The Floating Outfit 61

by J. T. Edson

  “Why’re we going to town?” Adcock asked.

  “To let the law handle things,” Doc explained.

  “Law? Biscuits Randel don’t—” began Adcock.

  “Biscuits took lead and doesn’t handle the law for a spell,” Doc cut in. “There’s a new man wearing the badge until he’s on his feet again.”

  “You reckon he’ll be any better at it than Biscuits?” asked Jervis coldly.

  “I reckon he will,” said Doc. “It’s Dusty Fog.”

  Chapter Twelve – He’s Wearing A Merwin And Hulbert Gun

  “LIKE TO SAY one thing, Cap’n,” announced the big, bulky, blond-haired Swede Larsen as he stood before the desk in the town marshal’s office. “I know the Major here wouldn’t have ordered that vent branding done.”

  “Thanks, Swede,” Leyland, a tall, slim man who contrived to appear militarily smart and tidy even when wearing the mud-stained clothing of a working cowhand. “I don’t know who did it, Captain Fog, but I’ll back you in anything you do to find out.”

  Shortly after dark the two ranchers had ridden into town side by side and made their way straight to the jail building. They examined the vented stock, which occupied the civic pound, before returning to the office to talk things out.

  “You’d best get the Kid out cutting for sign,” Leyland suggested.

  “I wish I could,” Dusty answered. “Although the branding was done before the rains, so there won’t be much chance of his finding any. But he’s not joined up with me yet. By the way, have any hired guns approached you looking for work?”

  “Hired guns?” repeated Larsen. “Why should they?”

  “Maybe they thought there was a chance of fuss between your two places. I heard there was some between you two over that Army contract the Major got.”

  “That was the luck of the game,” Larsen answered. “I forgot to put in my bid. Mind you, the Major’s hands and mine have been at each other over it.”

  “Just fist fights, nothing serious,” Leyland went on. “My boys started crowing about the best spread getting the contract and Swede’s crew objected. It’s nothing more than cowhand rivalry.”

  “Why’d you ask about hired guns, Cap’n?” inquired Larsen.

  “About ten or so have drifted into town today, coming singly or in pairs,” Dusty explained. “They’re sitting around in the Arizona and Alamo like they’re waiting for something to happen and you know their kind, they can scent trouble like turkey buzzards finding a kill.”

  At that moment the door of the office opened and Larsen’s foreman entered. “Boss,” he said. “It’s that damned fool Adcock.”

  “What’s he done?” Larsen asked.

  “Got himself a gutful of brave-maker and talking up a storm about the Swinging L being cow thieves and how he’s going to kill the first one he sees.”

  “I thought he was near on broke,” Larsen growled. “Where’d he get enough to buy whiskey?”

  “Not off me, or any of the other boys,” the foreman replied. “Are there any of your boys in town, Major?”

  “There’s one,” Dusty put in. “I told the hands Doc brought in to split up and stay away from each other. Where’s Adcock at?”

  “The Alamo, Cap’n.”

  “Reckon I’d best go down and quieten him,” Larsen stated.

  “You’d best leave me do it,” Dusty answered, coming to his feet. “That’s what the town pay me for.”

  “Watch him, Cap’n,” warned the foreman. “Adcock’s a mean cuss when he’s got the liquor on him.”

  “I’ll watch,” Dusty promised.

  While walking towards the Alamo, Dusty wondered if he ought to turn out Mark and Doc. The two Texans were accepting an invitation from Biscuits and Maisie to eat with them at the Bismai and Dusty did not wish to spoil their meal. If bad trouble started, his two friends would be on hand quick enough to help him handle it. With that in mind, Dusty reached the batwing doors of the Alamo.

  During the three days of rain, Donglar’s staff worked hard to have the Alamo ready for opening. Only that morning a request that Dusty examine the games reached him. On checking, he could find nothing wrong with any of the gambling devices—a tribute to alterations performed by Edwards rather than the original purity of the equipment—and gave permission to use them. The saloon had been left almost intact, except for its stock and was ready for business. So far only a few customers used the big bar-room. They and all the staff watched Adcock who stood teetering on his heels in the center of the room.

