The Floating Outfit 42: Buffalo Are Coming!

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The Floating Outfit 42: Buffalo Are Coming! Page 7

by J. T. Edson


  ‘Which he wasted time on me, ’stead of looking for the buckle,’ the black dressed Texan complained. ‘But what could you expect from a jasper’s rides for the Wedge?’

  ‘You’re lucky it bounced off your fool head, it might’ve hit somewhere that could be damaged,’ Dusty asserted, reaching for and grasping his amigo’s right hand in a way which gave the lie to the comment. ‘Howdy, Kail. Waco took off after the feller’s shot Lon, but there could be another of them on the roof across from the Fair Lady.’

  ‘Go take a look, Will, Edgar!’ commanded the marshal, to whom the last sentence had been directed. ‘What’s it all about, amigo?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ the small Texan admitted. ‘Freddie winged one jasper on the roof and another up there shot him. He’s lying on the street.’

  ‘I noticed,’ Beauregard replied. ‘Take a look at him for me, will you, Doc?’

  ‘I just knew I’d get asked!’ the Wedge trail hand protested, walking forward. ‘God damn it, one of these days, somebody’ll get shot and I won’t get asked to tend to ’em!’

  ‘Then you’ll start complaining because you’ve been ignored,’ the marshal answered.

  ‘He won’t be telling you anything,’ Doc concluded, after examining the body sprawled on the street. ‘The bullet wouldn’t have killed him, but he’s broke his neck.’

  ‘Do you recognize him, Dusty?’ Beauregard inquired, unaware of the relief felt by three spectators on hearing the Wedge trail hand’s diagnosis.

  ‘Never saw him before,’ the small Texan decided. At that moment, guns began to roar some distance away. ‘Sounds like Waco’s caught up with the jasper who tried to shoot Lon.’

  ‘Sounds that way,’ the marshal agreed. ‘Let’s go see. ’Tend to things here, Tom.’

  ‘Take Lon into the Fair Lady, Mark!’ Dusty instructed. ‘Carry him there, should you have to.’

  ‘Ain’t no call for that,’ sniffed the Kid, accepting he would slow down his companions in his present far from steady condition. ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’

  ‘Good for “Boski”!’ Kevin Roddy said, sotto voce, watching Dusty and Beauregard hurrying away. ‘He made sure “Budapest” couldn’t talk. Let’s hope he and the other two have got away.’

  ‘We need more than just hope,’ Walter Johnson spat back, no louder. ‘Let’s go and make sure they have. Because, if any of them get taken alive, I don’t intend to be anywhere within miles of Mulrooney once they start telling everything they know.’

  Seven – They Call Themselves ‘Bohemians’

  ‘Look, you stupid bastard!’ ‘Peter Romanov’ spat out breathlessly, skidding to a halt and swinging a furious gaze at his companion. ‘There’s no way through he—!’

  ‘A wall, god damn it!’ ‘Rudolph Petrovich’ was ejaculating at the same instant, also stopping as he too realized there was no other choice. Turning a similarly accusatory glance at the man by his side, he continued just as heatedly and with equal evidence of feeling the strain of their mutual exertions. ‘Why the hell did you bring us down here?’

  ‘Me?’ the Yakima yelped indignantly, breaking off his angry declaration as an understanding of what had been said by the other Indian struck him. Making a belligerent gesture with his Winchester Model of 1873 rifle, he continued, ‘It was your god damned idea to come this way!’

  ‘Don’t try to lay the blame on me, your ass-hole!’ the Onondaga warned, accompanying the words with a threatening motion from the Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker revolver he was carrying in his right hand. Possessed of an identical desire to exculpate himself, he asserted with no greater justification, ‘It was you who turned in here first. I just followed you.’

  Unlike the two conspirators on the roof opposite the Fair Lady Saloon, ‘Romanov’ and ‘Petrovich’ had not lingered after having carried out their part in the intended assassination of Dusty Fog and the Ysabel Kid. Nor had they been required to do so according to the instructions upon which they were acting. When assigning them to their duties, aware that being at street level would render them more readily accessible for reprisals, Walter Johnson had stressed the necessity for an immediate and hurried departure as soon as they had done what was required of them. Therefore, having seen the black-clad Texan was hit by the shot which the Yakima had fired at him, they had retreated without making any attempt to ascertain whether or not he had sustained a fatal injury.

