The Floating Outift 36

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Could be he’s an owlhoot looking for Hell,’ Waco suggested.

  ‘Ways things are right now,’ the Kid drawled, ‘he’s likely to find it a whole lot sooner than he’d figured on. Only it won’t be the “Hell” he’s hunting.’

  ‘That’s for sure!’ Waco breathed, swinging his gaze from the rider. ‘You see ’em, Lon?’

  ‘Ten minutes back,’ the Kid exaggerated and twisted in his saddle to wave for Dusty to keep the women away.

  Even when he became aware of the half a dozen Kweharehnuh braves who had appeared and sat watching him, the rider displayed no great alarm. Instead, he merely lifted his right hand in a friendly greeting. His behavior indicated that Waco had guessed correctly about his station in life. If he was an outlaw on his way to Hell and under the impression that he had nothing to fear from the Kweharehnuh, he received a rapid and unmistakable disillusionment. Instead of responding with an amiable gesture, one of the younger members of the Comanche group raised and fired a Spencer carbine.

  As the bullet hissed by his head, the man gave a startled jerk and let go of the pack-horse’s lead rope. He did not, however, take the appropriate and sensible course of trying to gallop to safety. Instead, he tilted to the left and his right hand wrapped around the wrist of a Winchester rifle’s butt. Sliding the rifle from its boot, he straightened up on the saddle. Two more of the tuivitsis—there was only one warrior of tehnap status present—cut loose with their repeaters. Neither hit the man, but one’s bullet spiked up an eruption of dirt to his horse’s right. The other’s lead rose in a vicious whining ricochet that passed within inches of the animal’s right ear.

  Giving his first hint that he had realized conditions had changed in the Palo Duro, the man attempted to rein around his mount. At that moment it was rearing its fore legs into the air and trying to back away on the hind limbs. It was moving to the left and its rider attempted to guide it in the opposite direction. His unequally distributed weight caused the horse’s hind legs to slide to the left and its front hooves thrust forward in an unavailing bid to regain its equilibrium.

  Despite his casual disregard for what the watching Texans regarded as essential precautions of Palo Duro life, the man proved himself capable of swift movement in an emergency. Almost before his mount’s right rump had hit the ground, he had freed his feet from the stirrups irons and kicked his left leg forward across the animal’s neck. Springing clear, he landed on slightly bent legs and the Winchester rifle’s wooden fore grip slapped into his left palm.

  Fast though the man had reacted, he had not done so a moment too soon. Letting out ringing war whoops, the braves jumped their mounts from stationary to a gallop almost in one motion. They fanned out, boiling down the slope at reckless speed and each with the same intention; to be the one who counted coup on the hated white brother and who, by doing so, would be entitled to the first pick at the victim’s property.

  Taking the brass butt of the Winchester to his shoulder, the man sighted and fired at the nearest of the warriors. Down went the tuivitsi’s horse, head shot and buckling forward as its legs folded beneath it. With typical Comanche agility, the young brave not only quit the stricken animal’s back and landed without injury, but he hit the ground running. Without a moment’s hesitation after his narrow escape, he continued to bound onwards.

  ‘We’d best go lend the feller a hand,’ the Kid commented as the attack was launched, signaling with his heels for the blue roan to start moving.

  ‘Be best,’ Waco confirmed and his tobiano sprang forward alongside the dark Texan’s mount.

  Topping the rim, the Kid and Waco unshipped from their saddles. They released the split-ended reins, ground-hitching the horses as effectively as if they had knotted the leather straps to a saloon’s hitching rail. Advancing a few strides, so that the noise of their shots would not be too close to the horses, the Texans prepared to help the stranger.

  While his horse struggled to its feet and loped away, until stopped by its trailing reins, the man turned his rifle on the dismounted Indian. He himself was under fire from the rest of the braves, but he did not allow that to fluster him. Taking aim as the brave bounded on to a rock, he fired. Hit in the head, the tuivitsi threw aside his Winchester carbine and pitched over backwards. Lead hissed around the man, but none of it struck him. None of the tuivitsis had had sufficient experience to perform accurate shooting from the back of a war pony thundering at top speed over sloping, irregular ground.

