The Floating Outift 36

by J. T. Edson

  ‘What happens to us after this, Ed?’ Emma inquired, as the door closed behind Waco and Giselle.

  ‘You go your way, like before,’ Dusty replied. ‘With your fifty thousand dollars, you’ve a better than fair start someplace.’

  ‘Do you know something,’ the blonde smiled. ‘I think I’d’ve come back, even without wanting Crouch’s jewelry, just to see how things turned out. You’re a real nice man, Ed Cax ... Dusty Fog.’

  ‘And you’re a real smart, nice gal, Emma Nene,’ Dusty countered.

  ‘You’ll be wanting to kiss me next,’ the blonde smiled.

  ‘I’ve never kissed a man,’ Dusty grinned.

  ‘At least, this man hasn’t any stubble on his face,’ Emma remarked, running her left forefinger over the mask. ‘I never liked your bristly old beard.’

  ‘Hell’s fire, that’s it!’ Dusty snapped. ‘Now I know what’s been eating at me. Emma, who did you and Giselle think O’Day was?’

  ‘She said he reminded her of Mephisto,’ the blonde replied. Then her hand once more felt at the mask. ‘Oh god! No. It couldn’t be!’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Simmy’s partner. On the stage and in crimes. It was Mephisto who taught Giselle all she knows about picking locks and opening safes. Simmy and Mephisto organized and financed the wagon train that brought us here.’

  ‘Only Mephisto didn’t make it,’ Dusty guessed.

  ‘That stupid little bitch!’ Emma snapped bitterly. ‘She had to get them both in love with her. There was an argument a few days before we left, in a hotel room. I wasn’t there and don’t know just what did happen. But either Simmy or Giselle threw vitriol into Mephisto’s face. He ran out of the place, screaming in torment, and flung himself off a bridge into a river. His body was never recovered. There was a fast current running and everybody assumed he was dead.’ A shudder ran through her, but she mastered it with an effort. ‘Where’s O’Day now?’

  ‘Gone with the others, it looks like. All his gear’s been taken from the hotel and his horses aren’t in the livery barn. Would he know how to get hold of those masks, this Mephisto hombre, I mean?’

  ‘Yes. Part of their act used to be a transformation trick. They’d go into boxes at opposite sides of the stage, change their clothes around and put on the masks and make it look like they’d switched boxes. Do you think O’Day is Mephisto, Dusty?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the small Texan admitted. ‘ Any ways, it looks like he’s gone. And we’d best get going to make our play for the Kweharehnuh.’

  ‘I’ll have to come out of Simmy’s back door,’ Emma remarked as they went downstairs. ‘He always did it that way. I’m scared, Dusty!’

  ‘Lady,’ Dusty drawled and kissed her. ‘So am I.’

  There was, Dusty admitted to himself, plenty to be scared about. Leaving Emma to go to Lampart’s house, so that she could make the expected kind of appearance, he walked by the crater formed when the ammunition shack had exploded and through the town. On the open ground beyond the last of the jacales, the other participants of what might develop into a bloody massacre had assembled.

  All the remaining citizens of Hell formed a nervous, worried group on the side nearest to the town. In front of them, the garishly painted wooden box had been set up ready to be used in the illusion. A gleaming, obviously sharp saw was laid on its top. In front of the box, Giselle gyrated and twisted her magnificent little body in a musicless, abandoned and sensual dance that held the eyes of every white man present despite their anxieties. Yet, voluptuous as she looked, the mass of Kweharehnuh warriors behind the semicircle of chiefs and the medicine woman showed no sign of being interested.

  Studying the Comanches’ ranks, Dusty noticed that only a small proportion of the braves were wearing war paint. There was no sign of the Kid. That most likely meant he was—

  Dusty fought down the thought. If he and the people of Hell were to survive, he must keep a very clear head.

  ‘Where’s Lon?’ Waco gritted irritably as Dusty joined him.

  ‘Around, likely,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’m going to talk to Ten Bears.’

  ‘I’ll do more’n talk if Lon’s been—!’ the youngster blazed.

  ‘You’ll stay put and keep your mouth shut, boy!’ Dusty commanded grimly. Walking forward, he raised his right hand in a peace salute to Ten Bears. In Spanish, which he hoped would be understood by the chief, he said, ‘Greetings, Paruwa Semenho.’

