The Floating Outfit 46

by J. T. Edson

  “Sure, no sense in going back to the hotel.”

  Tavener shrugged; he didn’t know what was worrying Waco and did not want to pry into things which were none of his concern. For a moment, he wondered if the young Texan was getting scared and wanting to get out of his arrangement. If that was to happen, the town would fold in and run. Yet there was no sign of fear in any part of Waco’s attitude—and in the last few weeks Tavener had become a student of fear in others.

  After the Marshal left, Waco rose and crossed the room. He opened his package and shook flour over the floor in front of the safe, leaving it lying thick and smooth. Then he left the jail and made a quick round of the town. One thing he’d found out earlier on was that Hodgkiss was a frugal man who went to bed early and lived at the back of his shop. It was surprising that this night there was a crack of light showing from his window.

  The cell bed was hard and not conducive to deep slumber, but this was what Waco wanted. He was a light sleeper, unless in the safe confines of his own bed at the OD Connected. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Some time went by and Waco slept in the darkened jail. At around four, the door opened slowly, and a smallish, dark shape came from the street, crossing the room towards the safe. The visitor, whoever he was, was good; he made scarcely a sound as he crossed the floor.

  Waco rolled from his bed; his stockinged feet made no sound either as they hit the floor. He hefted his right hand gun and, as the safe door creaked open, snapped: “Hold it there!”

  The man at the safe was fast, real fast. He came round and flame blossomed from the barrel of a gun. The bullet struck a cell bar and flying chips of metal stung Waco’s cheek, making him flinch. He hit the ground fast, rolling under the bunk and holding his fire, for the other man was moving fast.

  Waco stayed where he was, breathing gently and trying to see the other man. He watched the door opening and silently promised to get anyone coming through it. Then there was a rush of silent feet and a smashing of glass as the other man went through the window, diving low and shattering the glass in all directions.

  Waco dived from under the bed; he got off two fast took shots but knew neither were hits. Outside, he heard the sound of running feet fading away, and darted across the room to crash his leg into the desk. The pain brought him to a halt, wild and lurid oaths pouring from his lips. Then he stopped and listened; the man was still on foot. In this quiet, a horse would make a noise that could be heard a fair distance away.

  “Waco!” It was Duke Tavener’s voice shouting from the darkness. The Marshal had been worried by Waco’s staying on at the jail and, instead of going to bed, had dozed in his chair, fully-dressed. The shots had attracted his attention and brought him from the house at a dead run; but he’d more sense than to barge in on his deputy in the dark without shouting a warning.

  “Come ahead!” Waco called back as he struck a match and lit the lamp on the desk.

  Entering the office, Tavener looked around, then down at the flour in front of the safe. The layer of flour was marked by footprints and a line led towards the door, made by flour-stained feet. The safe door was open. Tavener went to it and looked in, then turned. His eyes took in Waco’s unsmiling face.

  “Took your money, and both guns.”

  “Only the old gun. I kept my money with me,” Waco replied.

  “What’s it all about, Waco?”

  “I figgered that someone tried to open the safe last night, only they didn’t have a key. Then I figgered they might try again, so I baited a trap.”

  “Where would they get the key from?”

  “I don’t know for sure, so I’m not saying. But I reckon it could have been from any member of the Council, past and present. They all have keys.”

  “They turn the key in when they retire,” Tavener remarked. “That means it’s one of the present council.”

  “Why, a man can get a spare key cut easy enough. Man like I suspect would do it just on the chance that he might need it some time,” Waco answered and pulled the door round. A key was still in the lock. He removed this, holding it out. “This one of the regular keys? I didn’t figger he’d time to take it out.”

  Tavener took the key out of the lock and glanced at it, then pulled his own out and compared them. “Nope. These are the maker’s keys. The other is home-made—no maker’s mark or anything.”

  Waco accepted the key and turned it over in his hands. “Take a good man to turn one of these out. Who could do it?”

  “Hodgkiss makes keys,” Tavener replied. “He was a friend of Pete Walls—or, at least, as friendly as Hodgkiss ever gets with anyone. You suspect him?”

