The Floating Outfit 44

by J. T. Edson

  glow which grew bigger as they sat their horses and

  watched.

  Ten – The Kid Makes War

  The Ysabel Kid put his left foot against the spur on his right boot and levered at it, working his foot from the leather. He was seated in the barn making preparations for his raid on the Lazy F. Dusty stood by and watched his young friend. It would be dangerous for one lone man but the Syndicate needed to know KH was ready to fight back. The Ysabel Kid was by far the most suited for the task ahead.

  ‘You can still change your mind about the rifle,’ he said, taking up the restrung Comanche bow.

  ‘I have. Bow’s a fair weapon at close range and makes less noise than a gun. I did some hunting with grandpappy when I went to see him last time.’

  Dusty grinned. The Kid liked to visit his grandfather, Chief Long Walker of the Comanches when he got a chance. What he did on those visits the Kid rarely talked about, but Dusty suspected he lived as a member of the tribe.

  The Kid took up three of the arrows. He’d fastened a small bundle of tow to the head of each and soaked it in kerosene. He placed the arrows into the quiver and whistled. The big white stallion came towards him. It was not saddled, for leather would creak. In an affair of this kind, the Kid planned, silence was more than golden, it was life itself. Adjusting the Indian style blanket and hackamore the Kid turned to Dusty.

  ‘See if Gloria’s anyplace around,’ he said. The girl still fondly imagined he was going on a scouting mission.

  Dusty looked out through the door but could see no sign of the girl. He turned and told the Kid, who slung the quiver over his left shoulder and the bow over his right. Then taking up the war lance he went to his horse, gripped the mane and vaulted astride with an effortless bound. He lifted the lance in a wild salute and let the horse run from the barn, across the range.

  Watching the Kid go Dusty felt uneasy. He knew how well his friend could take care of himself but the lance and bow were poor substitutes for a rifle. True the Kid was still belting his old Dragoon and knife but they were no match for a repeating rifle. However, he knew the Kid meant to go through with whatever plan he’d made and no amount of talk would turn him from his purpose.

  Riding at an easy mile-eating lope the Kid looked more Indian than white. His head was bare and his black hair only needed to be taken into braids, and bound back by a headband, for him to pass for a Comanche Dog Soldier. There was a Comanche hardness on his face as he rode with only one purpose, to carry out the lodge oath he’d taken. He sat his big white stallion like a Comanche brave, the heavy war lance in his right hand, butt resting on the toe of his moccasined foot.

  It was now that the Ysabel Kid’s Indian blood was of most use to him. The Indian instinct for remembering how a new country lay would be of the greatest use to him. Ahead he was making for a strange country and from that view up there on the rim he’d seen enough to give him a fair idea of the lay of the land. The pointed out directions he’d received the previous day helped him in that.

  Reaching the banks of the Azul Rio just above where the curve of it formed the north and west lines of the KH the Kid rode slowly along the banks. He found a ford and in the soft earth read a story of a man using it regularly. That would be Carron taking messages to Santone. The Kid hoped he was still at the Lazy F. Crossing the ford he showed caution for he thought Santone might have it guarded. Evidently the rancher thought KH was held down by their lack of ammunition and so it was not worth watching this crossing place.

  This was how he wanted things. He did not want to waste any time avoiding guards. Riding the horse through the water he came out on the Lazy F bank and headed across country, following the tracks. Now he was even more Indian than ever. The big white stallion was like a wild creature, the way it moved in silence and was constantly on the alert. The Kid followed the tracks until it was too dark to see them anymore. By that time, from a high piece of ground, he’d spotted the lay of the ranch and knew he could find it.

  Nearing the ranch he halted his horse against some rocks and through the fast gathering darkness studied the buildings. Lazy F was a bachelor establishment. The house, cowhands quarters and barn were all in one long wooden building. The moon came up while he still watched. Where he was, he faced the barn end of the building and guessed the men bunked in the center whilst Santone lived at the other end. The barn’s hayloft doors were open, a rope still swaying from the pulley. The big, double doors of the barn itself were wide open too. This was as the Kid expected it. The men Santone hired were gun hands, not cowboys, and would not do any more work around the place than they were forced to do.