  ‘You I know,’ the pariaivo replied in the same language. ‘It was you who broke the medicine of the Devil Gun and who stood by Cuchilo when he spoke to the chiefs of the Nemenuh at Fort Sorrel. You are the one called Magic Hands by my people.’

  ‘I am the one,’ Dusty confirmed, knowing that to lie would be futile.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Ten Bears inquired.

  ‘To keep the peace between the Kweharehnuh and my people.’

  ‘Those are your people?’

  ‘They are white,’ Dusty pointed out, amused by the note of contempt in Ten Bear’s comment as he had indicated the citizens of Hell. ‘The pariaivo of my people thinks they are such poor trophies that it would disgrace his Kweharehnuh brothers to count coup on them. So he has sent me, Cuchilo and the young, brave one there to fetch them out of the Palo Duro.’

  ‘Where is Cuchilo?’ asked the old man chief who had loaned the Kid his shield, looking around.

  Dusty did not know whether he should be pleased and relieved or even more concerned by the question. From all appearances, the Kid had left the Kweharehnuh’s village and was expected to be present at the allocation.

  ‘Make your medicine, white man!’ Pohawe screeched, having no desire to let the chiefs learn of the Kid’s absence.

  ‘I make no medicine,’ Dusty replied, wondering if the woman knew why his amigo had not returned. ‘I am a warrior. The one who makes it comes.’

  ‘I do not see him,’ the medicine woman declared, looking towards the town. ‘It is in my thoughts that he is dead.’

  ‘Then you have wrong thoughts,’ Dusty told her. ‘He will come.’ To himself, he growled silently. ‘Come on, Emma-gal. Show yourself.’

  Almost as if receiving Dusty’s thought-message, the cloaked, top hatted figure made its appearance. Despite the warning of what to expect given by Waco, the citizens let out a concerted gasp at the sight. It might have been Lampart himself stalking majestically towards the box. Emma was no longer moving with her customary hip-swaying glide, but stepped out like a man.

  On reaching the box, the substitute illusionist removed the saw and raised the lid. At a signal from the gloved, extended hand, Giselle moved forward. She hesitated for a moment, glancing around at the watching Kweharehnuhs. A slight shudder ran through her, but she allowed her ‘husband’ to help her into the box. Resting her neck, wrists and ankles in the holes carved to receive them, she made no protest as the lid was lowered into position.

  As Lampart had been unable to speak Comanche or Spanish, his man, Orville Hatchet had acted as interpreter. Dusty assumed Hatchet’s role, addressing the Kweharehnuhs in the latter language. Reminding the visitors of how effective the white man’s ‘medicine’ had proved to be, he said that the demonstration of ‘Lampart’s’ powers would commence. Those of the braves who could not understand Spanish had his words translated for them by their more fortunate companions.

  ‘And while the white witch is in the box, she can feel no pain?’ asked Pohawe in a carrying voice. ‘Even while she is being cut in half?’

  ‘The saw cannot harm her,’ Dusty replied. ‘She is protected by the medicine which protects all the white people of this town.’

  ‘Then make this great medicine,’ the woman ordered. ‘If it is as good as you claim, no harm will come to her or the people of your town.’

  Watching Pohawe, Dusty felt a growing sense of perturbation. He felt certain that the woman had something tricky up her sleeve. For her part, the medicine woman was conscious of Dusty’s scrutiny and guessed that he was al
ert for possible trouble.

  Small good that would do the big Tejano ride-plenty, she mused as the illusionist picked up the saw. Soon the palefaces’ medicine would be broken and the way opened for her to carry out the great scheme.

  Chapter Sixteen – I Hold Your Spirit, Pohawe

  The Ysabel Kid twisted his head around to see who had lifted the door flap of the medicine tipi. It was well past sunup and he had not been disturbed since Pohawe had followed her companions into the darkness. However, the rawhide thongs still held him securely in their clutches and he could not do anything to escape. His eyes rested upon a bent, white haired old Kweharehnuh man who stepped inside and stared in a puzzled manner at him.

  ‘What is this?’ demanded the old man.

  ‘Set me free, naravuh,’ the Kid requested, using the word which meant respect when addressed to an old timer. ‘Much death comes to the Kweharehnuh if you don’t.’