  “I’m suspecting, not saying,” Waco replied. “Waal, I reckon I’ll sleep the night out.”

  Tavener watched the young Texan return to the cell and get on the bed. Then he grinned and left. Waco was acting mysterious; but somehow, he didn’t mind. He turned and, after blowing out the lamp, left the room to walk along the street. His hand dropped and the gun came out, but his instinct still made him try to work the hammer with his stiff thumb. He licked his lips, returned the gun to leather again and walked on. His sole chance when Pete Walls came was to be able to remember what Waco was trying to teach him. He had to get rid of the habit of a lifetime in a very short period, and learn an entirely different style of shooting.

  The morning was quiet, clear and fine. Duke Tavener sat in the jail office with his deputy, talking softly. The marshal was no nearer finding out what Waco had been up to the previous night, and he wasn’t even trying to find out.

  “Tavener!” a voice shouted. “Come on out here.”

  Tavener and Waco went to the door of the jail. A middle-sized man with a hard-looking, scarred face sat a shaggy-looking cow horse outside the jail. A crowd was gathering around, all watching the man.

  “Howdy, Brennan. Haven’t seen you around before,” Tavener replied. “What’re you wanting here?”

  “Got a message from Pete Walls,” the man replied. “He’ll be coming in at noon, him and the boys. He’s going to kill you, and burn this town to the ground.”

  “Him, or Matt Chandler, doing the killing?” Waco asked softly.

  “Who’re you?” Brennan growled.

  “They call me Longley,” Waco answered, looking down at the man’s boots. “You been in town long?”

  “Just come in.”

  “Then just get out again.”

  “Yeah?” Brennan grinned mockingly, his hand lifting.

  Waco moved faster. His hands closed on the boot and heaved. With a yell, Brennan went over his saddle and crashed to the ground. Waco was after him, ducking under the head of the horse and kicking the gun from Brennan’s hand. Duke Tavener pushed by Waco and dragged the man to his feet again. Brennan tried to get out his second gun, but a fist drove into his stomach doubling him over. Tavener let loose and stepped back a pace, then brought up a right which lifted the other man erect and slammed him into the hitching-rail. Brennan clung there, blood trickling from his mouth.

  “Listen to me,” Tavener snapped. “You go back and tell Walls to stay out of town. If he comes, there’ll be shooting.”

  “Yeah?” Brennan gasped out. “I’ll do that. And you be here, Longley. Just be here, that’s all I ask.”

  “I will. But this is between your boss and Duke. If you, Chandler, or any other man cuts in, so do I.”

  Brennan picked up his guns and shoved them back into leather again. Then, mounting his horse, he rode away from the front of the jail and headed out of town, Waco watched him go and a surge of people came round, the men eager to help out if there was need.

  “How many of us do you need?” the hotel owner asked. “None. This is between Pete and me. If there are a whole lot of you here, it will look as if he’s got you scared.”

  “He’ll have all four of his men, and Chandler,” Darcy, the banker, put in.

  “Three—Bill here put lead into Hellem,” Tavener corrected. “You folks go home. I’ve got wor
k to do here.”

  The crowd scattered and Tavener’s wife went into the jail. She looked round at the place and clucked her tongue. “What a mess! Who spilled all the flour on the floor?”

  “Me, I reckon. That gent out there, he cleaned some of it up.”

  “He the one?”

  “Sure, Duke. There was traces on his boot—under the instep, where he hadn’t cleaned them. I don’t reckon he’s rid far. I’ll just go check.”

  Waco left Tavener and his wife alone. Lindy was sweeping up the floor and the Texan wanted to take a walk. He went round the back of the houses, until he was behind the undertaker’s place. It was surrounded by a board fence, but Waco found a crack wide enough to see through. The yard was littered with old pieces of wood, the hearse stood in a lean-to; and, opposite, was the undertaker’s team. Each stall was full. Then Waco saw the horse droppings in the hearse lean-to. He gripped the top of the fence and pulled himself up, then swung over. Crossing the yard, he bent over to examine the droppings. His guess was right; they were new and certainly not left before the previous night. A horse had been tied there all night and, from the hair which was rubbed off on to the side of the hearse, the horse was a shaggy-coated bay such as Brennan was riding.

