The Floating Outfit 47

by J. T. Edson

  Satisfied that they at last had the victim where they wanted him, the trio allowed him to make the first cut. The cards for Sheets and Dishpan were lower in value than the eight of hearts he produced, but it was beaten by the king of spades Un-Mench turned up. As the salesmen had hoped would prove the case, Front de Boeuf attached no significance to the difference in the way the final cut was made. Whereas the other two losers and their intended victim did so in the usual fashion, by taking hold of the long side of the deck, Un-Mench’s forefinger and thumb closed upon the narrower ends. Despite this appearing to be a harmless idiosyncrasy, it changed banker and broker from a game of chance into a highly efficacious cheating proposition.

  Known as ‘humps’, or ‘belly strippers’, the deck of cards in use had been prepared to practically alleviate chance for those conversant with their secret when a cut was carried out. Having been obtained from a legitimate source and as issued by the manufacturer, a dishonest dealer in gambling equipment had altered them so as to ensure either an ace or a king could be cut at will by his customer. To ensure this, the other forty-four cards had been shortened by a thirty-secondth of an inch on the narrow end and their corners rounded again. Next, the required aces and kings were treated so they had a slight ‘belly’ which protruded at the middle of each narrow end. Unless a much closer examination was carried out than the trio intended to permit, the result was barely discernible to the naked eye. Nevertheless, to one who knew the secret of their operation, they were invaluable in the version of banker and broker being played. What was more, as Sheets had appreciated when purchasing the deck, they did not require the long training necessary to develop the manipulative skills which were essential for more subtle methods of cheating.

  ‘What’ll you bet, Beef-Head?’ Un-Mench inquired, after his companions had shown their selections and, also by cutting in the conventional fashion, the young man had exposed a queen. Having acquired low cards, Sheets and Dishpan had already only put up a couple of dollars apiece. ‘Are you going to be a piker like them?’

  ‘Mine’s worth ten dollars,’ Front de Boeuf declared, the comment about the small wagers made by the other two having produced the required response. ‘No, dash it, make that twenty. Unless you want to set a limit, that is.’

  ‘No limits for me. I’m no piker like some not too far away,’ Un-Mench confirmed. Making the declaration, he cut as he had to win the bank. Finding the humps without difficulty, he raised the segment to show an ace on the bottom and a timbre of spurious sympathy came into his voice. ‘Now isn’t that hard luck for you. I’ve licked you all.’

  ‘You win some and you lose some,’ Sheets answered, with an equally false air of philosophical acceptance.’ Let’s give her another whirl.’

  The game continued and, being in contention against the manipulation of the ‘humps’, Front de Boeuf enjoyed none of the success which had favored him while playing poker. Although the trio were too smart to make him the loser every time, even some of the occasional conventional cuts by whichever of them was holding the bank went against him. Therefore, one way or another, he lost all of his previous winnings and some of his original table stake. At last, however, a turn at fair cutting gave him the highest card and with it the advantage of becoming banker.

  ‘Good heavens, is that the time?’ the young man ejaculated, looking at the clock on the wall behind the bar. ‘I can’t stay much longer, moth- I have an appointment I must keep.’

  ‘We’ll call it quits,’ Sheets offered, albeit looking with avarice at the money which still remained in front of the intended victim. ‘Happen that’s how it has to be for you.’

  ‘Sure,’ Un-Mench went on. ‘It wouldn’t do for you to keep your mother waiting.’

  ‘I can manage a few more hands,’ Front de Boeuf declared, responding in the manner which the remarks—especially the reference to his mother—were intended to provoke. ‘Let’s make it worthwhile, shall we?’

  ‘How’d you mean?’ Dishpan queried and the other two showed a similar interest.

  ‘Let’s make it a hundred dollars a cut,’ Front de Boeuf suggested.

  ‘I’m game if you boys are,’ Sheets asserted and, even though the sum would require almost all the money each had before him, his companions registered a similar acquiescence.

