The Floating Outift 36

by J. T. Edson

  ‘He talks well, Pohawe,’ snorted the biggest of the tehnaps. When he moved forward, he exhibited a very bad limp to his left leg. ‘We will see if he dies well—’

  ‘Not this night, Kills From Far Off,’ the medicine woman barked.

  ‘Why wait, witch woman?’ challenged the Kid. ‘Are you afraid that my medicine will strike you down?’

  ‘What dog of a half-breed ever had medicine?’ Pohawe snorted.

  ‘I know a half-breed bitch who thinks she has,’ replied the Kid.

  For a moment, the Texan thought that he had pushed Pohawe too far. Rage twisted her features into almost bestial lines. Her hand reached towards the knife at a tehnap's waist. Then, with a visible effort of will, she relaxed.

  ‘It is well for you that I have chosen the time and how you are to die, half-breed. I want you alive to hear of the great thing I have done and will do.’

  ‘Then kill me now, witch woman,’ challenged the Kid. ‘Your words tire me and you will do no deeds worth listening to.’

  ‘You think not?’ Pohawe screeched. ‘I am the one who will guide the Nemenuh as they drive the palefaces from Comancheria.’

  ‘The Kweharehnuh are good warriors, those who are not led by a witch woman,’ the Kid told her. ‘But I don’t think they can drive out the white people.’

  ‘The other bands will ride with us,’ the medicine woman stated.

  ‘You couldn’t have been at the Fort Sorrel peace meeting,’ drawled the Kid. ‘The chiefs of the other bands were wise enough to know that not even the Nemenuh could win victory against the wheel-guns of the soldier-coats. So they made an honorable peace and will keep it.’

  ‘They were old fools and cowards, all of them!’ Pohawe snapped. ‘And their braves did not have many rifles. Every Kweharehnuh warrior carries a repeater and has bullets for it. Tomorrow we will have many more bullets. With them, we can fight and beat the soldier-coats. As for their slow wheel-guns, they are only good for shooting from far away at the tipis standing still in a village.’

  ‘When the news goes out that the Kweharehnuh are counting many coups and bringing in much loot,’ Kills From Far Off continued, ‘the brave-hearts eating the white man’s beef on the reservations will ride swiftly to join us.’

  Looking from the tehnap to the woman, the Kid managed to school his expression into one of amused disbelief. Yet, in his heart, he knew that they had been speaking the truth. Armed with repeaters, against the Springfield single-shot rifles and carbines with which the U.S. Army was equipped, the Kweharehnuhs would have a decided advantage in firepower. Nor would batteries of cannon be of any great use against a highly mobile force of attacking braves who, knowing every inch of the terrain, would select with care the places from which they launched their assaults.

  What was more, the couple had been correct in their summation of how the news would be received by the restless young braves on the reservation. They would be determined to share in the Kweharehnuh’s glory. So the very thing that Governor Howard had feared—and which the floating outfit had come to Hell to try to avert —a bloody, costly Indian war would have to be fought. Certainly many people of both races would be slaughtered if Pohawe had her way.

  Ever since the challenges by the two brothers had been issued, the Kid had sensed that they were instigated by Pohawe. At last he could see possible motives for her wishing to have him killed. On learning of his arrival in the village, she must have come to the wrong conclusions concerning the reason for his visit. She could have believed that some hint of her plans had leaked out and he had been sent in an attempt to persuade Ten Bears to stay at peace—if only nominally—with the white people. Or she had suspected that the Kid was connected with Hell and had not wanted word of the preparations being made for war to be carried to the citizens.

  In either case, she would have wanted him out of the way and the brothers’ hatred had offered her the means. Maybe she had talked them into the belief that they must avenge their brother. The plan had gone wrong for her, but she clearly did not intend to let things go at that.

  There was only one hope for the Kid. That his faith in Raccoon Talker’s medicine powers would be justified.

  ‘The brave-hearts on the reservations won’t follow you,’ the Kid warned, trying to sound a whole heap more confident than he felt. ‘Not when you, like them, depend on the white men for weapons and ammunition.’

  ‘That will not be so after tomorrow,’ Pohawe replied and the other three tehnaps directed knowing grins at Kills From Far Off.

