The Floating Outfit 61

by J. T. Edson

  “You’re right, Warden,” he agreed. “Unless I can help—”

  “I’ve got all the help I need,” the Warden stated, watching guards armed with ten-gauge twin-barrel shotguns converging on the trouble area.

  “Then I’ll take my party to safety.”

  “I’m only sorry this happened tonight,” the Warden replied and raised his voice. “Pass out Father Donglar’s party, main gate.”

  “Yo!” boomed back one of the guards, and the double gates swung open.

  With barely a glance for his departing guests, the Warden hurried towards the cell block in which the trouble started.

  While the matron regarded Considine as a reliable trusty, she knew better than trust any prisoner too far. So, on her way to the female compound, she passed through the hospital block. Taking the key to Considine’s cell, she opened the door and peered through the half-light at the shape on the bed. Either Considine slept well, or did not intend becoming involved in any way with the riot; the blanket-covered shape never moved, lying facing the wall, blonde hair all that showed above the covers. Satisfied that all was well, the matron did not enter the room or waste time in speaking. Locking the door again, she pocketed the key and hurried back to the compound.

  Although the rioting lasted all night, it proved to be more noisy than dangerous. The warden had seen quieter riots which ended with a number of deaths on both sides. Swift action, grim determination on the part of the guards and no mistaken outside interference by self-professed humanitarians kept the situation in hand. However, it was after sun-up before the prisoners quieted down and the Warden gave the order for normal routine to be resumed.

  “Come on, Considine,” growled a matron, entering the woman’s room. “You’re not a lady’s maid any mo—”

  Stopping speaking, she leapt to the bed and tore off the blanket. Under it lay a dress-maker’s dummy, turned on its side and with a white wig in place. Matrons in female prisons were picked more for ability to defend themselves and handling their charges than for brains; but, smart or not, the one in Considine’s cell could add two and two correctly. The cell door had been locked when she arrived and could not be unlocked on the inside, nor did it have a grille through which the prisoner might reach the key. Which meant that Considine had not been in the bed when the matron looked in the previous night. Knowing what must have happened, the matron made for the Warden’s office on the run. If Considine had escaped, she must have done so before the matron visited her room. Only once had the gates been open after the riot started—when Father Donglar’s party left.

  About the time that the matron reached the Warden with news of the escape, three riders allowed their horses to take a blow on top of a rim some thirty miles to the north-east of Yuma.

  “The riot should be under control by now,” the man in the black clothes remarked, turning in his saddle and looking along their back trail. “They’ll most likely have found that you’re gone, Anthea.”

  Dressed now in a Stetson, shirt waist, divided skirt and boots, Anthea Considine winced as she moved in her saddle. Almost four years in prison had been poor training for such a long, hard ride. Catching Miss “Garfield’s” slightly mocking gaze, Anthea tried to hide any hint of weakness that might show.

  “We’ve a good start,” she told Donglar, and to annoy the other member of the party continued, “You planned everything perfectly, Charles.”

  Seeing the frown which came to the second girl’s face, Donglar replied, “Myra did the planning, Anthea. This little sister of yours is a mighty smart girl. It was she who suggested using the maid idea to get to you and thought of climbing in and starting to change before the Warden could have the wagon searched.”

  “Charles was wonderful,” Myra Considine put in, moving a little closer to the man and eyeing him in a proprietary manner. “He made the contacts in prison, arranged for the riot, fixed up the relay of horses, everything.”

  “What will be the Warden’s actions when he learns of the escape?” Anthea asked, directing her words at the man rather than to her sister.

  “He would have telegraphed the surrounding county sheriffs and alerted them,” Donglar answered. “But we cut the wires. It’ll take time to repair them. Then he’ll send word about the wagon, but that won’t help any.”

  One of the services rendered by Donglar to the Considine sisters, although not mentioned by Myra, had been the disposal of the wagon and silencing, with a .41 Remington Double Derringer, the two performers brought along to make up the entertainment. Wagon and corpses now rested in an arroyo bottom, the signs of its leaving the trail having been carefully obliterated and its team turned free. After that, he and the girls took to the waiting horses and began a fast run for freedom.

