The Floating Outfit 61

by J. T. Edson

  “Go get your gun, Maisie,” Dusty ordered. “Terry, go with Lon, pick out and saddle the best three horses the barn can offer. And take it easy. One of my crew, you haven’t met him, is out there. He’ll see nothing happens to Louise.”

  Although Terry Ortega knew Dusty would not raise a false hope, he was in an understandable muck-sweat to get started. However, the Kid insisted that they leave nothing to chance, selecting the best horses, checking shoes and ensuring that all had their saddles and bridles fitted properly before going to join the others at the civic pound. While the men prepared the horses, Maisie changed into a shirtwaist and jeans. She joined the others, a Navy Colt thrust into her belt. People tended to regard the old percussion-fired revolvers as out-of-date, but every man present knew that, if the chips went down, Maisie could hold her own in a shooting fuss with that .36 caliber predecessor of the Peacemaker.

  Mounting their horses, the grim-faced party rode from town. It was well for Maisie that she kept herself in practice by riding out regularly, for during the journey to the Whangdoodle she learned the kind of horsemanship which made Dusty’s company of cavalry such masters of the riding arts. Alternating between a fast trot and walking alongside their mounts, they covered the miles at a speed that lesser men could not have accomplished without ruining the horses; and still retained a reserve of speed in the animals should it be needed.

  While preparing to leave, Dusty forced Terry Ortega to be calm and give a detailed description of the Whangdoodle headquarters’ layout. On the basis of what he learned, Dusty decided they would approach the ranch through the rough country behind the buildings and close in by stealth if possible, or a rush should it be necessary. With luck, Waco would be able to hold off harm from Louise and their arrival save her; or if they came too late—and none of them wished to think of that—avenge her.

  Shooting reached their ears as they approached the ranch; too scattered for it to be target practice. Dusty wasted no time on speculation.

  “Fan out and move!” he ordered. “Stick by me, Maisie!”

  Swinging out into an extended line, the Texans, Ortega and Maisie sent their horses leaping forward at a better pace, utilizing the reserve of energy saved during the way out. Due to the broken nature of the country, the party soon lost sight of each other. Mark Counter tore along the bottom of a draw, heard two shots ahead of him. Rounding a bend, he saw something which caused him to urge his blood bay forward at a better pace.

  Chapter Sixteen – A Little Knowledge

  STANDING OVER WACO’S body, Billy slanted down his gun and ignored the approaching rider. Behind him, the ground shook to onrushing hooves. A low, almost animal in its savagery, snarl sounded and then a heavy body struck Billy with such force that it knocked him away from his victim and bore him to the ground. Fingers like steel clamped hold of the top of Billy’s head, another hand gripping his shoulder in a numbing grasp. Then the upper hand twisted.

  Louise had only a blurred impression of what happened. Even though she knew Mark—and had fallen mildly in love with him on the way out, although he never knew of it—the girl barely recognized the blond giant as he bore down on the would-be killer of her rescuer. She saw Billy knocked aside and down, heard the crash of his gun and saw dirt fly into the air inches away from Waco’s body, and felt sure that her ears caught a dull popping noise.

  Riding, his face twisted now in a look of anguish, Mark ran towards Waco, saw the youngster’s body move and lifted his voice in a bull-like roar.

  “Doc! Doc! Get here pronto! The boy’s been shot!”

  “I’m coming!” Doc’s voice replied. “So’re some of the Whangdoodle bunch.”

  “I’ll tend to them!” Mark promised and ran to where his huge stallion stood waiting. Swinging into the saddle, he charged along the draw, pulling his guns as he went.

  Staring around her, Louise finally looked at Billy. Something seemed wrong with the way the young cowhand lay. Not for a moment did the girl realize that while Billy’s belly touched the ground his nose pointed straight up into the air.

  Swinging his horse in the direction of Mark’s voice, Doc sent it bounding recklessly over the rim and down into the draw. Almost as quickly, Maisie appeared at the other side. A gasp of relief left her lips as she saw Louise apparently unharmed, if pallid and shaken by her experiences. Maisie did not know Waco, although she had heard enough about him from the Texans, but she still felt a sudden anguish as she saw the youngster stretched out on the ground.

  Doc wasted no time in dropping from his saddle and opening its pouch to take out a small roll of surgical instruments, some of them made to his own design, specially made for removing bullets. Ignoring the crash of shots which rolled in the background, he dropped to his knees by Waco’s body and made a preliminary investigation. Swiftly he cut away the clothing from around the wound and looked down at it. Doc sucked in his breath as he studied the wound, for it was as bad as he had ever been called upon to handle.

  “How can we help?” Maisie asked.

