The Floating Outfit 46

by J. T. Edson

  A pretty, tall and shapely girl with hair as red as Red Blaze’s untidy thatch was in the office. She stared as the cowhands came in and laid their burden down on the floor. Then her eyes went to Tad Cooke and she asked: “What was that shot? And where’s Brock?”

  “Dead. Red here killed him. It was a fair fight—though I don’t think that will bother Brock’s brother.”

  The girl looked at Red Blaze, then at the star on his shirt. She knew that star well enough; and it was her one ambition in life to get hold of it and give it a good shining. However, it should not be on the shirt of a tall, red-haired young man, no matter how efficient he looked.

  “Where’s Gramps?” she snapped angrily. “And what are you doing here?”

  “Stomp’ll be all right, Tildy Mae,” Red replied. “Just have him a sore head for a spell—then he’ll be mean and ornery as ever. Open up the cells. I’m tossing this bunch in. I’ll fill in the charge-book.”

  “Sore head?” She sounded grim.

  “Brock pistol-whipped him,” Tad Cooke spoke up, never taking his eyes from the girl. “I’m sorry, but he did it before I could guess what he meant to do.”

  “I told you that loud-mouthed no-good would end you in trouble, Tad Cooke. But you wouldn’t listen to me. All right, I want fifty dollars as surety for the good behavior of your bunch—and another fifty for fines for whatever Red there charges you with. Put up, or go in.”

  The cowhands went into a huddle and then, grumbling, dug out their money. After the fine, there wouldn’t be much left for a wild time in town; but they knew better than to argue with Tildy Mae Hollorhan—for the girl had a temper as quick as her grandfather, and she was liable to lock them up for a spell if the money was not forthcoming.

  “Tad,” she snapped, as the cowhands trooped towards the door, “keep away from the bank. Don’t draw any more money out.”

  Tad Cooke’s face flushed angrily. He turned and slammed the door. Red went and opened it again. “Hey, you left one,” he called.

  The cowhands carried their pard out; he was groaning his way to consciousness again. They were passed at the door by Folsom and the girl helping Stomp Hollorhan in. Tad Cooke stopped in front of the slim man and said: “I’m real sorry about what Brock did, mister. Tell me how much damage was done, and I’ll make you out a money order against the bank here.”

  “Thanks for the offer,” Folsom replied. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Where they at?” Stomp Hollorhan growled as he was pushed firmly, but gently into a chair by his granddaughter. “Damn it to hell, Tildy Mae, some damned no-good, no-account ornery thief done wide-looped my badge.”

  “Here it is, Stomp. I kinda borrowed it for a spell,” Red replied. “Be real obliged to wear it for you until you’re well again.”

  “Would, would ye!” Stomp scowled up at Red, suspiciously. “I suppose Tildy Mae’s fetched ye in, though I don’t know who ye be.”

  “Name’s Red Blaze, Ole Devil’s nephew.”

  “Ole Devil Hardin’s kin!” Stomp snorted. “I suppose that ole goat allows I’m past culling out the bad ones in this town, does he?”

  “Nope, just sent me to ask you to come over for a spell. Got some corn-likker in from Kentucky, and wants your opinion of it—when you’ve retired, that is.”

  “Well, I ain’t retired yet. And I won’t while there’s a bad bunch in this town. So you can head right back and tell him that.”

  Tildy Mae moved in between her grandfather and Red, ignoring the young man and using her own kind of tact to get the old man out of the room. She returned and looked at Folsom, then at the young woman and lastly at Red.

  “I think all of you’d better get out of town. Jack Brocksen will hear about his brother and come here after you. He’ll blame every one of you for Brock getting shot.”

  “Never was a hand at running, except from angry redheads who didn’t have sense enough to stay off ole Jimmo’s mule,” Red replied.

  “I haven’t forgotten that, Red Blaze,” Tildy Mae answered. She came round the desk and kicked him hard across the ankle. Tell your cousin Dusty he’ll get the same when I meet him.”

  Red yelled and hopped on one leg while he rubbed the other. “You’ve done it now. I can’t walk out of here all crippled up.”

  “I’m afraid we’re stuck here until we make enough money to move on, too,” Folsom put in mildly.