  Knowing that the Warden would expect them to make for Mexico, or over the State line into California, Donglar took them to the north-east. He had relays of good horses spaced along their route, an aid to putting as much distance as possible between them and the Penitentiary before the discovery of Anthea’s escape.

  “How about my plans for the other matter?” Anthea asked. “I’ve taken care of that,” Myra replied. “But I can’t see why you’re going to all that trouble just to take your revenge.”

  “Can’t you?” her sister spat out.

  “Because of your brother?” Donglar suggested.

  “Partly. But mainly because of the past four years. I’ve been cooped up in that stinking hell-hole, cut off from everything that makes life worthwhile. All that time only one thing kept me from suicide. The thought of getting my revenge on those who put me there. Now I’m free, I intend to have it. I’m going to make that rebel scum in Backsight wish they’d never left their Virginia homes—and I’m going to see Dusty Fog dead.”

  Chapter Two – The Name Is Dusty Fog

  OVER THE YEARS, the bartender at the Cool Beer Saloon in Junction City had become a keen student of human nature and formed the habit of practicing his hobby on such newcomers as chanced to visit the small town on the Arizona-New Mexico border. Two subjects worthy of his attention stood at his bar shortly after sundown one evening.

  Texans, or the bartender missed his guess. One could not mistake the shape and style of those low-crowned, wide-brimmed genuine J. B. Stetson hats. Even without having seen it, the bartender guessed any decorations on their boots would include the traditional Texan star motif.

  One of the pair stood around the six-foot mark and, though young, showed a powerful build. Not yet nineteen years of age, the subject carried himself with a certain assurance and quiet competence. His black hat sat on blond hair, shoved back so no shadow fell on a tanned, healthy, strong, handsome face with clear blue eyes. A tight-rolled bandana trailed, long ends down, over his shirt. The brown Levi’s pants hung cowhand style outside his boots. Around his waist was strapped a well-made gunbelt with a brace of staghorn handled Colt Artillery Peacemakers reposing in a significant manner in the holsters. A fine figure of self-reliant manhood, the bartender mused, yet completely overshadowed by his companion.

  Come to a real fine point, the bartender conceded that the second of his subjects was just about as fine a physical specimen as he had ever seen.

  A good three inches taller than his companion, the second man had a great spread of shoulders and tapered down to a lean waist and long, straight, powerful legs. The white Stetson on his curly, golden blond hair sported a silver concha-decorated band. His face, while almost classically handsome, showed intelligence and strength. Unless the bartender guessed wrong, the bandana was real silk. That shirt had been made of finest material to its wearer’s measure as had his Levi’s; such a giant frame could not be fitted off the shelves of a store. The finely-tooled gunbelt told a tale to Western eyes, in the way it carried two ivory-butted Colt Cavalry Peacemakers just right for real fast withdrawal and use.

  Handsome, something of a dandy—but all man, was the bartender’s summing up of the blond giant. Maybe a rich rancher, or the son of one; yet his hands show
ed the signs of hard work.

  It being a slack time, the bartender tried to decide on the relationship between the two blonds. Although the taller man treated his companion with almost brotherly tolerance, addressing him as “Boy” and being called Mark in return, they showed no family resemblance. While the youngster dressed well, his clothing did not come up to the giant’s in value. Maybe they were employer and employee; in the West such tended to mingle on a more friendly basis than in the staid East. Before the bartender could devise a way to satisfy his curiosity, an interruption came which took his mind off the matter.

  The batwing doors thrust open and a tall young man entered. Blond, handsome, well-built and dressed to the height of Texas range fashion, the newcomer wore a brace of white-handled guns butt forward for a cross-hand draw. However his words rather than his appearance attracted the attention of the saloon’s patrons.

  “The name is Dusty Fog,” he announced. “Belly up to the bar, boys. I’m setting them up.”