  “I don’t like it,” a voice said from the other side of the fence as a gate in it opened further along.

  Waco moved fast, diving under the hearse and rolling into the shadows at the back of the lean-to. He saw Hodgkiss and a lean, tough-looking cowhand enter the yard.

  “You ain’t being asked to like it,” the cowhand replied. “Pete put some big money your way when he was in town, and he wants a favor doing.”

  “All right but this’d better go right,” Hodgkiss answered.

  By then they were at the door of the business and, as they went in, Waco lost the rest of the talk. He stayed for a time, then carefully moved round the hearse. Keeping close to the side of the lean-to, he climbed the fence.

  Lindy and Duke Tavener looked up as their new-found friend entered. The young woman looked at his dirty clothes and asked: “What have you been doing to get like that?”

  “Hiding!” Waco answered. “Half-past ten, Duke. Get Lindy out of here to the house. I saw Banker Darcy. Him and Walls from the hotel are going to stay with her. Figgered it would be best, until this was over.”

  Tavener and his wife looked at each other, then both laughed. Lindy stopped first. “Waco, Duke and I have decided that this isn’t your fight, and that you ought to keep out of it. Now you come here and tell me you’ve arranged for a guard for me. You beat all.”

  “You should head out—it’ll be tough and dangerous,” Tavener went on.

  “I told you: I lost my bet and need to work for the money to pay it.”

  Taking out his wallet, Tavener dropped three ten-dollar bills on to the desk top. “There you are. That’ll cover it.” Waco grinned, ignoring the money. “If I take that, I won’t need to ride on. I can stay here and find another poker game.”

  Lindy snorted, half in anger, half in delight, at this calm young man. She shook her head and left the room. Two men crossed the street, one moving to either side of her. She looked at them; they were townsmen, old friends of her family and each toting a shotgun.

  “Waco—I mean Longley?” she asked.

  “Longley,” one of the men agreed. “Tells us that we’ve got to take you home and stay here with banker Darcy.”

  Tavener looked at Waco for a long time after his wife left. “I’m scared,” he finally said.

  “So am I,” Waco answered.

  The Marshal studied the other’s face, trying to read what was going on in his mind, “You don’t look scared. Is it Chandler who’s worrying you?”

  “Nope. I’m scared they might not come and keep me on here. I want to get back with Dusty, Mark, the Kid and Red again. Talked to Darcy. He told me some about how this town was before you tamed it down. He knows that, if Walls isn’t stopped, it will go the same way again. He’s managed to get a whole lot of other folks behind him, and they’ll back you.”

  “They’re backing Bad Bill Longley.”

  “Sure. And, when they see that you can handle Walls, they’ll back you. I’ll not even be a memory in a few months.”

  “Lindy and I will never forget you if, I get by today.”

  Waco grinned, he took a deck of cards from his pocket, opened the packet and tipped them out. “You’ll get by.” He riffled the cards. “Say, if you ever see a man holding the cards this way, watch him.”

  In a few moments, Waco, with his show of crooked gambling moves, took Duke Tavener’s mind clean oh the future. The clock on the wall ticked away as the two men sat facing each other across the desk, watching the cards, while the time rolled by for them to go out and either kill or die.:

  “They’re coming!” A man stepped in through the door of the jail. “Saw them on the south trail.”

  “Thanks. Go pull in the others,” Waco replied.

  “Others?” Duke Tavener asked. “What others?”

  “Longley got men on each trail, watching for them,” the man explained.

  Duke Tavener watched Waco checking his guns and shook his head. For one so young, the Texan was packed full of good common sense and didn’t appear to have missed a trick.

  Four men were swinging down from their horses along the deserted street; Krag, Brennan and two tall riders. One wore range clothes, but his face bore a pallor not in keeping with the tan of the others. The other also wore range clothes, but they were of an expensive cut and only the low-tied Colt gun at his side was not in line with his fancy dress. It was a fighting man’s weapon, plain and worked on to give that extra speed so necessary.