  “There’s only one way to handle a cow thief!” he declared. “And I’m going down to the Arizona State, find me Mitch from the Swinging L and do it.”

  “I don’t think Captain Fog would like that,” Donglar warned, having seen Dusty outside and guessing what the words would do to the drunken cowhand.

  “To hell with Cap’n Fog,” Adcock answered. “I’d like to see him stop me.”

  At which point Dusty entered the room and halted just inside the doors. Although drunk, Adcock recognized the small Texan and saw a challenge which his whiskey-inflamed brain insisted that he meet.

  “Get the hell out of my way!” he snarled and reached towards his hip—to find an empty holster for he had traded his gun to get enough money to buy drinks.

  Having some knowledge of such matters, Donglar expected Dusty to draw and shoot the unarmed man down. If the small Texan had done so, it would have been his finish in Backsight. However, Dusty had seen the empty holster and knew the attempted draw held no threat against him.

  Realization hit Adcock and he let out a roar of fury. Springing forward, he snatched a bottle from a table in passing and shattered it against the table’s edge. Gripping the neck in his hands, he hurled himself towards the small Texan meaning to thrust the jagged edges into Dusty’s face.

  Watching in silence, the occupants of the bar-room waited to see how Dusty handled the menace. Probably all the crowd expected to see the small Texan’s hands cross in that flickering blur of movement which brought his matched guns from leather with such deadly speed. In this they were to be disappointed, for Dusty knew of a better, less lethal way of ending the danger. Down in the Rio Hondo country, a small Oriental man worked as Ole Devil Hardin’s personal servant. Popular opinion called Tommy Okasi Chinese, but he claimed birth in some place called Nippon. No matter what country provided his origin, Tommy knew certain strange fighting arts which he passed on to the smallest male member of the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan; giving Dusty a method of unarmed defense that off-set his lack of inches.

  Out lashed the broken bottle, its sharp-spiked points and razor-like edges aimed to lacerate flesh. Only it failed to strike home. Bending his legs and dropping his hips, Dusty sank below the line of Adcock’s jab. Crossing his wrists, with the left in the lead, Dusty brought up his arms and, shifting his weight on to his rear-sliding right leg, brought his hands up under and behind the bottle. Dusty ducked his head in a circular motion which avoided the bottle, and transferred his weight forward to his left leg. Catching Adcock’s thrusting wrist with his right hand, Dusty clenched his left fist. He advanced swiftly, closing with Adcock and whipped across his left arm. Instead of using his fist in the accepted occidental manner, Dusty swung it so its heel smashed like the head of a hammer full into the other’s stomach. Just how effective the blow was showed in the way Adcock croaked, the breath rushing from his lungs, and nausea drove up through the whisky which filled his belly. Clutching his belly with the left hand, Adcock released the broken bottle from his right and dropped to his knees. Releasing the wrist, Dusty pivoted and struck once more. Again he did not use his hand in the conventional manner. Instead of clenching his fist, he held the fingers together and straight, the thumb alongside them. Like an axe biting into timber, the edge of Dusty’s hand slashed at the back of Adcock’s neck. The cowhand jerked forward, landing on his face as limp as a back-broken rabbit.

  Knowing he need not worry about Adcock for a spell, Dusty swung around to f
ace the occupants of the room. His eyes swept from face to face, studying the hired guns who sat here and there. Any one of them might have a wanted poster of the kind taken from the men who attacked Caldwell’s wagons and could plan to make a try at collecting the reward. However, none of them moved, but all studied the fallen Adcock with puzzled eyes and wondered just how the hell it happened.

  “Neatly done, Captain Fog,” Donglar said in a loud voice and walked forward.

  Dusty studied the man, noticing an addition to Donglar’s clothing since the meeting and inspection that morning. A wide leather belt circled Donglar’s middle and supported a gun holstered at his right side under the stylish cutaway coat. Looking down, Dusty noticed that the holster rode high and in an awkward fashion to eyes used to low-hanging Western rigs. His interest in the holster position died abruptly as he took in the bird’s head crested handle of the revolver. Not the hand-fitting curve of the Colt, nor the distinctive shape of the Smith and Wesson. Only one model of gun Dusty knew had that style handle, with checked hard rubber grips and a lanyard hole in the crest of the butt frame.