  Tildy Mae looked at the other woman; there was no animosity in her gaze, for she regarded, despite Eastern ideas, all women as equals. Bella Folsom was a star in her own right to Tildy Mae’s way of thinking; and at least a social equal to any saloon-keeper’s wife.

  “Can’t you talk sense into them?” she asked.

  “Not Frank, when he gets in this sort of mood. Besides, we could use the money.”

  “Look, Red. Do you know what sort of town this is?”

  “Just a cattle-town to me,” Red replied.

  “Sure, just a one-horse cattle-town. Not much for a man who ran the law in Fort Worth, San Antone, or Austin in the wild days. But it’s Stomp Hollorhan’s town. Even if it is the last one. And you know Stomp Hollorhan’s boast?”

  “About never leaving a wild bunch in a town for the next man. Sure I’ve heard of it. He kept the Governor of Texas waiting a week while he cleared the woolly bunch out of Amarillo so’s the next man found a nice, easy town.”

  “Well, he aims to do it here. And he’s too old for it. The cowhands laugh at him, make fun of him. He still goes back, trying to tame them down. Tonight the crews will be in; it’s their pay-day. You’ll see what I mean.”

  Red looked at the girl, reading the misery on her face. She’d seen her father and brother die with a law badge on; and her mother shot, carrying ammunition to Stomp Hollorhan when no man would go and help him. Now she was seeing the tragic wreck of a really splendid career. The old man was a mocking-point for the cowhands—who meant nothing by it—except that it was their way to show disrespect for law and order.

  “If he just showed them the once that he was as wild and ringy as ever, they wouldn’t give him no more trouble at all,” Red remarked, half to himself.

  “I know that. They’re not bad boys for the most part. Brock was the worst. He lived on his brother’s guns. And, Red—Jack Brocksen’s fast; very fast.”

  Red accepted this without question; Tildy Mae knew what she was talking about, having seen most of the fast Texas men in action. Red himself was good with a gun; but, under no circumstances, would he call himself fast. To be fast, a man must be able to draw, shoot and hit his mark in under half-a-second. It took Red twice that time to do it.

  “Who’all’s this Brocksen?” he asked.

  “Foreman of the Cooke ranch. Foreman because there isn’t another man dare try and stop him. He spoiled his brother and he killed two men who Brock got sassy with and licked by at different times. After that, nobody dare say anything to Brock.”

  The jail door was thrown open and Tad Cooke came in. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, as if he’d been running.

  “Bill, the hand you knocked down, Red. He’s got his horse and is going to tell Brocksen you’ve killed his brother. I tried to stop him but—”

  “Thanks for the warning,” Red replied.

  “Look, I’m not much of a hand with a gun, but I’ll side you. Brocksen won’t dare shoot at me.”

  “Don’t be loco, Tad,” Tildy Mae snapped. “That killer would down you, or any other man who got in his way.”

  Tad Cooke looked at the others, then shrugged. “I’m going to try and stop him. In a way I’m responsible for all this.”

  “Ma’am,” Red spoke to Bella. “How about you taking Tad here to your wagon and telling him how much you want for the damage. Then go along to the bank and get the money?” Bella read the signs and led Tad from the room in a manner which made Tildy Mae smile. Then she turned her attention to Red and asked: “What’s on your mind?”

  “Doc, you do some mighty good imitations.;
You reckon you could make me look like ole Stomp?”

  Folsom laughed. “It looks easy, but it isn’t. Why, I couldn’t make myself look enough like anyone to fool people in good light and real close up.”

  “How about in the dark?” Red answered. “Tildy Mae, has your grandpappy got any more white shirts and vests like that one?”

  “Of course, but I don’t see how—?”

  “I do; the idea has possibilities,” Folsom put in. “But it would take someone of my capabilities to put it over.”

  “We’d have to make sure Stomp couldn’t hear us—that’d be the hardest part.”

  “Not too hard. I carry a certain potion which is guaranteed to make anyone sleep soundly, without doing any harm to them. I assure you, Miss Hollorhan, it is quite harmless.” Folsom put this in as Tildy Mae started an angry objection.; “I would willingly prove it but haven’t the time.”

  “What do you aim to do, Red?” she asked.

  Night came to Pinto City and, with it, the rowdy sounds of Texas cowhands in town for a spree.