  “Get your gun out and shoot any son who comes up, unless it’s one of us,” Doc answered and looked at Louise. “Take out your handkerchief, if you have one, or use your petticoat. Keep wiping the sweat away so it doesn’t get into my eyes.”

  Although the sight of the wound sickened her, Louise nodded her head. While Maisie stood watch, her Navy Colt ready for use, Doc started the fight to save Waco’s life, bringing in every bit of skill he possessed to play in a desperate race against time.

  Separated from her men, Anthea Considine topped the rim in almost the place from which Billy shot Waco down. Halting, she stared down into the draw and her lips drew back in a snarl of fury. From what she had seen and heard, her men were scattered and defeated, her plans for revenge ruined. Yet she might still wreak vengeance on at least one of her enemies. There below her stood the woman whose bullet tore into her arm and whose investigations provided the evidence which sent her to prison. Two horses stood in the draw, the means of escape she so badly needed. Lifting her Colt, she started to sight it at Maisie. First the woman, then that pallid cowhand working on the wounded Texan. With them dead, Anthea figured she could get the horses, take Louise as a hostage and run for safety.

  For the first time since leaving the ranch, Myra managed to close up on her sister. Fury still bit at the girl, the blind rage which Anthea could usually keep under control ran in the family although Myra never managed to check her streak. Still smoldering from the memory of the blow Anthea landed on her, wild with jealousy, Myra came close behind her sister. The Derringer in her hand pressed against Anthea’ s spine and Myra’s finger pressed on the trigger. Even as the gun bellowed, Myra thumbed back the hammer. The unmatched cogs of the operating ratchet caused the hammer to move down and on a second squeeze at the trigger, the lower barrel belched flame, sending its load into Anthea as she staggered forward.

  At the foot of the draw, Maisie whirled towards the sound of the shots. She brought up her Navy as she saw Anthea Considine rear into sight on top of the rim. Before Maisie could fire, she saw the agony on the woman’s face. Slowly Anthea opened her right hand, the Colt dropping from it. Then her legs buckled and she fell forward, sliding down the slope until stopped by a bush.

  Maisie saw Myra’s head turn and start to move away. Already the shooting had faded off into the background and Maisie doubted if there would be any danger to Doc or Waco from the Whangdoodle crew. One thing was for sure. That girl on the rim must not be allowed to escape. Unless Maisie missed her guess, the girl had been “Baxter’s” accomplice in freeing Anthea Considine. For the future peace of Backsight, she must be captured.

  Darting up the slope, Maisie paused for a moment to look at Anthea. One glance told Maisie that she needed waste no time on the woman. Either of the bullets would have proved fatal. Cautiously Maisie topped the rise. Anthea had been a good shot and unafraid of using a gun, so Maisie took no chances when dealing with a woman whose facial resemblance hinted at being Considine�
��s sister.

  The cautions proved needless. On topping the rim, Maisie saw Myra running along the slope at a fair speed and making no attempt to stop or fight. Bringing up her Navy, Maisie yelled for the other to stop, and when the order was ignored fired a shot. At that range a hit would have been more luck than skilled aim, but for all that the bullet passed close enough to Myra’s head to hand her a nasty shock. It did not, however, cause her to slacken her speed.

  Without wasting any more lead, Maisie took up the chase; but the younger woman drew ahead and passed out of sight over a slope. Sliding down the other side, Myra staggered across the bottom. Her breath came in choking gasps, for she was scared and unused to such strenuous exercise. Ahead lay a clump of bushes and the girl threw herself among them, crouching down like a terrified, weasel-hunted rabbit. Managing to control her breathing, she peered back through the bushes and saw Maisie appear on top of the slope. For a moment Maisie stood looking around, then started downwards in the direction of the bushes.

  Cold fear ran through Myra as she watched the grim-faced little woman come closer. Myra suddenly remembered that Maisie had been the one who shot her sister and recollected the times Anthea cursed the other’s skill with a gun. If Maisie once saw Myra—the girl shuddered at the thought. Then another thought hit her, one which bit through her fear and roused a primeval instinct for self-preservation. The gun in her hand was empty.

  Unlike her sister, Myra had little knowledge of weapons. She had seen both Anthea and Donglar load the Derringer, but in her arrogant way never asked to be shown how to do it. Gripping the barrels of the gun in her left hand, she fumbled for, found and pressed the catch, then broke open the gun. Still holding the gun in her left hand, its barrels pointing towards her body, she drew out the empty cases with her right forefinger and thumb, replacing them with loaded bullets.