  Finding they were being followed, the pair had decided against acting upon the rest of the advice given by the New Englander. It had been his suggestion that, once away from the alley, the Winchester at least should be discarded and, as to do so would be less likely to attract unwanted attention, they should walk instead of keeping running. Without having indulged in any discussion, they had mutually concluded that either to slow down or divest themselves of their weapons would be most unwise. However, in spite of having retained the Winchester and revolver, they had had no intention of stopping to try to frighten off or kill their solitary pursuer.

  Not only had ‘Romanov’ and ‘Petrovich’ realized that to halt and fight would offer an opportunity for the local peace officers to arrive and join in the fray, but neither had forgotten the grim warning given by Johnson. He had claimed that all the men likely to be in the company of their intended victims, even the one coming after them, were exceptionally competent gunfighters. While neither would have made the admission openly, they were conscious of their own limitations along such lines. What shooting they had done previously had been restricted to motionless and harmless paper targets. Each was disinclined to face the risks attendant on tangling with the Texan, his youth notwithstanding, who was sticking to their trail with grim persistence.

  By taking a roundabout route to the Grimsdyke Temperance Hotel, although it was through a section of Mulrooney they had not previously traversed, the two ‘Bohemians’ had hoped to lose their pursuer without the need for a confrontation. Having led sedentary lives in the East, continuing their hurried flight was calling for much greater physical effort than either had ever had to exert. Hoping to throw the dogged pursuer off their track, they had turned a corner while he was out of sight and discovered the way was blocked by the wooden wall. It was too high to be climbed quickly, particularly in their close to winded condition, and it extended to the building on either side without any sign of a gate. To make matters worse, there was nothing in the cul-de-sac behind which they might hide.

  Regardless of the extreme gravity of the situation, neither ‘Romanov’ nor ‘Petrovich’ could resist trying to blame the error of judgment upon his companion!

  However, the recriminations were short-lived!

  Even as the pair were speaking and turning away from the wall, they heard the footsteps of their pursuer approaching from nearer than they had expected!

  Then a light came on and the Indians saw the shadow of the blond youngster starting to appear beyond the corner of the building around which they had come!

  A surge of relief flooded through each ‘Bohemian’ as they arrived at an identical conclusion. In spite of the high regard in which Johnson apparently held him, the young Texan clearly failed to appreciate the danger in which he was being placed by the light to his rear. Not only was the black silhouette being thrown ahead giving a warning of his presence, it was allowing them to ascertain his exact position in relation to themselves. Oblivious of this, he was continuing the reckless advance and would soon be in view beyond the end of the building.

  Exchanging glances, ‘Romanov’ and ‘Petrovich’ raised and lined their respective weapons at the corner!

  In preparation for opening fire, two forefingers tightened upon triggers!

  Quivering with anticipation, which was three parts fear for the consequences of failure, the Yakima and the Onondaga watched the shadow lengthening. Although neither had ever heard the term, each was in the state of nervous tension known to hunters as ‘buck fever’ because it frequently afflicted budding sportsmen awaiting the first sight of their qua
rry. ‘Romanov’ had already experienced a similar sensation while he was lining his rifle at the Ysabel Kid. However, it was now greatly intensified by the much closer proximity of his latest human target and the realization that he no longer had the benefit of his presence being unsuspected by the intended victim. Not that, he told himself in an attempt to steady his shaking hands, the Texan was showing signs of being alarmed or deterred by the knowledge.

  More of the shadow was coming into view!

  Another two strides should carry the blond youngster past the corner!

  At most, only one more step was needed!

  ‘Now!’ ‘Romanov’ shouted—reverting to his native Yakima tongue in the stress of the moment—an instant before he considered the final stride would be taken by the Texan, wanting to ensure that his companion fired at the appropriate moment and did not leave everything to him.