  Maybe the tehnap in the party would have had better success, but fate—in the shape of the Ysabel Kid—robbed him of the opportunity. Having decided that the experienced warrior posed the greatest threat to the man, the Kid had nullified it with his ‘old yellowboy’ 18 rifle. Standing erect, the dark Texan lined and fired with what barely seemed time to take aim. For all that, the tehnap’s head snapped back sharply and he slid rearwards over his mount’s rump.

  Delaying only long enough to kneel and support his left elbow on his bent right knee, Waco blasted the tuivitsi who had started the shooting from his fast-moving bay pony.

  Ignoring their companions, the remaining trio of tuivitsi kept shooting and advancing. Knowing that there was no other way to save the white man, the Kid turned his rifle on the center rider. Through the swirl of powder smoke, he saw that he had made a hit; but the man had also selected that particular tuivitsi as his target. Waco’s rifle had sent the right hand warrior sliding sideways from his horse, but the last of the attackers was drawing closer. He was rapidly approaching a distance from which he would be unlikely to miss, even from a moving base.

  The sound of hooves from behind reached the Kid’s ears. More than one horse at that. Not that he felt alarmed, guessing correctly that Dusty had come up to lend a hand. Either with the small Texan’s permission, or disobeying orders, the women had followed him. Emma and Giselle came over the rim just after the Kid and Waco fired their second shots.

  Eager as he might be to count coup, the tuivitsi knew enough to watch more than his intended victim. He had detected the two ride-plenties on the other slope and noticed a third coming to join them. Then his eyes went to the women. Instantly all thought of killing and loot departed from his mind. There was something of greater importance on hand; a matter which could not even be delayed while he shot down the unhorsed white man.

  ‘White witch!’ the brave yelled, whirling his mount into a tight turn that saved his life.

  Three bullets, any of which would have struck a vital region of his person went by the tuivitsi’s body as he made the abrupt, violent change of direction. Guiding the pony in a weaving line, he flattened himself along its neck to offer a smaller, more elusive target. It said much for his early training that he escaped with his life. Four times the Kid’s rifle cracked, but the flying lead narrowly missed its mark. Then the tuivitsi had rocketed over the rim and was gone from sight.

  ‘Ole Ka-Dih’s 19 siding the Kweharehnuh, not the Pehnane today,’ Waco commented, having watched the Kid’s abortive attempts to hit the departing tuivitsi.

  ‘Could be we’ll come to regret it,’ the dark-faced Texan replied grimly. ‘He saw Giselle, yelled “White witch” and took off like the devil after a yearling. Likely he’ll be back, with company.’

  ‘Which case, I’ll go catch that feller’s hoss,’ Waco drawled. ‘This’ll not be a good place to be when him and his company get here.’

  While the young blond went to gather up the man’s mount and pack horse, Dusty, the Kid and the two women rode down the slope. Resting the barrel of his rifle on the top of his shoulder, the man turned towards them. His eyes narrowed a little as they flickered from Emma to Giselle and back. However, he advanced with a friendly smile on his lips.

  ‘I reckon I owe you gentlemen my thanks,’ the man said. ‘My name’s O’Day. My friends call me “Break”.’

  Chapter Seven – They Want Her For Something

  Dusty Fog matched Waco’s summation concerning Break O’Day’s presence in their vicinity. S
o, without being too obvious about it, he studied every detail of the man’s appearance.

  First item of interest, the gunbelt was the rig of a fast man with a Colt. If O’Day could use it to its full potential, he would be a man to be reckoned with in a corpse-and-cartridge affair. Of good quality, his clothes and boots showed signs of hard travelling; but they were otherwise newly purchased.

  Turning his attention to O’Day’s face, Dusty found it more interesting than his clothing or armament and rig. Good looking, tanned, it had an almost unnatural smoothness. Either he had shaved recently, or had a very slow beard, for his cheeks, top lip and chin were devoid of hair. His eyes looked strangely sunken for such a fresh, healthy face and their brows seemed almost artificially bristly. Deep brown in color, the eyes were cold, yet strangely compelling in the intensity of their scrutiny. His voice had a slight, educated East Coast accent. It came out with a clarity that suggested it had been trained for being heard distinctly at a fair distance.