  Having finally noticed that the bartender was watching them when his duties permitted, the trio glanced his way. Discovering he was currently keeping them under observation and suspecting he would know what they were up to, they decided against employing the type of cut which utilized the modifications to the deck. Nor did it strike them that there was any necessity to do so. The odds were three to one in their favor and, even without all of them beating whatever card was cut by Front de Boeuf, even a single success would add to their combined winnings. What was more, should he be only moderately fortunate, their victim would be made more susceptible to suggestions that he carried on.

  ‘Seven,’ Sheets announced, showing his card.

  ‘Eight,’ Un-Mench went on, sounding even more pleased.

  ‘Queen!’ Dishpan enthused, knowing—as the game was being played—a stand-off was the best result available to the intended victim and he would have a second chance to produce a winning number.

  ‘Then here I go,’ Front de Boeuf said almost mildly.

  Although he had cut the deck in the conventional manner until that moment, the massive young man did not on this occasion. Instead, he reached forward with his big hand to take hold of the narrow ends with the tips of his right thumb and forefinger. What was more, his grip proved sufficiently delicate to catch one of the humps.

  ‘Will you just look at that—It’s a king!’ Front de Boeuf said in tones of delight as he raised his hand to display the bottom card of the pile he was holding. Then, moving more swiftly than at any other time since the gambling had commenced, he dropped the cards and gathered up the money which had been wagered to place it on the pile in front of him. Thrusting the now sizeable stack into the breast pocket from which his table stakes had come, he went on, ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I must pull out now.’

  ‘Hold hard there!’ Sheets spat out furiously, seeing the attention of the bartender had been distracted by a customer. ‘What’s the game?’

  ‘Game?’ Front de Boeuf repeated, looking puzzled. ‘I thought you said it was called banker and broker.’

  ‘Don’t get smart-assed with me!’ the largest of the salesmen snarled and his companions exuded a similar menace. ‘Why’d you make that god-damned cut the way you did?’

  ‘Well,’ the massive young man answered, his manner still mild. ‘I’d seen all of you do it that way and, when you did, you were always lucky. So I thought I would see if it worked for me—And it did.’

  ‘Don’t try to feed us that crap!’ Sheets snarled. As he was speaking, he started to rise and the other two salesmen duplicated his action. ‘We ain’t the sort to let anybody slicker us!’

  With his face registering what seemed to be alarm, Front de Boeuf gripped the edge of the table as if to assist him and rose even faster than any of the trio. Such was the speed he employed, his chair skidded away behind him and he tipped the table over with a force which had a devastating effect upon the others around it.

  Caught unawares by the rapidity with which the, hitherto almost somnolent young man was moving, none of the trio had done more than raise his rump from his chair when the overturning took place. Trying to avoid being trapped, or further incommoded, Un-Mench only succeeded in tipping his seat backwards and he was precipitated to the floor. Being at the opposite side to Front de Boeuf, Sheets was struck by the descending edge of the table. His chair collapsed beneath him and he too alighted supine upon the hard wooden boards. Displaying somewhat greater speed than the other two, Dishpan contrived to extricate himself by driving his chair backwards. Although he staggered a few paces on reaching his feet, he remained upon them.

  ‘Good heavens, how clumsy of me!’ the massive young man gasped
in a tone redolent of contrition. ‘Are you all right, Sheets?’

  While speaking the second sentence, Front de Boeuf started to advance as if desirous of rendering assistance to the man he named. If that was his intention, it proved less than helpful to another of the party. Because of his apparent haste and flustered condition, he stepped upon Un-Mench in passing. Being addicted to the ‘pleasures of the table’ and having eaten an enormous breakfast that morning, in addition to an even larger meal the previous evening, the underwear salesman was unable to withstand the effect of having a boot impelled by a weight in excess of two hundred and fifty pounds descend upon his stomach. A strangled gurgle burst from him and, although the boot was removed quite soon after its arrival, he was incapable of doing anything except twitch spasmodically and gasp for breath.

  Seemingly oblivious of what he had done to Un-Mench, Front de Boeuf went to where Sheets was sprawled. Bending, the massive young man took hold of the lapels of the bed linen salesman’s jacket and started to haul him upwards as if he weighed no more than a newborn baby. However, laudable though the action might otherwise have been, it was not brought to fruition. Having halted, Dishpan let out a bellow of rage and charged forward with his right hand going under his jacket to emerge gripping a wicked looking blackjack. Apparently the sound startled the massive young man, with an adverse effect upon Sheets. The grasp on his jacket was released in a way which gave him a shove and, once more, he was propelled to the floor. This time, the back of his head smacked down on the planks and he lost all interest in everything for some time.