  ‘Kill him!’ ‘Petrovich’ yelled simultaneously—just as inadvertently speaking Onondaga—and, having just as little faith in the other Indian to assess the situation correctly, impelled by the same motive.

  Although the throes of ‘buck fever’ had caused each ‘Bohemian’ to employ his native tongue, which the other did not understand, the exclamations produced the desired effect. Both instantly completed the pressure on the triggers of their weapons. Released from the sears, the hammers of the rifle and revolver snapped forward and the shots rang out at the same instant.

  However, the anticipated target had not arrived where the bullets were being sent!

  Unfortunately for ‘Romanov’ and ‘Petrovich’, their intended victim had been fully alert to the danger caused by the shadow which was preceding him!

  Johnson had been correct in the warning he had given with regards to Waco!

  Ever since he was big enough to hold and fire one, the blond youngster had been using firearms. He had received much valuable advice from such acknowledged masters as the Washita curly wolf, Clay Allison, Mark Counter and Dusty Fog and had acquired considerable practical experience in all aspects of gunfighting. Therefore, he was far from being the unthinking and reckless victim which the waiting pair expected. While aware of the peril created by the light to his rear, he had also seen he might be able to turn this to his advantage.

  Instead of continuing to run until in view of the men in the cul-de-sac, timing the movement with the knowledge that his life depended upon its accuracy, Waco spiked the high heel of his descending boot into the ground. Performing one of the functions for which his footwear was designed, this allowed him to avoid passing beyond the shelter offered by the building. Even as he was bringing himself to an abrupt halt, he heard the shouted words. The crashes of the rifle and revolver followed too quickly for him to realize these had not been spoken in English. However, not only did the bullets pass harmlessly in front of him to end their flight in the wall at the opposite side of the alley, but the glow from the muzzle blasts allowed him to estimate the positions of his would-be killers.

  Listening to what he assumed correctly to be startled exclamations from inside the cul-de-sac, Waco was not aware that two different languages were being used. Concluding that he was up against ‘foreigners’ of some kind, he resumed his briefly interrupted advance without taking time to wonder from which country they might originate. Thrusting himself from behind the building, putting to use the information he had acquired, he turned his torso and started swinging his Colts in the directions which he had deduced would point one at each of the men he was chasing. On the five and a half inch long barrels ceasing their horizontal arcs, being aimed at just over waist level and by instinctive alignment, the right hand weapon roared. An instant later, its mate was also discharged.

  Discovering he had made the mistake of firing prematurely, the blame which ‘Petrovich’ started to lay upon ‘Romanov’ in his native tongue was brought to an end by the .45 bullet which ripped into the center of his throat. Commencing a similar accusation in the language of his race, the Yakima was prevented from completing it by the second piece of conical lead entering his left breast to slash through his heart. Turning away from his companion, who was also being spun around, he allowed the Winchester to fall from his hands and followed it to the ground.

  Sent reeling into the corner of the wall and left side building, blood gushing in a flood from his injury, the Onondaga neither fell nor dropped his revolver. Held erect, if crouching, he gurgled what would have been hate filled words if the bullet had not cut his vocal cords along with the veins and arteries of his neck. Grasping the butt with both hands, he exerted his failing strength in an attempt to raise and cock the revolver.

  On the point of acting as was dictated by his training as a gun fighter, by continuing to shoot on finding himself confronted by a wounded adversary who still retained a weapon and showed signs of meaning to try and use it, the blond youngster refrained. Mindful of the desirability of taking a living prisoner to be questioned, he darted towards the crouching figure. Watching the long barreled weapon, he was ready to take any evasive action which might prove necessary. However, none was required. Before he arrived, or it could be lined at him, the man crumpled and the Colt slipped from hands which were suddenly inoperative.

  Coming to a halt, without the need for conscious thought, the youngster took the precaution of kicking aside the revolver discarded by the feebly moving figure crouching huddled in the corner. While he was turning his attention to the other would-be assailant, he heard footsteps approaching from his rear and a moving glow of light improved visibility in the cul-de-sac. Glancing over his right shoulder, he identified the two armed men coming from the alley as the owner and chief clerk, the latter carrying a lantern, of the freight outfit. They were acquaintances from his days as a peace officer in Mulrooney and the recognition was mutual.