  “Where’d he get money for his drink?” Dusty asked, swinging his gaze to Donglar’s face.

  “My bartender took his gun as security for a loan.”

  “You let him do that?”

  “Why not, Captain? Look, I’m new here and working in competition with an established house. So I have to build up the goodwill of the local hands. When that cowhand came in and had only enough for one drink, I thought I’d help him. Not wanting to give credit, I told the bartender to take Adcock’s gun and give him a loan. It’s lucky for Adcock that I did, you might’ve had to kill him.”

  “You could be right,” Dusty grunted, knowing the other offered a logical excuse for making the loan.

  “What about him?” asked Donglar.

  “Take him down to the jail. His boss’ll see him back to the spread when he can ride.”

  “I saw you looking at my gun,” Donglar remarked, after telling two of his men to obey Dusty’s order. He drew aside his coat to give Dusty a better view of the weapon and holster. “Edwards keeps telling me I wear it too high for a fast draw. What do you think?”

  “It looks that way,” Dusty admitted.

  “I tried a Western rig, but it isn’t comfortable for a man who spends most of his time sat down. Besides, I’m no hand with a gun and never need it. The only reason I wear it is because the customers tend to regard anybody who doesn’t as something unusual.”

  “Man doesn’t often go around without a gun,” Dusty agreed. “At least, not out here. How about where you come from?”

  “Back East? We’ve grown past the gun-toting stage there now.”

  “So they tell me. Well, I’d best go tend to Adcock.” With that Dusty turned and walked from the saloon. A wry grin creased Donglar’s face as he watched the small Texan leave. It seemed that the plot to stir up trouble among the local ranchers had met a temporary set-back. Donglar wondered if he should suggest that the sisters suspend their operations until that soft-spoken, deadly efficient, smart man returned to his native Texas. Every instinct Donglar possessed warned him that a wrong move while dealing with Dusty Fog would prove fatal.

  After leaving the Alamo, Dusty went first to the jail building where Larsen took charge of a groaning Adcock and promised to see the cowhand safely back to the ranch. Dusty walked along to the Bismai where he found his two friends seated in the kitchen and talking to Maisie.

  “We’re letting old Biscuits catch up on his sleep,” Mark said. “How’d it go with Leyland and Larsen, Dusty?”

  “There won’t be a range war come out of the venting,” Dusty answered. “I reckon somebody’s going to be mighty disappointed.”

  “You think a range war is what somebody’s trying to stir up, Dusty?” asked Maisie.

  “Take it this way. Even if Leyland aimed to steal Larsen’s stock, he’s too smart to try anything like vent-branding. Since that cattle-stealing scandal over in New Mexico last year, the Army’s been more careful about what they buy. They’d only take the vented stuff if it came with proof of ownership.”

  “Which means there’d be no profit in Leyland doing it. But Larsen might to lose Leyland the contract,” Maisie remarked.

  “He’d know that Leyland wouldn’t chance taking vent-branded stock without proof of ownership,” Dusty objected. “The only reason I can see for doing it is to stir up trouble between the two ranchers.”

  “But who would want to start a range war?” Maisie said.

  “Somebody who wanted to buy land hereabouts,” Dusty suggested. “Or somebody with a real mean grudge against this section—and mostly against Leyland.”

  “Why him?” asked Doc.

  “This thing was rigged to look as if Leyland started the fuss. Folks would lay most of the blame on him should Backsight be in the middle of a range fuss.”

  “It’d take somebody with a real bad hate to start up a war that could rip this whole section apart,” Mark pointed out. “A full scale shooting war could ruin a good half of the folks hereabouts.”

  “The Considine gal felt that way about Backsight,” Dusty answered. “And Leyland was foreman of the jury that tried her.”

  “But she left the country after her escape,” Maisie objected. “I had a letter from a cousin come in on the noon stage. I’ll get it for you, Dusty.”