  Having caught both O’Day’s horses without any difficulty, Waco rejoined his companions. Dusty’s quick examination of the animals told him that they were good stock, selected for their respective duties. Although somewhat older than the man’s clothing, both riding and packsaddles had cost good money and were fairly new. From the look of it, the coiled rope strapped to the saddlehorn had never been used.

  ‘We’d best get moving, Mr. O’Day,’ Dusty suggested. ‘That buck’s likely gone to fetch help.’

  ‘The way he was coming for me, I didn’t think he’d need it,’ O’Day replied cheerfully. ‘I don’t know what he shouted to you, but it sounded like one hell—if the ladies will pardon the term—of a mean cuss-word.’

  ‘You could say that,’ the small Texan drawled, seeing no point in enlightening the man as to what the brave had said. ‘Let’s move. Maybe you’d best stick with us for a spell, mister.’

  ‘I’ll be obliged for the opportunity of company,’ the man declared. ‘Unless my presence will discommode the ladies.’

  ‘If that means do we mind having you along, the answer’s no,’ Emma put in, her eyes raking O’Day from head to toe in just as thorough but more noticeable scrutiny than Dusty had given the man. ‘Say. Haven’t I met you somewhere?’

  ‘I would hardly have forgotten so charming and beautiful a lady as yourself, ma’am,’ O’Day replied, with a flourishing bow, and turned to take his reins from Waco. ‘My thanks to you, young feller.’

  ‘Twarn’t nothing,’ Waco drawled. ‘You-all wanting for me to take a point, Brother Matt?’

  ‘Go to it,’ the small Texan replied, pleased that the youngster had not forgotten to revert to using their assumed names. ‘And don’t you ride with your eyes closed, boy.’

  ‘I only do that when I’m asleep,’ Waco grinned. ‘Look after my big brother, Miss Emma.’

  The blonde made no reply, but sat her horse and continued to stare at O’Day with puzzled, suspicious wariness.

  ‘This’ll be your first trip to Hell, Mr. O’Day?’ Emma inquired, after the man had mounted and the party started moving.

  ‘Does my destination show so plainly?’ the man countered.

  ‘I’d say “yes” to that, way you took on when those Kweharehnuh bucks showed,’ the Kid put in. ‘Way you waved and all, you acted like they was your rich old uncles.’

  ‘If I only had some,’ O’Day sighed, then nodded to Emma. ‘But you’re right enough, dear lady. I’m going to Hell for health reasons. A hanging always makes me feel ill, especially when it’s to be my own. But my remark might shock you and your delightful companion.’

  Although O’Day had aimed part of his speech in her direction, Giselle did not respond. Yet, like Emma, she had been paying a great deal of attention to the man’s appearance, actions and words. A puzzled, almost nervous expression played across the little brunette’s face. Seeing the man’s eyes turning towards her, she deliberately swung her head away. It was left to Emma to answer O’Day’s politely put comment.

  ‘Neither of us’ve been shocked since we found out for the first time that boys have things that girls don’t,’ the blonde assured him. ‘And there’s a lot of folks in Hell feel like you do about hangings.’

  ‘You know of Hell?’ O’Day inquired.

  ‘We live there,’ Emma replied. ‘Happen you’re so minded, you can ride along with us, Mr.—’

  ‘O’Day, but I hope that you will all call me “Break”. It’s a foolish name, but my father was something of a wit. He used to call himself “End”.’

  ‘That should have been a whole barrel-full of laughs,’ Emma said dryly.

  ‘You’d best go help Brother Matt, Comanch’,’ Dusty suggested.

  ‘Yo!’ assented the Kid and set the blue roan to travelling at a faster gait towards where Waco was riding ahead of the others.

  ‘I was assured that the Indians could be trusted up this way,’ O’Day commented as the Kid took his departure.

  ‘They can, most times,’ Dusty answered. ‘Up closer to town, anyways.’

  ‘Where the look-outs can see them?’

  ‘Huh huh. I thought you’d not been to Hell before?’

  ‘I haven’t. But my informant was pretty thorough,’ O’Day answered and looked at Dusty in a calculating manner. ‘You may remember him, Dipper Dixon. One of Joey Pinter’s gang.’