  Looking through the bushes, Myra found to her horror that Maisie had reached the foot of the slope and advanced towards the bushes. Panic hit the girl. Grabbing down, she gripped the butt of the gun in her right hand. Being right-handed, Myra tended to use it more than her left, especially when acting instinctively. So it proved in that instance. Wanting to have the weapon ready for use, she jerked the butt upwards to close the action. Not having learned the correct way of handling the gun, Myra did not know of its deadly effect. The hammer, down after firing the second shot, drove home on to the rim of the lower cartridge. Flame ripped from the muzzle of the gun. Burning agony knifed into Myra’s body as the .41 bullet tore into her stomach. Myra screamed, rearing up into sight. Tense and ready for trouble, Maisie reacted instinctively. Bringing up her Navy, she fired once and this time did not miss. On moving forward, she parted the bushes and approached where Myra lay sprawled on the ground. After picking up the Derringer and setting it at half-cock, Maisie returned her Colt to her waistband and knelt by the girl. A doctor might have saved Myra—but the only medical aid within many miles worked at extracting a bullet from the body of his best friend.

  Hooves sounded and Dusty rode up, dropping from his paint, then joining Maisie in the bushes.

  “I heard the shot and fired back,” Maisie said, pallid of face, as she did what she could for the dying girl.

  “You couldn’t have known what happened,” Dusty replied, glancing down at the Derringer and guessing how Myra received her first wound. “How’s the boy?”

  “I don’t know. You’d best go and find out.”

  By the time Dusty reached the draw, he found Mark and the Kid waiting. Below them Terry Ortega held Louise in his arms and Doc rose, his face haggard, from the side of the still shape on the ground. Mark, his hat holed by a bullet, turned a strained face towards Dusty. Standing at Dusty’s other side, even the Kid’s impassive features showed concern. They had fought a bloody little battle with the Whangdoodle crew and five more bodies scattered in the broken country before the rest broke and ran. Now they gathered to learn whether the boy would live.

  At last Dusty started to walk down the slope towards Doc. It took an effort, but the small Texan managed at last to say, “How is he, Doc?”

  For a moment Doc did not reply, but his face showed plainly the strain of anxiety he had been under. Finally Doc smiled weakly and replied, “He’ll live, Dusty. But it’ll be a fair piece before he rides again.”

  About the Author

  J. T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson’s works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized “West That Never Was”, at a pace that rarely slackens.

  The Floating Outfit Series by J. T. Edson

  The Ysabel Kid

  .44 Caliber Man

  A Horse Called Mogollon

  Goodnight’s Dream

  From Hide and Horn

  Set Texas Back on Her Feet

  The Hide and Tallow Men

  The Hooded Riders

  Quiet Town

  Trail Boss

  Wagons to Backsight

  Troubled Range

  Sidewinder

  Rangeland Hercules

  McGraw’s Inheritance

  The Half-Breed

  White Indians

  Texas Kidnappers

  The Wildcats

  The Bad Bunch

  The Fast Gun

  Cuchilo

  A Town Called Yellowdog

  Trigger Fast

  The Trouble Busters

  The Making of a Lawman

  Decision for Dusty Fog

  Cards and Colts

  The Code of Dusty Fog

  The Gentle Giant

  Set-A-Foot

  The Making of a Lawman

  The Peacemakers

  To Arms! To Arms! In Dixie!

  Hell in the Palo Duro

  Go Back to Hell

  The South Will Rise Again

  The Quest for Bowie’s Blade

  Beguinage

  Beguinage Is Dead

  The Rushers

  Buffalo Are Coming!

  The Fortune Hunters

  Rio Guns

  Gun Wizard

  The Texan

  Mark Counter’s Kin

  Old Moccasins on the Trail

  The Rio Hondo Kid

  Waco’s Debt

  Ole Devil’s Hands and Feet

  The Hard Riders

  Master of Triggernometry

  The Floating Outfit

  The Rio Hondo War

  Apache Rampage

  The Man From Texas

  Gunsmoke Thunder

  The Small Texan

  The Town Tamers

  Return to Backsight

  ... And more to come every month!

  But the adventure doesn’t end here …

  Join us for more first-class, action-packed books.

  Regular updates feature on our website and blog

  The Adventures continue…

  Issuing new and classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  More on J. T. EDSON

  i Told in Wagons to Backsight.

  ii Told in The Ysabel Kid and The Peacemakers.

  iii Told in The Trouble Busters

  iv

  Told in Gun Wizard.

  v Told in Trigger Fast.

  vi Told in The Hard Riders.

  vii Told in Waco’s Debt.

  viii Told in The Law of the Gun.

  ix Told in Troubled Range.

  x Told in The Man from Texas.

 

 

 
-moz-filter: grayscale(100%); -o-filter: grayscale(100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share