  A small stream ran in a curve around the house, at one side coming fairly close in, at the other being further back, going around the corral. In the corral were horses of the hands. At the very least the Kid knew he could get in and scatter all those horses, temporarily leaving the Lazy F afoot. He hoped to do far more than just that.

  There was some coming and going at first around the ranch house and under the moon but the Kid heard the clatter of the cook’s triangle and knew the men would be eating soon. He turned and went to where the big white waited for him, quietly grazing. Vaulting afork he lifted the lance from where it leaned by a rock and rode out into the open, the horse treading daintily along until it was halted about a hundred yards from the ranch. The Ysabel Kid slid down, sticking the point of the lance into the soil, then taking the bow from his shoulders and advancing silent as a ghost. He moved in to twenty yards or so of the barn end of the house then halted and froze like a deer sighting a hunter.

  All was silent. Not a sign of stirring disturbed the Kid and he took the three special arrows from the quiver, gripping two between his knees. He laid the third on the bowstring and gripped it and the bow in his left hand. Taking out a match with his right he struck it, applying the flame to the kerosene soaked head. Flames licked up greedily over the rag. The Kid drew back the bowstring, aiming at the open hayloft doors. He felt the heat of the flames on his hand, sighted briefly and released. Like a shooting star the arrow curved up, then started to angle down. He watched, hardly breathing as the arrow disappeared into the interior of the hayloft. The second arrow was aimed after the first, but at a slightly different angle. The third, lit and burning, hurled at a lower angle, right through the open barn door to land and bounce into a dirty, hay-littered stall.

  For a couple of minutes the Kid stood and watched, waiting to see if the fire arrows were going to work or if he would have to move in on foot and do the lighting himself.

  Then he saw a couple of red glows up in the loft as the dry hay caught fire, the flames leaping along faster all the time. Down below he could see another glow as a smaller fire started. He felt the wind on his cheek and could tell it was blowing in towards the barn, helping fan the leaping flames on to the sun dried wood of the building itself.

  The Kid felt elated. Unless Santone discovered the fire very soon it would be too late to save either barn or house from complete destruction. The flames were leaping higher now, their crackling sounding even to the Kid’s ears. In the corrals the horses caught the scent of the smoke and flames and started to mill nervously, snorting and blowing.

  Running back to his horse the Kid vaulted astride and caught up the war lance. The white started forward at a fast run, guided by knee pressure, towards the rear of the corral where the Lazy F remuda were getting more panicky all the time. He was barely there when the door halfway along the building opened and a man came out, making for the corral to see what was disturbing the horses. The Kid flattened along the neck of his big white and waited to see how soon the man would realize the building was on fire.

  The man was halfway to the bunkhouse when he heard the crackling and started to turn. As he did so a window smashed in the barn and flames came licking up the wall.

  ‘Fire!’ he bawled, turning and running for the barn.

  ‘Fire! All hands and the cook! Roll out!’

  Instantly other men
started to pour out of the bunkhouse, racing for the barn. The Ysabel Kid’s teeth drew back in a savage grimace as he saw one of the men. It was Carron. Just one small matter to be attended to before he left this place.

  A slim, dark-dressed man came from the far end of the building, running forward. The Kid recognized this man as the one who threw the dynamite down amongst the KH herd. From the way he gave orders and took command of the situation he would be Santone. Brazos called it right when he blamed the rancher.

  The men started to form a bucket chain from the river, using anything which would hold water. They might as well have tried to empty the Rio Grande as stop the raging fire with those few pitiful buckets of water. The barn would definitely be gone and much of the house, for the timber would burn well now and the wind was blowing the flames back along the house.

  By this time the horses were wild with terror and racing madly around the confined circle of the corral. The Ysabel Kid watched them and was about to ride to the gate and let them out when he saw a man coming.