  ‘Paruwa Semenho is a man of honor,’ the Kid stated. ‘If the white people keep their bargain, so will he.’

  ‘They will not keep all of their bargain,’ the woman countered. ‘There will be no pretended making of medicine tomorrow.’

  ‘Pretended?’ queried the Kid. ‘I have heard it said that the great witch woman of the Kweharehnuh does not know how such medicine is made.’

  ‘It is false medicine,’ declared the youngest tehnap.

  ‘So the witch woman tells you,’ answered the Kid. ‘But that is because she doesn’t understand it. Perhaps she does not have true medicine power herself.’

  ‘You are asking to die, Cuchilo,’ Pohawe hissed, playing into his hands.

  ‘Then have me killed,’ the Kid suggested. ‘I say you can’t, because I am protected by a greater power than you know. Try to kill me, witch woman, and see if I speak with a crooked tongue.’

  ‘Kill him, One Arrow!’ the woman spat at the youngest tehnap.

  ‘Try it if you dare, namae’enuh,’ 27 jeered the Kid, using the most insulting term in the Comanches’ vocabulary as he saw the brave hesitate.

  There ought to have been sufficient time for Raccoon Talker to have made her medicine. If not, going by One Arrow’s response to the deadly insult, the Kid could count himself lucky if he stayed alive long enough to come under her promised protection.

  Spitting out a curse, the young tehnap snatched his knife from its sheath. Watched by his companions and the medicine woman, he took two strides in the Texan’s direction. Then he stopped as if he had run into an invisible wall. Fright and shock contorted his face and he collapsed in what looked like a fit.

  Startled ejaculations burst from the other men and they backed away involuntarily. Brave enough in the face of mortal dangers, they were unnerved by the manifestation of powers beyond their understanding. One Arrow was known to suffer from such seizures, but the attack had come on just too conveniently for it to be discounted on natural grounds.

  ‘Kill him, Small Post Oak!’ Pohawe screeched, sounding frightened.

  ‘Not me!’ the brave addressed by the woman replied. ‘Come, brothers. We leave this place.’

  Snatching up the Sharps rifle, Kills From Far Off followed his companions as they dragged One Arrow from the tipi. Pohawe watched them go, seething with fury, yet shivering with fear.

  ‘Cuchilo,’ the woman hissed, glaring her hatred but keeping her distance. ‘If those men won’t follow me tomorrow, I will return and kill you slowly. And if I come, no medicine power will save you.’

  Chapter Fourteen – My Name Is Dusty Fog

  ‘Young Duprez had been knifed,’ Dusty Fog told Emma Nene as they stood away from other ears in the Honest Man saloon. ‘Rosie Wilson had been shot outside the back door, but I think she’d run into the killer not that she killed him?

  ‘Had he been robbed?’ the blonde inquired, glancing at the ceiling.

  ‘There wasn’t any sign of it,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Why’d you think he might have been?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any other reason for him to be killed,’ Emma answered, just a shade too emphatically. ‘He wasn’t a prominent citizen, or an important asset to any of the cliques. Nobody else, that I know of, can handle the barbering. So he wasn’t killed to let somebody else take over the business. That doesn’t leave much else but robbery, does it?’

  ‘Was he a ladies’ man? They do say those French fellers mostly are.’
<
br />   ‘I don’t think Paul Duprez could even speak French. His folks were born in Brooklyn. Anyways, when he used to come in here, I’ve never seen any of the girls trampling over each other to get to him. I’ll ask around for you.’

  ‘Gracias,’ Dusty drawled.

  ‘Es nada,’ Emma answered, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘It could have been one of Rosie’s girls, though. Her being outside and all.’

  ‘Like you say,’ Dusty replied. ‘It could be.’

  Watching the blonde, the small Texan could sense that she was deeply disturbed by the news. Her eyes repeatedly flickered towards the first floor and, in a controlled way, she was agitated by what she had just heard.

  Then Dusty remembered something which he had been told about Duprez’s late employer. Jean le Blanc had been a society barber in the East, until he had been persuaded by a woman he had thought loved him to murder her millionaire husband. Too late, he had learned that she was merely using him to open the way for herself and her real lover. He had killed the couple and carried off a large sum of money and a valuable collection of jewelry they had been meaning to use in their life together.