  ‘It’s you, Waco!’ greeted the taller of the newcomers, lowering the shotgun he was holding in a position of readiness. ‘From the look of things. I’d say you’ve found yourself a mite of trouble.’

  ‘If it isn’t trouble, it’ll do me fine until some real trouble comes along,’ the youngster replied, returning the Colts to their holsters as he was satisfied there would no longer be any need for them. ‘That jasper with the rifle gunned down the Kid.’

  ‘The hell you say!’ the owner of the freight outfit growled. There was genuine sympathy in his voice as he continued, ‘Was he hurt bad?’

  ‘I didn’t wait to find out afore I came after them,’ Waco admitted and, with the urgency of the situation over, the deep concern he had been holding in check began to well up. ‘Can you get the doctor fetched pronto, Whit? This one’s still alive and might be able to tell us why them and some more were laying for Dusty ’n’ Lon.’

  ‘They’re both cashed in,’ Doc Leroy reported, having conducted a thorough examination of the two men shot by the blond youngster in the cul-de-sac. Knowing the local doctor had left town to visit a patient, Town Marshal Kail Beauregard had asked him to perform the task. It was made easier by the owner of the freight outfit, having anticipated the need, having sent for extra lanterns before they arrived. ‘And, even happen the one in the corner hadn’t bled to death quicker than anybody could have stopped it, he couldn’t have done any talking shot in the throat like he was.’

  Respecting the members of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit for the part they had played in establishing law and order during the vital formative days of Mulrooney, the owner of the freight business had had no qualms over doing as Waco had requested. Having sent his clerk with the message for the doctor, knowing the close bonds between the Texans, he had offered to keep watch over the wounded man without needing to be asked. Filled with anxiety over the well being of the Ysabel Kid, the youngster had been grateful for the suggestion. Satisfied everything was in good hands, he had set off for the Fair Lady Saloon. Before covering half the distance, he was met by Dusty Fog, the slender Wedge trail hand, the marshal and two deputies. Relieved to hear that his black dressed amigo was not seriously injur
ed, he had guided them back to the scene of his encounter with the would-be killers. On the way, he had described what had taken place and expressed his hope of obtaining information from the wounded survivor.

  ‘I’m right sorry I wasn’t able to take at least one of ’em alive, Kail,’ Waco apologized, after Doc had given his report. ‘Trouble being, knowing where they’d gone, I figured they was like’ to come bu’sting out, heads down and horns a-hooking, when they found’s how they’d run themselves into a blind canyon. So I reckoned they’d best be stopped where there wasn’t nobody else around to get hurt in the fussing. Only, what with the poor light ’n’ all, there wasn’t no chance of doing any fancy shooting’s ’d’ve let me bring them in just hurt.’

  ‘You did what needed doing,’ Beauregard asserted, satisfied that the blond youngster would have taken both men prisoner if granted an opportunity. ‘And, even though I likely shouldn’t say it according to how some people think, I’d sooner they was taken out this way than left able to start a shooting fuss that could’ve seen innocent bystanders taking lead.’ Turning his attention from Waco, he went on, ‘Do you know either of them, Dusty?’

  ‘No more than I did the one lying on the street across from the Fair Lady,’ the small Texan replied, once again looking at the two supine bodies.

  ‘Would you have been having trouble with any other spread, Cap’n Fog?’ inquired the youngest of the deputy town marshals, being a keen student of the literature giving instruction in the fast growing subject of deductive reasoning.

  ‘None that’s bad enough for them to come after us with guns,’ Dusty answered, knowing what was behind the question.

  ‘They’re not cowhands, no matter how they’re dressed,’ Waco claimed, indicating the footwear worn by his victims. ‘Those aren’t cowhand boots. Top of which, I’d say they was foreigners of some kind. Leastwise, it wasn’t English they started talking when they found I hadn’t run out so’s they could shoot me.’

 

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