  Instead of replying, the newcomer lifted his eyes and gazed with fixed intensity at the opposite wall of the tipi.

  ‘I am close to the Land Of the Good Hunting, Raccoon Talker, medicine woman of the Pehnane, the old man announced, drawing the knife from his belt’s decorative sheath. ‘That is why I came to this place. Speak well of me to Ka-Dih, for I will do as you ask.’

  Moving around, the man severed the Kid’s bonds. While the pain caused by restored circulation beat at him, the Texan satisfied some of his curiosity.

  ‘Where are the men of the village, naravuh?’

  ‘They have ridden to the white men’s wooden tipis. Only the old ones, women and children are left.’

  ‘Did Pohawe go with the men?’

  ‘This is the day when she breaks the palefaces’ medicine,’ the old man replied. ‘It is my thought that evil will come if she does, Cuchilo.’

  ‘I am honored to think as you do, naravuh,’ the Kid replied. ‘Now I must ride to my friends.’

  ‘Let me saddle your horse,’ requested the old man. ‘It is outside and I think I will never handle such a fine animal again.’

  ‘You have my thanks,’ the Kid said with quiet sincerity. Five minutes later, wearing his hat and in possession of his full armament, he crossed to the tipi’s door. Before he left, he faced the interior and went on, ‘And my thanks to you, Raccoon Talker.’

  Tired and showing signs of the great strain to which she had been subjected, Raccoon Talker emerged from her secret medicine tipi high on the slopes of Mount Scott. She found Long Walker waiting.

  ‘Cuchilo is free,’ she announced. ‘I can help him no more this day.’

  ‘Count coup for me, Cuchilo,’ called the old man as the Kid galloped away. ‘This day I die.’

  By riding in the direction from which he had heard the sounds of celebration the previous night, the Kid soon located the Kweharehnuhs’ village. From there, he knew that he could easily find his way to Hell. Even if he had not been sure, the massed tracks of the warriors’ horses would have served as an excellent guide. Circling the village beyond its occupants’ range of vision, he urged the blue roan between his legs to a better speed.

  Pausing only to slake his thirst from a stream he had to ford, the Kid travelled as a Pehnane tehnap on an urgent mission. He did not follow along the line of tracks, but kept off to one side of them. That was a precaution taken in case the party should have scouts watching their rear. It paid off in another way as he approached the trees which surrounded the great basin that held Hell. Four riders had quit the main body, heading at a tangent towards the wooded land.

  Dismounting at the fringe of the tree-line, the Kid slid free his Winchester and tucked its medicine boot under the bed roll. Swiftly he catered for the lathered, leg-weary horse. With that done, he glanced at the midday sun as it approached its zenith. The preliminaries to the allocation of the ammunition would have commenced. If anything was going to happen, it would be during that part of the ceremony.

  Darting through the trees on foot, his rifle held ready for use, the Kid moved in as near silence as he could manage. How well he succeeded showed in that his presence was undetected by the four war ponies which stood grazing under a large old flowering dogwood tree. One of the horses had a long rifle’s medicine boot draped across its blanket-covered saddle. The last time the Kid had seen that boot, it had been covering a Sharps owned by

  In that moment, the Kid saw through Pohawe’s plan to break Lampart’s medicine. Springing to his mind, the name of the limping tehnap had furnished the Indian-dark Texan with the vital clue.

  Kills From Far Off!

  Because of his infirmity, the brave must have developed exceptional ability in using a rifle; especially at long ranges. The powerful Sharps rifle, even a model handling paper cartridges and with percussion cap priming, was a weapon noted for its extreme accuracy. A bullet fired by it would carry from the trees to the town, retaining sufficient energy on its arrival to pass through the walls of any building—or to burrow into the occupant of the box used for the medicine illusion.

  Keeping down wind and taking ever greater care with his movements, the Kid continued his advance. He did not expect that he would have to go far. With the prospect of coups to be counted and loot to be gathered, no Comanche tehnap worthy of the name would put too much distance between himself and his mount. Once Kills From Far Off had carried out his assignment, the quartet would waste no time in boarding their horses and heading to the center of the action.