  Emma Nene and Giselle Lampart had known le Blanc’s life story—and the reason for their return to Hell had been to lay hands on a fortune in jewelry.

  ‘Where’s Giselle?’ Dusty asked, watching carefully for reactions.

  ‘Upstairs, of course,’ the blonde replied, a hint of alarm dancing in eyes which were a whole heap more expressive than she imagined. ‘Why?’

  ‘She went to the bath-house. Maybe she saw or heard something.’

  ‘It’s not likely. She was there as soon as the baths were ready.’

  ‘Did you see her come back?’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma lied. ‘When I went out to check on the liquor supply. She came in the back way and went straight upstairs.’

  ‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted noncommittally.

  ‘Where’s Wa ... Matt?’ the blonde inquired in an obvious attempt to change the subject.

  ‘He went with Goldberg and Connolly to the cathouse.’

  ‘I didn’t think Manny or the esteemed doctor went in for that kind of entertainment.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Dusty admitted. ‘We found a couple of keys in Rosie’s pocket and I want to know what locks they fit. She was away from her place and I don’t see her as the kind who’d take a walk just for the good of her complexion.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ the blonde smiled.

  ‘Maybe I’d best go and talk to Giselle, anyways,’ Dusty remarked.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Emma declared, hoping that the sinking sensation in her stomach was not openly obvious. ‘But I don’t think you’ll learn anything from her.’

  At the brothel, Waco, Goldberg and Connolly were being confronted by the big, brawny bouncer. Half a dozen Chinese, Mexican and white girls hovered nervously in the background. One of the latter was staring at the blond youngster with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Where’s Mr. Youseman?’ Goldberg demanded pompously.

  ‘Who says he’s here?’ countered the bouncer.

  ‘We know he is,’ the hotel-keeper declared. ‘And we want to see him immediately.’

  ‘Rosie said that she don’t take to the marks being disturbed,’ the bouncer answered. ‘It’s bad for the girls, getting stopped half-way through. So you can’t go and see him.’

  ‘Now me,’ Waco drawled. ‘I don’t rightly see any way you-all can stop us. These gents’re mighty important citizens and members of the Civic Regulators and, top of that, there’s me—’

  ‘You?’ the bouncer said, showing his puzzlement.

  ‘Me,’ confirmed Waco, right hand Colt flashing from its holster and its hammer going back to full cock. ‘And this.’

  The instantaneous response robbed the bouncer of any further inclination to resist. Not only—as the blond Texan had pointed out—was he dealing with two mighty influential members of the community, but he was facing ‘Matt Caxton’; younger brother of the most deadly pistolero ever to arrive in Hell and no slouch with a gun on his own account. With Rosie absent—the man still did not know of her death—he lacked guidance and figured that he had better cooperate. If only to save his own life.

  ‘Aw, I didn’t mean nothing!’ the bouncer stated, with an ingratiating grin. ‘You’ll find him in the third back room. Only, way he is, he’ll not be any use for undertaking tonight.’

  Going to the third of the rooms used by the girls and their clients, Waco’s party discovered the truth of the bouncer’s words. Youseman lay in his drunken stupor, but Peggy was awake and talkative. On learning the reason for the visit, she admitted that her late employer had taken Youseman’s keys with the intention of visiting and searching his premises.

  Waco had already guessed that the doctor had recognized the keys. Anger showed on Connolly’s miserable face, mingled with considerable alarm. Going by the other’s reactions, Waco figured that he had made a smart and correct guess.

  ‘Why would Rosie want to search the funeral parlor?’ Goldberg demanded.

  ‘I dunno,’ Peggy lied, holding back the full extent of her knowledge in the hope that it might later be turned to her advantage. ‘She just wanted to is all she told me. You don’t argue with Rosie when she tells you to do something.’

  ‘What did she tell you to do?’ Connolly gritted.

  ‘Get him drunk, is all,’ Peggy replied.

  Watching the girl, Waco sensed that she was not speaking the whole truth. He also decided that he would let her reasons for lying go unquestioned for the moment. Dusty’s purposes were better served right then by preventing an exposure of the undertaker’s and doctor’s second line of business.

