquired.

  ‘Dusty Fog,’ the small Texan replied.

  Chapter Five – They Came to Take Giselle

  ‘Dusty Fog!’

  Two startled voices repeated the name as the officer and sergeant exchanged glances. Then they swung mutually disbelieving gazes in the small Texan’s direction, subjecting him to a long, hard scrutiny.

  ‘What I’d heard,’ the sergeant declared, ‘was that you was with Governor Howard meeting some other ranchers down to San Antone, Cap’n Fog.’

  ‘That’s just what the Texas State Gazette said,’ Dusty admitted, feeling no annoyance at the soldiers’ reactions. Few people could reconcile his appearance with his reputation, until they had come to know him. ‘What the Ysabel Kid, Waco and I’ve been doing, it helped that everybody thought that’s where we were at.’

  To assist in the deception they had practiced upon the citizens of Hell, Dusty had arranged for a story to appear in the Texas State Gazette and other newspapers. It had told of protests by various ranchers at a beef contract awarded to the OD Connected, and how the Governor had called the affected parties to a meeting
in San Antonio de Bexar in the hope of averting a range war. He had sent Mark Counter, 15 another member of the floating outfit, to the town posing as himself. Six foot three in height, magnificently built, blond haired and exceptionally handsome, Mark had the kind of physical attributes most people expected of a man with Dusty Fog’s reputation. The blond giant had been mistaken for Dusty enough times to give the subterfuge a chance of working.

  ‘And where were you?’ Kitson wanted to know.

  ‘You said that Paddy Magoon’s your friend, sergeant,’ Dusty remarked, without answering the question.

  ‘He was,’ the non-com growled bitterly. ‘I should have a hundred dollars for every drink we’ve took together.’

  ‘Knowing him like you must,’ Dusty went on. ‘Do you think he’d sell out the Army and take up with a bunch of owlhoots who were fixing to kill and rob other soldiers?’

  ‘I’d’ve staked my life he wouldn’t,’ the sergeant declared. ‘Like I said, he was a damned good friend.’

  ‘He won’t be when he hears that you aim to toss me in the pokey for not having killed him,’ Dusty grinned. ‘Because that’s just the kind of mean lie I aim to tell him.’

  ‘Tell—?’ repeated the sergeant. ‘You mean he’s still alive?’

  ‘He is, unless he’s been killed off by eating civilian cooking down to the OD Connected,’ Dusty confirmed. ‘Because that’s where Paddy, Colonel Stegg and the rest of our “victims” are right now.’

  ‘You’re saying that there’s no truth in the stories about y—the robbery and killings?’ Kitson demanded.

  ‘No more than in the ones about Wyatt Earp being a fine, honest, upstanding Kansas lawman,’ Dusty agreed. ‘It was all done for a purpose.’

  ‘The editors of all those newspapers deliberately lied?’

  ‘Most of them just copied what the editor of the Texas State Gazette printed, mister.’

  ‘But he agreed to lie?’ Kitson insisted.

  ‘He was asked by the Governor if he’d do it,’ Dusty explained and grinned. ‘On top of which, he rode in my Company during the War and figured he’d best do me a lil favor.’

  ‘And what was it all in aid of?’ Kitson asked, but he still kept his Colt in his hand.

  ‘To help us stay alive while we were carrying out a confidential assignment for Governor Howard and the United States Cavalry,’ Dusty replied. ‘I can’t tell you more than it took us into the Palo Duro—’

  ‘That’s Kweharehnuh country!’ the lieutenant ejaculated, looking at the body of the nearest Comanche.

  ‘Like you say,’ Dusty drawled. ‘That’s Kweharehnuh country. I can’t tell you any more about what we were doing, though. And I can’t come out with anything to prove I’m speaking the truth. We couldn’t carry anything that might show who we really are.’

  All the time they had been speaking, Kitson was studying Dusty carefully. The lieutenant had noticed that the small Texan’s gray eyes met his without flinching and how he answered every question instantly. There was nothing evasive or furtive in his demeanor that hinted he might not be speaking the truth.

  Yet could that short, insignificant-looking Texas cowhand really be the almost legendary Dusty Fog?

  Kitson knew of Dusty’s Civil War reputation, as a courageous, gallant and capable cavalry leader. There had been other stories told since peace had come, impressive enough individually or as a whole. They had not concerned the deeds of a small, almost inconspicuous man.

  Fresher in the lieutenant’s mind was the memory of how swiftly Dusty had moved when presented with the opportunity to evade arrest. Or of how the Texan had behaved following his taking of the chance. He had come into possession of a weapon with which to shoot Kitson if he had been so minded. Instead, at some considerable danger to himself, he had been content merely to disarm the officer. That had hardly been the act of a cold-blooded killer in a desperate bid for freedom.

  During the conversation, Kitson had repeatedly found himself forgetting that he addressed a small, none-too-noticeable Texas cowhand. Instead he had begun to regard Dusty as a real big man with an air of command and leadership in his voice and attitude. The small Texan spoke with the accent of a well-educated Southerner; but that in itself was not a definite sign of innocence. Too many of them had been driven into a life of crime by the injustices of the Reconstruction period.