  In the dining-room of Stomp Hollorhan’s small house, Red Blaze pulled the distinctive black-and-white calfskin vest over his white shirt. His wide shoulders strained both to the limit. Tildy came in and smiled. “Nobody will mistake you for gramps.”

  “It’ll be in the dark,” Red replied. “Is he sleeping?”

  “Like a babe. I don’t know what that stuff was that—” she stopped speaking as the door opened and a man came in. “Gramps, what are—? Heavens to Betsy—it’s you, Doc!”

  Folsom again showed his amazing facility for changing his appearance. The face was lined, seamed and tanned the color of an old saddle, the eye-brows bushy. In every detail, he was Stomp Hollorhan. All but one, that is. Red was so taken in admiration that he did not notice the gunbelt Folsom wore. If he had, he might have thought even more about this remarkable man.

  “Now, who are the main trouble-causers?” Red asked. “We want to know who they are, and where they can be found.”

  “The Sloanes brothers from the Circle B. They always want to fist-fight with someone. They’ll be in the Alamo. Then there’s Dally Dean, three times he’s roped gramps and near on every other man in town. His favorite game is to stand just inside the Bull’s Head and dab a loop on anyone going by. And there’ll be Brocksen. He’ll be in town. He uses the Longhorn mostly.”

  Red grinned at the girl then looked at Folsom. “You get ’em out into the street and leave the rest to me.”

  The Sloanes boys grinned round at their friends from the Circle B. They were watching a bunch of townsmen drinking in the corner.

  “Tell you, Benny boy,” Charlie Sloane said. “That bunch there wouldn’t be wuth fighting.”

  “Naw,” Benny agreed delightedly, flexing his muscles. “But there ain’t nobody else around for us to fight.”

  The saloon door opened and Stomp Hollorhan stood there, just inside. “By cracky, you damned no-good pair. I’ve telled you afore about starting fights. Now git out here and let’s see how good ye are.”

  Benny grinned at Charlie. “Old man wants to wressle, Charlie.”

  “Shall we oblige?” Charlie answered. “Long as we watch his brittle ole bones.”

  Charlie was the first out; he saw a shadowy figure wearing a black-and-white vest. Charlie stepped forward with a confident grin. A fist like a block of rock smashed under his chin and he reeled back. Benny yelled, and leapt forward.

  The door of the saloon opened and Charlie Sloane tottered in. The crowd, including their friends, had heard the sound of the fight. They had been on the verge of coming out to help old Stomp, for they thought the two brothers were going too far this time.

  Charlie looked as if he’d tangled with a dozen long-horns; his glassy eyes tried to focus, then his knees gave way. Then the door burst open and Benny sailed in. He landed flat on his back—and stayed there.

  In the light of the door, the men saw that angular old shape of Stomp Hollorhan. He set his hat right and growled: “Trouble is, these young ’uns ain’t got no go in ’em these days.” He paused, then glared round as they had seen him do so many times before. “You Circle B boys behave yourselves.”

  “Yes sir, Stomp. Yes sir, We surely will!” the foreman replied.

  Red Blaze rubbed his knuckles and grinned at Folsom. The Sloane boys were fair fist-fighters, but anyone who’d learned to handle his fists under Mark Counter was more than just fair. Another thing in Red’s favor had been that the two young men were over-confident at first; and too groggy to do much about it once they realized that Stomp Hollorhan was still a ringy old cuss.

  Dally Dean shook loose the coils of his rope and watched the muttering, grumbling townsman stamp off. He backed into the saloon and grinned at his friend. “Hollorhan’s coming,” he said. “Watch me fore-foot him.”

  The others watched, grinning and listening to the sound of approaching feet. Then they saw the familiar vest pass the window. Dean changed his mind and, instead of trying a forefoot throw, sent his loop over the doors to drop round Stomp Hollorhan’s shoulders. The young cowhand started to tighten the rope, then he yelled and shot through the door, dragged by a powerful heave. A fist smashed into his stomach, another under his jaw. He howled as the noose was slipped round his arms, the end of his rope thrown up around the outstanding porch support.

  By the time the rope-expert’s friends recovered their amazed sense and went through the door, Stomp Hollorhan was walking on; and, kicking, yelling, twisting in the air, Dally Dean was hanging with his rope round his body, and tied so that his feet were well off the ground.