  ‘Yousemen always had plenty of money around the place,’ Connolly remarked, as Goldberg seemed to be on the verge of asking another question. He had no desire for the investigation to dig further into the brothel-keeper’s motives. ‘She probably planned to rob him.’

  ‘By cracky, doc,’ Waco enthused. ‘I reckon you’ve hit it. We’d best go see if she got in and took anything.’

  ‘I’ll attend to that, Manny!’ Connolly declared hastily. ‘There’s no need for us all to go.’

  ‘I think it would be better if we all went,’ Goldberg answered. ‘Let’s get going now. There’s nothing more to be learned here.’

  ‘It’d be best if we all went, doc,’ Waco agreed, knowing that a refusal would increase any suspicions Goldberg might be harboring.

  Although agreement entailed some risk, Waco felt that they were justified in taking it. Rosie Wilson had been a shrewd, smart woman. She would have removed all the evidence of her visit to the funeral parlor. She had not made it in the interests of public duty and would not wish for a prior exposure of her knowledge. So it was unlikely that the hotelkeeper would see anything that might tell of the undertaker’s and doctor’s dealings in human bodies.

  ‘I think that we should send for Crouch to come and help us,’ Goldberg stated, as the trio left the brothel.

  Since their clash of interests over who should run the town, a distinct coldness had risen between the former partners. So the words had been provoked by nothing more than Goldberg’s objections to having to work while Crouch was doing nothing.

  ‘There’s no call for that,’ Connolly replied hurriedly. ‘We three ought to be able to handle things.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Waco agreed.

  ‘Huh!’ Goldberg sniffed. ‘I dare say my wife was alarmed by the shooting. But I didn’t have to dash off and comfort her while other people do the work. Some of us have a sense of duty.’

  ‘He’s got him a right pretty lil wife,’ Waco commented soothingly, but without displaying too much tact.

  ‘Wife!’ Goldberg snorted. ‘I’d like to see the synagogue they were married in—’

  Anything more the hotel-keeper might have felt like saying was stopped by the sight of a man running towards them. Coming up, he proved to be one of Emma’s waiters a
nd in a state of considerable excitement.

  ‘Señor Caxton says come pronto,’ the man gasped. ‘Señor and Señora Crouch have been attacked and murdered.’

  Having reached his decision to visit Giselle, Dusty turned towards the stairs. Before he could leave Emma’s side, there was an interruption. The bat-wing doors burst open and Crouch staggered in. Agony contorted his face and blood smeared his hands as they clasped on the gore-saturated front of his shirt at belly level. Reeling forward a few steps, he stood swaying and glaring around.

  Racing across the barroom, Dusty caught Crouch as his legs buckled and he started to collapse. Gently easing the man into a sitting position, Dusty supported him against his bent knee. Pain-glazed eyes stared at the small Texan and he knew there would not be much time in which he could gather information.

  ‘What happened?’ Dusty inquired, then scowled at the people as they came crowding around. ‘Back off, some of you damn it! Emma. Get them back to what they were doing, pronto. And send a man to fetch Doc Connolly.’

  It said much for the strength of the big Texan’s personality that the onlookers drew away without Emma needing to do much prompting. Satisfied that his demands were being respected, Dusty raised no objections to the gang leaders and a couple of citizens hovering close by.

  ‘B ... Betty ...!’ Crouch gasped, clutching at Dusty’s right arm. ‘Be ... Bet... I found her d ... dead. M ... Mur ... murdered!’

  ‘How?’ Dusty asked, conscious of the mutters which arose from all around.

  ‘W ... With ... knife ... j ... just... like ... Duprez. M ... Man did ... it.’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘Str ... Stranger t... to me. Ne... Never seen him be ... fore. He... knifed me as I turned to come... help.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall,’ Crouch croaked, clearly making every effort to think straight and give helpful facts. ‘He wore ... top hat ... had long hair. Had an ... opera cloak on, couldn’t see his other clothes.’

  ‘How about his face?’ Dusty inquired gently.

  ‘I ... I ... don’t know,’ Crouch admitted. ‘L ... Light was behind him. Don’t think he was anybody I know.’