  While preparing for the rush to answer the request, the bartender gave the new arrival a long scrutiny and felt just a little mite disappointed. It had been just the same when he first saw Wyatt Earp and found, instead of a god-like figure of a man, a person, who looked like a prosperous trail-end town undertaker. Sure the newcomer looked good, yet he did not come quite up to how one expected a man with such a reputation to be. At seventeen Dusty Fog commanded Company “C” of the Texas Light Cavalry and built a reputation as being one of the Confederate States Army’s top fighting cavalry leaders. Twice since the end of the war he had been sent into Mexico to handle missions of the greatest national importance. ii Since leaving the disbanded C.S.A., Dusty Fog had become known as a top-grade cowhand, segundo of the biggest ranch in Texas, trail boss of the first water, town-taming lawman. Men called him the Rio Hondo gun-wizard and claimed him to be the fastest, most accurate of the masters of the pistol arts.

  From his appearance, the newcomer fitted Dusty Fog’s age, but the bartender expected something more of a man with such varied claims to fame.

  Glancing at the first two objects of his interest, the bartender saw “Boy” throw an angry look of such concentrated force towards the newcomer that it came almost as a shock. Even as eager customers swarmed forward, “Boy” started to move in the newcomer’s direction. Reaching out with a big hand, Mark caught “Boy’s” arm and held him. After saying something that the bartender did not catch, Mark walked out of the room followed by his companion; the latter throwing more angry glares at the man called Dusty Fog.

  Among the customers who accepted the newcomer’s offer were three unshaven, hard-faced men who entered shortly after dark, took a table near the door and positioned themselves so that each could watch the other’s backs. Returning to their seats, they studied their temporary host with interest.

  “Reckon it is, Dave?” asked the middle-sized member of the trio, running fingers through dark red hair.

  “Could be,” answered the tallest. “Did you ever see Fog afore, Walt?”

  “Naw,” answered the last man. “I was fixing to go to Mulrooney from Brownton, but changed my mind when I heard how he handled the first train-load who tried to move in.” iii

  “He’s a mite smaller’n I expected, all I’ve heard about him,” Dave said doubtfully. “Why not go over and ask him, Rusty.”

  “Oh sure,” the red head snorted. “I can see me going over there and saying, ‘Are you the for-real Dusty Fog?’”

  “We’d not be kept waiting long for an answer,” grinned Walt. “Trouble being that you wouldn’t be there to hear it.”

  For a time the trio sat watching the newcomer buying drinks for a selection of bar-flies and boasting of his exploits as marshal of Quiet Town and Mulrooney.

  “He’s got enough money,” Dave commented. “That figures, Ole Devil Hardin’s his uncle and about the richest man in Texas.”

  “I could sure use some of that five thousand dollars,” Walt remarked wistfully. “Only I don’t fancy—”

  Dave gave a gesture which chopped off whatever sage comments Walt might be prepared to share. In the silence following the signal, the newcomer’s voice reached them.

  “Drink up, boys. I’m just going out back, and when I come in I’ll tell you about how I won those gold-mounted Colts at the Cochise Country Fair.” iv

  Thrusting back his chair, Dave rose and walked out of the front door, an example closely followed by his companions. Glancing back, they saw the newcomer walking regally across the room with pauses to speak to various customers. Dave led the way to the end of the building.

  Being situated in what regarded itself as a progressive town, the owner of the saloon attempted to illuminate all the side alley which led to his back-house. Although he hung lamps in strategic positions, only the one outside the side door remained; that one could be seen shining through the transom window, making stealing it too risky for the local poor Mexican population to chance. However the light given by the remaining lamp would be sufficient for their purposes. In addition to illuminating the user of the door, it would put him in a position where he had to look from light into darkness.

  “No guns, you loco bobos!” Dave warned, seeing his companions reach hipward as the door opened. “I’ll handle it with this.”