  Kitson was a career officer and as such had developed the ability to judge men’s characters with some accuracy. Continuing his scrutiny of the small Texan, he reached a conclusion. Unlikely as it seemed, he believed that he had been hearing the truth.

  ‘It’s a strange story,’ Kitson declared, after a lengthy pause for thought. ‘If you was “Ed Caxton”, you’d have thought up something a whole heap more likely than that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us this from the start?’ the sergeant wanted to know.

  ‘Would you have listened if I’d tried right then?’ Dusty countered.

  ‘Probably we wouldn’t,’ Kitson conceded and finally replaced his Peacemaker in the high-riding cavalry twist-hand holster. ‘I’ll accept your story, Captain Fog, but I hope you’ll not take offence if I talk to your two men?’

  ‘Feel free,’ Dusty offered. ‘Only I reckon it can wait until we’ve got these folks settled down a mite.’

  ‘Hey now!’ the sergeant put in, ogling Belle Starr as she and Emma, having dragged aside the dead Comanche, tried to calm Giselle down. ‘Who’s she? That’s no calico queen.’

  ‘You’re right, soldier,’ Dusty agreed, then decided to become evasive. ‘I reckon you’ve heard of Belle Boyd?’

  ‘The Rebel Spy?’ the non-com ejaculated. ‘I’ll say I have. Is that her?’

  ‘Belle’s been helping us on the assignment,’ Dusty stated truthfully, without directly confirming or denying the sergeant’s question. He saw a way out of a difficulty, providing the soldiers accepted the lady outlaw’s borrowed identity. ‘Only her part’s not finished yet.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help Miss Boyd—’ Kitson began.

  ‘There just might be at that,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Right now, though, those other folk could use our help.’

  ‘They can,’ the officer admitted and his eyes flickered to the dead soldiers. ‘Damn it to hell! I’ve lost two of my men.’

  ‘It happens, mister,’ the small Texan replied gently. ‘But a good officer never stops feeling bad when it does. If you want to tend to them, Waco and I’ll do what we can for the women.’

  In addition to wanting to help the lieutenant get over the loss of the two men, Dusty had no wish for him to make too close a scrutiny of the women. If he did, he might draw the correct conclusions from Belle’s and Emma’s bruised and fight-marked faces.

  Leaving the soldiers, Dusty went to help Red rise. The girl was shaking with mingled emotions, but calmed down when he assured her everything was going to be all right.

  ‘Wh—What about them?’ Red inquired in a whisper, nodding to Kitson and the sergeant. ‘Aren’t they going to arrest you?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’ve got everything straightened out. Just keep quiet and Emma will tell you everything.’

  Escorting the saloon girl to join the other women, Dusty had not time to do more than ask if anything could be done for Hubert and the other casualties when the Kid returned. The dark Texan led Kitson’s and another of the cavalrymen’s horses.

  ‘They’ve gone, Dusty, and aren’t likely to be coming back,’ the Kid announced. ‘How come the blue-bellies don’t have you hawg-tied?’

  ‘I’ve told them who we are,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘They believe it?’

  ‘Sure, but they still wanted to jail you when I let on what your right name is.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, company I keep,’ the Kid sniffed and became serious. ‘How much did you tell?’

  ‘Who we are, where we’ve been, but nothing about Hell,’ Dusty answered. ‘I don’t reckon you’ll need to tell him more than that. Unless
either of them asks who Belle is—’

  ‘And then?’ the Kid prompted.

  ‘Make them think she’s Belle Boyd.’

  ‘You mean lie to ’em?’

  ‘Let the white half do it, if the Comanche in you won’t,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Or sort of make out she’s the Rebel Spy without coming flat-footed and saying it’s so. That should ease what passes for your conscience.’

  ‘Count on it,’ grinned the Kid, although he was not entirely sure what a conscience might be. ‘I’ll go give the shave-tail his hoss back. That ought to put me in good with him.’

  ‘It’s long gone time when you was in good with somebody,’ Dusty grunted. ‘Something bothering you, Lon?’

  ‘Sure. I’m thinking about why those Kweharehnuh jumped us.’

  ‘After loot, way you’ve always talked about things like this.’

  ‘Not this time. They lit out without taking a hoss, and I saw one tehnap drop Hubert’s handgun without being shot nor bothered by us.’

  ‘So what do you reckon?’ Dusty demanded.

  ‘It’s just a notion, mind,’ the Kid replied quietly. ‘But I think they came to take Giselle there back to Hell.’

  ‘You’ve got more than a notion on it,’ Dusty guessed.

  ‘Plenty more,’ the Kid confirmed. ‘I saw enough—the shave-tail’s headed this way.’

  ‘Go and get in good with him,’ Dusty ordered. ‘And mind what I told you to tell him.’

  Leaving the Kid to hand over the horses and answer Kitson’s questions, Dusty turned his attention to the women. Belle and Emma had taken Giselle to sit by the wagon and left Red to care for her. They looked from Dusty to the soldiers and back.

  ‘I was hoping to see you get arrested, Dusty,’ Belle smiled. ‘Isn’t that shave-tail going to?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty answered. ‘Neither you nor me, Miss Boyd.’