  ‘I can’t recall any such name,’ Dusty stated.

  ‘He wasn’t in your class, Mr. Caxton,’ O’Day praised. ‘You are Ed Caxton, aren’t you?’

  ‘So they tell me,’ Dusty admitted. ‘But I don’t mind this Dixon hombre.’

  ‘He was a nothing,’ O’Day sniffed. ‘All he did was tell me about Hell and that you’d killed Joey Pinter.’

  ‘Pinter had notions along that way about me,’ Dusty explained. ‘He died of a case of slow. Are his boys on the way back?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. They told me that Hell’s an expensive town and none of them struck me as having enough brains to pull off a worthwhile robbery,’ O’Day replied, then he turned his gaze to Emma. ‘Is there something wrong with me, Miss—?’

  ‘Name’s Emma Nene,’ the blonde introduced. ‘I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you seems mighty familiar.’

  ‘I’ve heard it said that everybody reminds somebody else of an old friend,’ O’Day commented. ‘Perhaps I look like a friend from your past?’

  ‘No, you don’t look like anybody I’ve ever known,’ Emma declared. ‘Who does he remind you of, Giselle?’

  ‘N— Nobody!’ the brunette answered, still avoiding meeting O’Day’s eyes.

  ‘Nobody, dear lady?’ the man inquired, a faint hint of mockery in his soft and polite tone. ‘I thought perhaps that I might recall some long-forgotten memory. A lover perhaps—?’

  ‘N— No!’ Giselle ejaculated and there was fear on her face. ‘I— I’m a married woman.’

  ‘Your husband is to be congratulated,’ O’Day told her. ‘But I’m crushed. I felt sure that I must remind you of somebody. Oh well. I must be wrong. Surely you ladies can’t be going to Hell?’

  ‘We live there, both of us,’ Emma replied. ‘I own the saloon and Giselle’s husband’s the mayor.’

  ‘Then I could hardly be riding into town in better company,’ O’Day answered, ‘with you as my escort—’

  ‘D— Ed!’ Emma ejaculated. ‘Look at Comanche and Matt!’

  The two young Texans had turned their horses and were galloping back. Seeing that he had caught the others’ attention, the Kid pointed towards their left. Swinging their gaze in the required direction, the women, Dusty and O’Day received a shock. Some twenty or more Kweharehnnh warriors sat their horses on a ridge slightly over a quarter of a mile away.

  ‘Whee doggie!’ Dusty breathed and hefted his Winchester carbine so that the Indians could see it. ‘Show them your rifle, mister.’

  ‘Shoot?’ O’Day inquired as he did as Dusty had said.

  ‘Just show them we’ve got repeaters,
first off,’ Dusty corrected.

  ‘Now what?’ Emma demanded, with surprising calm.

  ‘’Less we’re lucky,’ Dusty answered. ‘Some of us are about to get killed.’

  ‘Let’s fight!’ O’Day demanded.

  ‘Only if they force us to it,’ Dusty replied. ‘We’ll make a run for it. If that pack horse won’t come along, turn it loose.’

  ‘All I own in the world’s on it!’ O’Day protested.

  ‘It’ll not be a little mite of use to you after you’re dead and scalped,’ Emma pointed out. ‘Say when you want us to run, D— Ed.’

  ‘Leave us hear what ole Comanch’ says first,’ Dusty advised. ‘Emma-gal, keep us between you and the Indians.’

  ‘You can count on me for that,’ the blonde declared.

  ‘Well?’ Dusty said as the Kid and Waco brought their horses to a rump-sliding halt. ‘What’s their play now, L—Comanch’—?’

  ‘I’m damned if I know,’ the Kid admitted, knowing that the tension must really be hitting at Dusty for him almost to make a slip in the use of the name. ‘I thought I knew all about Comanches, but this-here’s got me licked to hell and back the long way.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ O’Day inquired, fingering his rifle nervously.

  ‘It’s what them bunch up there’s doing,’ the Kid answered.

  ‘But they’re not doing anything,’ O’Day pointed out.

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ the Kid told him soberly. ‘They’ve just been a-sitting and a-watching up there when they should’ve come down and at us so fast we’d’ve thought the hawgs’d jumped us.’