  Red walked on: he was ahead of Folsom, and heard a voice call: “Stomp!”

  Tad Cooke ran up to Red, then stared, his eyes piercing the blackness enough to know that this was not Stomp Hollorhan. “Is that you, Red?” he asked. “Brocksen is in town. He’s blaming Stomp for Brock getting killed.”

  “Hollorhan!” a voice roared. “Come on out, old man. I’m going to kill you.”

  Red saw the big man standing on the porch of the saloon along the street. He saw, and knew, that Tildy Mae had been right when she’d said Brocksen was a good gun. There was that air about him unmistakable to a man who knew such things. He was in a class that made Red look slow.

  Red was about to move forward when he realized Folsom was in front of him and headed for the saloon. The slim man halted in the light of the saloon window and, in that cracked old voice, asked: “Ye looking for me, Brocksen?”

  “Yeah!” Brocksen stepped from the porch. “I’m looking for you.”

  The big man’s hand went down. Red was right; he was very fast. Then Folsom’s gun was out, out with that speed that only a true master ever gained. Flame and gun-thunder shattered the night. Brocksen stiffened as lead cut into him. He stood erect for a moment, then went down in a heap.

  Faces at the window of the saloon stared, seeing their marshal still standing and the fastest gun in town laid on the ground. Then a man yelled. “Good ole Stomp! He’s the best of them all.”

  Stomp Hollorhan was in a bad mood when he made his early morning round. For some reason, he could not remember a thing after drinking his coffee at dinner. He looked around for the usual signs that the ranch-crews had been in town. Yet there was not a broken window in sight, and there was no line of citizens waiting with complaints. The Sloanes brothers were loading a wagon outside the store, and a man walking along the street bumped into one.

  “Why you—!” Benny began.

  “Cut it!” Stomp roared, knowing that they would not obey.

  Benny turned, saw the marshal and gulped. “Sure thing, Stomp. War only funnin’.”

  Stomp walked on, wondering if he’d managed to tame the Sloanes boys at last. He was also curious to find out who’d given Benny that swollen nose and the mouse under his eye.

  It was further along he saw Dally Dean; but, for the first time, the young cowhand was not carrying his rope.

  “See you stopped foo
ling with that damned riata,” Stomp growled.

  “Not me, Stomp. No, sir. Not after last night. I’m surely reformed.”

  Hollorhan eyed the young man suspiciously, but Dally looked quite serious. The old-timer walked on, wondering why everyone was greeting him so respectfully—and how come the cowhands were behaving so politely, instead of hell-raising?

  “Stomp!” It was the head of the Town Council and a man who, though a friend, was trying to get rid of the old-timer to put a younger man in office. “You’ve done it. You’ve tamed those cowhands down. It was a pity Brocksen had to get killed, but he surely asked for it.”

  “Should have cleared him out of this section a long time back,” Stomp replied. “Town’s quiet now though.”

  “Sure is,” the other man showed his admiration. Old Stomp was a modest cuss all right, facing down a man like Brocksen and killing him after whipping the Sloanes boys and teaching Dally Dean a badly-needed lesson. The old-timer certainly had this town fooled, It was a pity that he would be retiring soon.

  Hollorhan walked on, shaking his head in wonder, as he was greeted by smiles and cheery nods. It looked as if he’d managed to cool down the hands at last. Maybe he could pull out and settle down on that ranch of his sons.

  Tad Cooke, Tildy Mae and that danged whippersnapper nephew of Ole Devil Hardin were talking to the folks from the Medicine Show in front of his office. He came up and, being a man who made decisions right off, got down to business.

  “Tad, you’ve been shining up to me grand-daughter for months now.” He ignored the girl’s blushes. “I’m leaving here—going to that spread I bought over San Saba way. Waal, you’re a good hand with cattle, but you won’t never learn the business working for your paw. If you’d like to come, I’ll need me a foreman.”

  Tildy Mae took Tad’s arm, then hooked her other through her grandfather’s. She turned and winked at Red and Folsom. “Tell Ole Devil we’ll be over to visit him after the fall round-up,” she said.

  “And tell him to save some of that corn-likker until I come. He never was a judge of it,” Stomp growled.