  Sure enough, the Kid had barely covered thirty yards before he found the four braves. And not a moment too soon by all appearances. Already Kills From Far Off was cradling the Sharps at his shoulder, with its barrel supported by a forked stick that he had thrust into the ground. Holding their Winchester carbines, the other three braves stood watching with rapt attention. There was no way in which the Kid could move closer without being instantly detected. Nor could he bring himself to open fire without giving the quartet a chance to defend themselves.

  ‘Namae’enuh!’ the Kid called, snapping the Winchester’s butt plate against his right collar-bone.

  The word brought an instant response. Spinning around, the three tehnaps with the repeaters gave startled exclamations and raised the weapons. On the point of pulling the Sharps’ trigger, Kills From Far Off jumped slightly. In doing so, he tilted the barrel out of line at the moment of the detonation.

  Flame belched from the Kid’s Winchester and One Arrow died with a bullet in his head. Spinning around, he dropped his ‘yellow boy’ carbine close to Kills From Far Off and tumbled lifeless in the other direction.

  Right hand moving like a blur, so that an almost continuous flow of empty cartridge cases spun through the ejection slot, the Kid demonstrated how to attain the three-shots-in-two-seconds rate of fire promised by Mr. Oliver Fisher Winchester’s advertisements. He moved the barrel in a horizontal arc as he fired, throwing the shots like the spreading spokes of a wheel.

  Small Post Oak was torn from his feet by the impacts of three bullets in rapid succession, before he could raise and use his rifle. Although the third brave got off a shot, he missed. He was not granted an opportunity to correct his aim. The invisible fan of flying lead encompassed him. Four of the deadly, speeding missiles found their marks in his head and chest. He died as he would have wished; facing a name warrior and with a weapon in his hands.

  Throwing aside his empty Sharps, Kills From Far Off made a twisting, rolling dive that carried him to One Arrow’s discarded carbine. Snatching it up as he landed facing the Kid, he fired. As if jerked by an invisible hand, the black Stetson spun from the Texan’s head. Inclining the rifle downwards, the Kid responded. Struck in the forehead, Kills From Far Off made the journey to the Land Of Good Hunting—

  Ceasing his operation of the Winchester’s mechanism, the Kid ran by the four dead tehnaps. This was not the time for him to count coup in honor of the tsukup who had set him free. That ancient warrior would not expect such an act to be committed against another Nemenuh. Striding through the trees, the Kid cam
e into sight of the town. Everybody was turning his way. So far there had been no hostile response to the sound of the shooting. He wondered how long the condition of peace—or surprise—would continue to hold the two parties in check.

  Everything seemed to be going satisfactorily, Dusty had been telling himself when the shooting had started. Even knowing that some trickery was involved, it had been a fascinating experience watching the saw biting through the side of the box and, apparently, cutting into the little brunette’s body. He still had no idea how it was done, for the women had refused to explain. Certainly the Comanches had been suitably impressed. Pohawe had moved in as close as she dared, staring with great interest and clearly trying to decide how the trick was done.

  Suddenly the shots had rang out; the deep boom of a Sharps, followed by the rapid crackle of Winchesters. Coming from the tree line on the rim, the lead screamed by unpleasantly close to the illusionist’s top hat. Although nobody took much notice at that moment, the sound brought a very masculine ejaculation of surprise in its wake.

  ‘What the—?’ Waco demanded, moving to Dusty’s side. Then he stared to where the shot had come from. ‘Look! It’s Lon!’

  Every eye had already been directed in that direction. Much to the two Texans’ relief, their amigo made his appearance and loped swiftly towards them.

  ‘It’s a trick!’ Pohawe screamed, speaking Spanish in the hope of provoking a hostile gesture by one of the white men.

  ‘Not on our part, Ten Bears!’ Dusty countered. ‘If there is treachery, you can blame it on your medicine woman.’

  ‘Keep your weapons down!’ the pariaivo ordered his braves. ‘We will hear what Cuchilo has to tell us.’

  ‘I tell you their medicine is bad!’ Pohawe screeched, but this time she spoke in Comanche.

  With that, the medicine woman snatched a double-action Starr Navy Model revolver from under her peplum. Three times she fired, driving the bullets into the box’s side level with Giselle’s shoulders. The brunette screamed and started to struggle convulsively.