  Santone had heard the horses and knew they would run themselves to death in their blind panic. He looked around him and saw a man racing by him. ‘Carron, go turn the horses loose. We’ll get them back tomorrow.’

  Like the others Carron was aware of the futility of trying to halt the fire with their few buckets. He wanted to get into the bunkhouse like the other men, and rescue his belongings but a glance at Santone’s face warned him. The rancher was angry and liable to start shooting if anyone crossed him. So Carron turned and ran for the corral. He climbed on to the gate and opened it, yelling for the horses. It took time for the wild running animals to find the open gate. When they did they started to stream out and head for safety. Carron watched the horses going by. It would be hell trying to gather them again on foot. The S Star would have to send horses here and help gather the remuda.

  The last horse streamed out, Carron dropping down from the gate as the last horse went racing by him. He glanced at the house. The flames were licking back towards the kitchen now and he would have to move fast if he was to save his belongings. He saw something from the corner of his eye and looked around. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks, bringing him round with his hand dropping towards his gun butt.

  Not ten feet away, astride his huge white stallion, sat the Ysabel Kid, lance gripped under his leg, bow raised with the arrow feathers touching his ear, the bow bent so the barbed head was almost touching the wood of the bow itself. Carron’s gun came clear of leather but he was too late. The bow string was released and with enough power to sink the shaft flight deep into a bull buffalo the bow hurled its arrow head forward. Carron’s eyes bulged out in terror. The arrow point bit through his shirt and the razor edges of it cutting through flesh, through the rib cage and deeper in until the point burst out at the back.

  Carron went over backwards, the gun in his hand cracked impotently into the ground. The Kid did not look down. He knew Carron was, if not dead, beyond any aid he could be given out here. Slinging the bow across his shoulders again the Kid took the lance, feeling the rough wood of the shaft in his palm. He turned the white and rode it into the darker area away from the light of the fire.

  Santone stood watching the fire, raging at the men who were all busy throwing their thirty-year-gatherings from the bunkhouse. He roared at them to come back to fight the fire but they ignored him. He stood alone at the end of the building, cursing. Then over the sound of the fire and shouting he heard the rapid drumming of hooves.

  ‘Santone!’ a voice roared.

  Swinging round, Santone faced a terrifying sight. Into the light of the fire tore a huge white stallion looking as savage as a cornered puma, eyes rolling and nostrils flared back. Riding this seventeen-hand apparition was a wild-eyed man in the clothing of a cowhand but with the face of a Comanche Dog Soldier coming to take the white-eye brother’s life. In this man’s hand, point aiming down at Santone, was the weapon of the dread Dog Soldier lodge, the war lance.

  For all his faults Santone was no coward. His hand dropped fast and the Colt came up, there was only time for one shot, the bullet ripping the black shirt and laying a red-hot, bloody, but shallow furrow across the Kid’s side. It was doubtful if he even felt the pain as he brought down the lance and drove the point home with a deep-throated Comanche coup-grunt.

  Santone dropped his gun, hands clawing weakly and desperately at the haft of the lance. The point went in just below the breast bone, going in to strike and glance from the backbone and emerged at the rear. Santone’s feet left the ground. The horse was passing him now and the Kid turned his hand to release the haft. His victim smashed to the ground, the point of the lance sinking into the earth.

  At the door of the bunkhouse the other men became aware of this devil rider as he swept towards them. The Kid’s old Dragoon was in his hand, his left fanning the hammer back. The gunmen dived in all directions, grabbing at their own guns as the .44 lead screamed about them. By the time they got their guns out they were too late. The racing white was leaping across the stream as if it wasn’t there, its rider laying low along the sleek neck.

  Slowly the gunmen came to their feet, all but one of their number. This one was rolling in agony on the floor, his arm all but cut off at the elbow where the soft lead ball struck it.

  A big man got to his feet, glancing at the blazing house. Nothing could save it now. He went to where Santone lay on the ground and looked down, the broken teeth in his mouth showing as he made a wry face. ‘Who was it?’ he asked.

  ‘An Injun looks like,’ another man replied, bending over the rancher and trying to raise him.