  Turning with a clumsy pivoting motion, Front de Boeuf flailed wildly with his arms as if trying to maintain his balance. This proved most unfortunate for Dishpan. Advancing recklessly, he was caught with the back of the massive young man’s right hand. It arrived with a force which, in addition to causing him to lose his grip on the blackjack, sent him in a reeling twirl far in excess of the haste caused by his hurried departure from the table. Halted by colliding against the wall, he rebounded and went down in no better condition to continue the intended attack than either of his companions.

  ‘All right!’ growled a surly voice.’ What the hell’s coming off here?’

  ‘Just an accident,’ Trilby replied, turning a less than friendly gaze towards the speaker who he had seen standing and watching from just outside the front entrance until after the trouble ended. ‘Ain’t nothing for you to worry on.’

  Lumbering through the batwing doors while he was speaking, Jack Tinker kept his gaze on Front de Boeuf and ignored the bartender. About six-foot-tall, he had sullen porcine features and was heavily built, but clearly out of condition. He wore a cheap three-piece brown suit, a grubby white shirt without a collar and a Stetson. The shotgun in his right hand served to augment the Colt Peacemaker in a cross-draw holster on his waist belt. Pinned to his food-stained vest, the tarnished badge he was deliberately bringing into view by pushing open his jacket with his left thumb was that of a deputy town-marshal. He claimed to be the senior of the four who served in that capacity, therefore he was in command when the marshal was absent for any reason. However, it was no secret around Abilene that his sole qualification for the post was being the mayor’s brother-in-law.

  ‘What started the fuss?’ Tinker growled, studying the massive young man’s returned appearance of mild-mannered sloth to make sure he could exert his authority without danger to himself.

  ‘These gentlemen grew angry because I won at cards,’ Front de Boeuf replied. ‘In fact, they even implied I was cheating.’

  ‘Were they right!’ Tinker asked, and decided belatedly that such a question could provoke a hostile response, so he transferred his left hand to the fore grip of the shotgun to heft it in what he considered to be a threatening fashion.

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ Front de Boeuf answered, sounding horrified and almost on the point of bursting into tears. ‘Ask the gentleman behind the bar. He’s been watching us on and off all the time we were playing.’

  ‘I never saw the young feller do anything wrong,’ Trilby asserted truthfully, striding around the bar. ‘Way he played, he’s no Joe Brambile nor Pappy Maverick and he for sure ain’t no Last-Card Johnny Bryan neither.’

  ‘Sounds like he wasn’t cheating then,’ Tinker mumbled reluctantly, knowing the first two men named had the reputation for being completely honest—albeit very efficient—professional gamblers. However, the third came into a vastly different category and had acquired his nickname due to the notoriously potent improvement his hands all too frequently received from the last card he gave himself when dealing in a game of stud poker. ‘But that warn’t no call for him to start beating up on ‘em.’

  ‘I didn’t see no “beating up” neither,’ Trilby corrected, despite having suspicions that there was far more to the massive and apparently lethargic young man than met the eye. He also considered the trio had not only received no more than they deserved for their attempts at cheating, but might have counted themselves fortunate that nothing worse happened. ‘They fell down trying to get clear when the table was tipped over accidental like and he was trying to help ‘em up again when things sort of went wrong.’

  Hearing the derisive chuckles and sardonic laughter which arose all around the room, a scowl creased Tinker’s far from handsome face. Knowing he was not as liked and respected as was his superior in the Town Marshal’s office, the feeling that the customers were enjoying themselves at his expense rankled. He also realized there was nothing he could do to avenge himself upon them. However, he decided he must make some gesture to try to reassert his authority before leaving and he considered the big young dude offered the best opportunity for bringing this about.

  ‘All right, feller,’ the peace officer said, endeavoring to sound as authoritative as he believed Marshal Markham would in similar circumstances. ‘Looks like you’re in the right of it this time, but I don’t want to see you in no more trouble or fuss while you’re around my town.’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ Front de Boeuf answered mildly and, apparently, with respect tinged by awe. ‘I’ll do my best to see you don’t catch me doing anything wrong.’