  And with those words, he drew the long-bladed Green River knife from its sheath at his belt. Knowing his ability in the matter of throwing a knife, the others raised no objections. Yet as they saw the tall young man emerge from the saloon, both felt doubts creep in. Raising his right hand, Dave gauged the distance with his eye and felt tension bite at him. He realized, as did the other two, that if the knife missed, or failed to produce sufficient agony on its arrival, at least one of them stood a better than even chance of dying before their victim’s guns.

  “Throw it!” hissed Walt, hand on the butt of his gun.

  Soft though they had been, the words carried to the young man’s ears, and he started to turn. Realization of what that meant spurred Dave into action. Around lashed his arm and the knife flew forward. It went a mite low, aimed at striking the victim’s kidney region from behind. In turning, the victim spoiled Dave’s plan; but the result proved to be almost as effective. A look of shock came to the young man’s face, yet he did not react with the devilish speed one might have expected from stories told about him. Instead he froze for the vital instant necessary for the knife to reach him. Dave could claim to be something of an expert with a knife and certainly made good his frequent boasts that night. The spear point of the knife took his victim just under the breast bone, sinking into his solar plexus. While not quite as effective as striking the kidney region, it proved sufficient for their needs. Air burst from the stricken man’s lungs as agony jack-knifed him over. Clutching at the hilt of the knife, he sank to his knees.

  “Get the gunbelt!” Dave yelled and dashed forward with his companions on his heels.

  Reaching the injured man, Rusty bent down and shoved him to the ground. Ignoring the blood which followed in a spurt when Dave jerked free the knife, Rusty began to unbuckle their victim’s gunbelt. Walt muttered something in a low voice and suddenly realized the vulnerability of their position. With that thought in mind, he turned to look back the way they came—and received the shock of his life.

  So intent had the trio been on watching for their victim, then filled with nervous tension when he appeared that they gave no thought to their danger. None took the precautions they might have done when preparing to attack and rob a normal man. In failing to follow the rules of their illegal profession, they made a fatal mistake. Not one of the trio had thought to look up and down the street before approaching the business in hand. If they had done so, things might have worked out differently for them.

  Sitting a low-horned, double-girthed saddle on a huge blood-bay stud horse, the cowhand called Mark rode with his companion from one of the stores further along the street. “Boy” used the same type of rig—naturally as it was standard Texas ra
nge equipment—straddling a big, powerful paint stallion and leading a loaded pack horse. Clearly, something still annoyed the youngster for he threw an angry gesture towards the saloon.

  “Damn it to hell, Mark,” he protested. “Can’t I just go in—”

  “No,” Mark interrupted with a grin. “Happen we take any longer in getting back with these supplies, Du—Down there!”

  Following the direction of Mark’s eyes, “Boy” saw the three hard cases gathered around their victim. Dusty’s blood-smeared hands had completed the unbuckling of the gunbelt and Dave gripped the victim’s shirt ready to raise the body.

  Swiftly the blond giant swung from his saddle and headed towards the alley on the run. Dropping from the paint and leaving it standing with trailing reins, “Boy” followed. Not on his friend’s heels, but swinging clear of him in a manner which allowed unrestricted use of the staghorn handled Colts should it become necessary. In view of what they found the trio doing, and considering the very sensible attitude Western folks took to robbery and murder, most likely the guns would be needed.

  Walt saw the approach of the two men, yelled a warning to his companions and grabbed at the butt of his gun. Without breaking his stride, the blond giant replied to Walt’s threatening gesture. Mark’s hand made a flashing move, three of the fingers curling around the butt of the right-side Colt, thumb hooking over its hammer and starting to draw back, forefinger entering the trigger-guard as the barrel cleared leather and slanted away from him; all in the smooth, effortless-looking, yet incredibly fast manner which marked the difference between a true master of the art and an average performer. Just three-quarters of a second after Mark’s first move, Walt took lead. Not a bad time considering the Cavalry model of the Peacemaker carried a seven and a half inch barrel, giving it an overall length of twelve and a half inches and weighing two pounds, five ounces. Caught in the chest by a .45 bullet, his own gun barely clear of leather, Walt spun around and crashed to the ground.