  A buckskin clad old-timer came ambling over from where he’d been bending to take a close look at the tracks made by that racing white stallion. ‘Injun,’ he grunted in disgust. ‘That was no Injun. He was riding a shod hoss. You leave him be. The lance’s gone clean through. He’s done anyways.’

  ‘What tribe’s the lance from?’ the big man asked.

  ‘Comanche,’ the old-timer replied. ‘But that warn’t no Injun, Snag. Not pure blood at any rate.’

  ‘He looked like an Injun to me,’ Snag Willet growled back. ‘Sure and rid like one. Used that lance like a Comanche Dog but he was white, or near enough white.’

  At that moment the ammunition left in the bunkhouse part of the building started to explode. The men withdrew fast, heading into the safer area of the open range. One of the men went round to the corral, coming back fast. ‘Snag!’ he yelled. ‘Snag! Carron’s dead back there. Got an arrow through him.’

  ‘It was Injuns then,’ Willet answered, glaring at the old-timer. ‘I said it was, Walpai. It must be a couple of Apaches from off the reservation.’

  Walpai grunted. He was a buffalo hunter who was trying his hand at another kind of work as the herds were fast being shot out. He knew Indians better than any man here. ‘Apaches don’t fight at night. Was I to take money on it I’d say they was Comanches if there was more than one of them.’

  ‘Comanches, you got them on the brain. There ain’t any Comanches in New Mexico and you know it.’

  ‘Son, I know Injuns. Apaches, Sioux, Cheyenne, Kiowa. And I know the Comanches too. See that moon up there, Snag. Real pretty, ain’t it. You know what they call that moon in Texas. They call it the Comanche moon.’

  ‘Comanches!’ Willet spat into the dirt. ‘Get the lance out of the boss and we’ll bury him and Carron tomorrow.’

  Walpai grunted and walked off into the darkness. The other men let him go for they knew his ways. He faded off across the moonlit range to where he’d left his horse and gear cached away. Walpai was superstitious. Twice Comanches had nearly killed him and the wounded man in front of the door had been standing next to him. Three was a bad medicine number for Walpai, the next time might be fatal. He was pulling out before it was too late.

  Eleven – Waco Makes a Charge

  Brit came into the dining-room of the KH and halted by the door. At the table Gloria, Waco, Red
and Doc were seated, each with an Indian penny in the right eye in place of a monocle. Brit walked forward to his place, not even showing that he’d noticed them. He reached up, took the monocle out and polished it. Four hands removed the pennies and did the same. Then Brit gripped the cord of his monocle, spun it around and flipped it into his eye.

  Four mouths dropped open and four coins fell to the table as the four startled faces turned first to each other, then to Brit. He yawned languidly and surveyed them. ‘Let’s see you do that,’ he said.

  The others all howled with laughter. They’d been hoisted by their own petard and were willing to concede him the point. Dusty watched all this with a smile playing on his lips. When the other three members of the floating outfit turned up with Mark on the previous evening—he knew Lanton would soon be starting active hostilities and three more skilled fighting men would be of tremendous use. There’d been an extremely noisy and wild celebration the previous night, the girls agreeing that no disrespect to their dead fathers was meant. It was a strictly sober party but the Texas men did not need whiskey to make them enjoy themselves. The three new arrivals were intrigued by Brit’s monocle and accent and he was accepted as one of them. This business with the Indian pennies was an attempt to get the better of him. Gloria joined in it for a laugh and to see how Brit could take a joke. The way he’d turned the tables on them did nothing to alter their opinion of him.

  Rene and Just came in from the kitchen, carrying a tray each and putting the food out for the others. Mark and Brazos were the last to make an appearance. The old-timer’s arm was still in a sling but Doc Leroy had checked it and was satisfied there was no danger.

  ‘Lon back yet?’ Mark asked, looking around the room.

  ‘Sure he is,’ Waco answered, indicating an empty chair. ‘That’s him sat there. Howdy Lon .’

  ‘Howdy boy, you talking like always.’