  ‘Good evening, Mr Merridew,’ Cuthbert Alan Bleasdale the Third greeted. Striding swiftly across the dining-room of the Railroad Hotel, he spoke with the kind of tone he reserved for when addressing somebody who he believed might be of use to him. ‘I thought I’d be seeing you at the livery barn this afternoon.’

  ‘Nope,’ the horse buyer for the United States’ Army replied with no great display of cordiality, deciding the other man had come to seek an invitation to join him for a meal at his expense. ‘Seeing’s how you don’t have anything to offer me, I figured I’d leave it until Monday.’

  ‘How do you know I don’t have anything?’ Bleasdale asked, despite the report he had received from Dick Lester regarding the activities of Jessica Front de Boeuf giving him an idea of what had happened. There’re plenty of horses in the corrals.’

  ‘And I’ve had a long talk with the lady who owns them.’

  ‘Just a talk?’

  ‘Nope. She sold ‘em all to me.’

  ‘She’s a personal friend of mine, so I hope you gave her a good price.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Merridew answered. Despite the claim to friendship, he considered it was highly unlikely the owner of the livery barn would accept the kind of favors he was anticipating for lowering the cost of the herd when making the deal with Jessica. ‘For what they are.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ Bleasdale lied, such being an almost instinctive reaction when the excessive price and poor quality of horses he was selling came under discussion. Wondering whether he might have made an error, despite feeling certain the horse buyer would not have given anywhere near the actual figure for such a sorry collection of animals, he elected to be frank about the deal he had made. ‘I’d say she got a bargain for two thousand five hundred dollars.’

  ‘Two thousand five hundred!’ Merridew repe
ated in tones of disbelief.

  ‘That’s what she paid me,’ Bleasdale confirmed, taking out the bank draft and extending it so the amount written upon it could be read. Wondering if he might get a hold over the other man should a larger sum of Government money have been paid so as to obtain favors of a sexual nature from the well endowed and undeniably beautiful Southron woman, he went on, ‘How much did she stick you for?’

  ‘Well now, I wouldn’t exactly call it being stuck,’ Merridew replied, guessing what prompted the view of the sum of money he had been given. Then a sensation of malicious pleasure came to him as he remembered what Jessica had told him of her plans and he drew a certain conclusion for the reason behind her intention to depart the following morning. ‘I only handed over one thousand and they’re mine now. Which I’ve got a bill of sale to prove it.’

  ‘Only a thousand!’ Bleasdale gasped, ignoring for the moment the implication of an indisputable change of ownership.

  ‘That’s all,’ Merridew confirmed.

  ‘God damn it!’ Bleasdale spat out and his eyes went to the bank draft. ‘Why’d she buy ‘em off me for two thousand five hundred and let you have “em for only a thousand?’

  ‘She allowed it was for a quick cash sale.’

  ‘A cash sale?’

  ‘Why sure. She reckoned’s how she needed the cash because she’s leaving town comes tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Is she, by god?’

  ‘Sure,’ Merridew affirmed, then decided to get one point settled pertaining to his original suspicions over the reason for the visit by the local horse trader. ‘She’s coming to have dinner with me in a few minutes, so I won’t be able to ask you to join me.’

  ‘I understand,’ Bleasdale declared in a tone implying he knew there was more than just a harmless and innocent dinner in the horse buyer’s mind when delivering the invitation to the woman. However, to do him justice, he had not come with the hope of obtaining an excellent free meal on this occasion. He had heard from Lester, who had been close enough to see what was taking place although unable to hear anything being said, that money had changed hands before they parted company. It was this, not hoped-for-hospitality, which had prompted him to pay the call. Although a surge of anger filled him as he thrust the bank draft back into his pocket, he managed to keep it from showing. He was helped in this by the thought of how he could take revenge upon Merridew while carrying out the more important task of ensuring his financial interests were protected. ‘And I’ll be going. I only dropped by to ask whether you’d want any horses. There’re a bunch out at my ranch that I reckon you’ll be willing to take.’