  They fanned out across the street, Krag at one side, Brennan at the other, Pete Walls and Matt Chandler in the middle. Along the street, Waco and Tavener left the jail, to move into the center of the trail and wait for them.

  “You said three, without Chandler,” Waco said, speaking from the corner of his mouth and never taking his eyes from the men.

  “Stanton’s not with them,” Tavener replied, keeping his mind focused on one thing: Drop the hand, lift out the gun, then fan the hammer.

  The hair on the back of Waco’s neck rose bristle-stiff. There, along the street behind them, was the undertaker’s shop. In that shop was a man who shouldn’t be there.

  It was too late to do anything; the four men were in close now—halting and waiting for the next move. Then the pallid man spoke:

  “Howdy, Duke. See you stayed on.”

  “Walls!” Before Duke could reply, a voice spoke from the side of the street.

  Walls looked in the direction; several of the townsmen stood there holding either rifles or shotguns. “Well?” he asked.

  “Figger it’s between you and Duke. The rest of your men stay out.”

  “Yeah?” Matt Chandler spoke softly.

  “Chandler!” Waco snapped. “Did you get my word?”

  The hired killer looked Waco over, then grinned and spat into the dirt. “You the button who’s passing hisself off as Bad Bill?” he asked.

  “Ain’t he Longley?” Krag growled.

  “He ain’t.”

  There was a gasp from the watching men, all of them staring at the tall young Texan. Every man there was expecting the backing of the famous Bad Bill Longley, and this was not him.

  “I’m not. But what I said still goes. You cut in, and so do I.”

  From the other end of town, a tall man, riding a huge blood-bay stallion, came slowly along the street. He saw the group outside the jail and knew from long experience what it meant. He also recognized one of the participants, and a smile came to his face.

  “Waco, boy,” he said softly as he halted the horse. “You’ve surely lost the bet.”

  Chandler looked at the group of men across the street, seeing they were wavering. He pushed home his point.

  “Don’t tell me they had you good folks thinking this here button was Bad Bill L
ongley?” he asked. “Waal, you’re going to learn your lesson now.”

  The killer’s hand went down in that flickering, lightning-fast move which had brought him through so many draw and shoot encounters. Too late, he realized that this was no dressed-up kid he was stacked against. Waco’s hands went down just an instant after Chandler’s draw started; but the matched staghorn-butted guns were clear and lined that brief, split-second ahead. The crash of the matched guns broke the silence of the street. Chandler pitched backwards, two holes in the center of his chest and his wild-thrown shot crippling Brennan.

  At the same moment, Krag fetched out his gun; but one of the men across the street brought up and fired his shotgun, and the gun hand went down into the dirt, a charge of buckshot tearing through his vitals.

  Waco holstered the guns and moved to one side. “This is between you and Walls, Duke.”

  A man leapt from the undertaker’s shop, gun lifting. The rider of the blood-bay yelled: “Waco”—and a long-barreled Colt came from his right holster to buck back against his palm.

  Duke looked back and, as he did so, Walls made his move, hand dropping fast to the butt of his gun. “Duke!” Waco yelled.

  Tavener came round, hand streaking down, but he knew that he would be too late. His hand gripped the gun, thumb starting to move for the hammer; but he clamped it down on the butt and brought the gun out. Walls’s draw was fast at first, but he fumbled it—although he got the gun out and brought off the first shot. The bullet ripped Tavener’s shirt and left a nasty burn on his arm. He steadied himself and his left hand came round to strike the hammer. The Colt bucked back, kicking high. Then it dropped into line again as he fanned the second shot. Walls reared back. He tried to line the gun as he went over, but his next shot went into the air. He hit the ground all spraddled out, arms thrown wide and the gun slipping from his lifeless hand.

  “Good ole Duke!” one of the watching townsmen yelled. “We knew you could do it.”

  Waco ignored the people who came surging from the places where they’d concealed themselves to watch what happened.