  Maisie’s cousin proved to be an agent for the Pinkerton Detective Agency, and proud of his work. Reading the letter, Dusty found a detailed description of the Agency’s hunt for the escaped prisoner. After reading the letter, Dusty returned it to Maisie who passed it to Mark.

  “Well?” she asked, after all three Texans had read it.

  “Did you notice anything, Mark, Doc?” Dusty said.

  “Pinkertons seem to have trailed her until she left the country,” Doc answered, conscious of the feeling that he had missed something important.

  “They picked up her trail when some desk clerk in Santa Fe saw the leather cuff she wore around her arm,” Mark commented. “Which same happened in Muncie, Kansas and again in Chicago and on the eastbound train. For a gal as smart as the Considine I remember, that’s awful negligent.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Dusty agreed.

  “Then you think it might not have been her that the Pinkerton’s followed?”

  “Could be, Doc,” Dusty said. “Take it this way, Pinkertons have a reputation for being thorough. I might not like them or some of their methods, but I’ll give them that. So when word gets out that Pinkertons have trailed Considine on to a boat that’s leaving the country, other lawmen aren’t going to bother hunting for her or the folks who helped her escape.”

  “That’s true enough,” Maisie replied. “Most lawmen have enough on their hands without chasing somebody who might not even be in the country. Then there were those wanted dodgers on you, Dusty. Considine had good reason to hate you.”

  “And you if it came to that,” Mark pointed out. “Where do you reckon she is, Dusty?”

  “This’s a big country,” Dusty answered. “Any ideas, Maisie?”

  “Why pick on me?” she smiled. “Of course, I could say how about the Fernandez place. It has a new owner.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “No. She came in the day before Biscuits was shot, but I missed meeting her. From all I heard, she’s well-bred and educated. Biscuits thinks he ought to recognize her and the description he gave me, apart from the hair, fitted Considine.”

  “Don’t like asking the obvious, Maisie,” Doc put in. “Could that gal be the Considine woman?”

  “Biscuits and at least some of the women who met her would have recognized her. Anyways, she’s a younger woman than Considine.”

  “I’d like to meet her,” Dusty remarked quietly. “Running a lonely spread, with a bunch of hot-heads, gold-bricks and hard cases for a crew’s no game for a woman even if she’d been born in range country.”

  “Could ride out t
here,” Mark suggested.

  “We’ll think on it,” Dusty promised. “What do you make of Baxter, the new owner of the Alamo, Maisie?”

  “Smooth, hard and dangerous,” she replied. “He’s been here for a few meals and always acts friendly enough.”

  “Ever see him go heeled?”

  “I can’t say that I have. Why?”

  “He’s wearing a Merwin and Hulbert gun.”

  None of the others spoke for a moment as they digested Dusty’s announcement and remembered that its makers chambered the Merwin and Hulbert revolver to take only one size of bullet—.44.40.

  “I know they never made it big like Colt or Smith and Wesson, Dusty,” Doc finally said. “But there were a fair number Merwins sold.”

  “Sure,” grunted Dusty noncommittally.

  “Baxter’s never been here, Dusty,” Maisie went on. “I feel sure of that.”

  “He did come in with the saloon’s wagons,” Doc pointed out.

  “But he didn’t come all the way with them,” Mark put in. “I helped one of the saloon girls across the street one night and bought her a meal here. We got to talking about Baxter. Seems that he joined up with them on the trail the day before they arrived. Come up from behind them and allowed to have followed them out from Hammerlock.”

  “Did you learn anything more about him?” asked Dusty.

  “She didn’t know anything more.”

  “It could be coincidence,” Maisie pointed out.

  “I don’t like coincidences, even when they work for me,” Dusty answered. “Why’d he settle here in Backsight? It’s not the sort of town I’d say he’d go for.”

  “The town’s growing.”

  “Sure, Maisie. Only not enough to warrant him bringing in an outfit like he has.”

  “If he’s working for a brewery combine, he’d bring in good men to back him,” Mark said. “And he’d bring in the kind of things cowhands like. Those big combines are willing to run at a loss for a spell to build up their trade.”