The Floating Outfit 49

by J. T. Edson

  Hardin and Hollister stood at the window of the jail and looked out. “Blayne brought his boys in. Larsen’s crew arrived, Major File came in. All Rangoon’s boys were here at dawn. Most of the nesters come in. I’ll tell you, Wes, I’m scared.”

  “What the hell’s wrong. It’s not pay day and even if it was the nesters wouldn’t be here,” Hardin answered worriedly. “Where’s Dusty and the Lazy S?”

  Hollister was also worried by the small Texan not being in town. Dusty Fog and the Lazy S would be a steadying influence. If there was to be trouble, Dusty Fog and Mark Counter would be worth a regiment of cavalry.

  From outside the jail they heard the sound of rapidly approaching hooves. It was only one rider and the two men looked at the door as they heard boot heels thudding on the sidewalk. The door was thrown open and Tommy came in, face flushed but cool enough.

  “Dusty and Mark found one of our waterholes wired off this morning. They sent me into town to warn you there might be trouble.”

  “We’ve seen it coming, boy,” replied Hardin. “What’d Dusty say?”

  “Allows to head for the Mahon place first and see what Mr. Mahon’s got to say about it. There’s a hell of a lot of smoke coming up from the reservation so Dusty’s taking Mary and Lindy with him. He and Mark want to know what the Kid makes of the smoke. Dusty says watch the town and don’t let anyone start doing anything loco.”

  “How we going to do that,” growled Hollister. “I want to see all the ranchers and the nesters. Reckon you could bring the ranchers to the Banking House Saloon, Wes?”

  “I could surely make a try. You go down there and wait for me.”

  “Can I help?” Tommy asked eagerly. “I’ll do what I can.”

  Crossing the room Hardin took a Winchester from the rack on the wall. He tossed the rifle to Tommy. “Get some shells out of the drawer there. But don’t you start shooting unless I tell you.”

  Tommy opened the drawer and lifted a box of bullets out, he forced a full sixteen load into the magazine then followed Hardin out and along the street. They entered the Gunn River Saloon and the silence hit them. It was an ominous sign to anyone who knew cowhands. They were a rowdy bunch most times, when in town. If a cowhand was not rowdy it meant there was trouble in the air. All eyes went to Hardin and Tommy as they entered but no one offered to speak. The cowhands were waiting for the bosses to give a lead and the ranchers waiting for Colt Blayne to act as spokesman for them.

  At last Blayne spoke, his voice an angry growl. “They’ve started to wire off the range now. Our land, and they started to put wire on it.”

  “Who have?” Hardin’s voice was soft and caressing.

  “The nesters. Who else? Damn it, Wes, if my crew hadn’t found that waterhole we’d have been getting cattle ripped to pieces on the wire.”

  The crowd rumbled out their angry agreement. It was like the snarl of a lynch mob, a menacing sound. Another rancher got to his feet, a big blond man; his voice, the accent of a Swede deepened by his anger.

  “By gar, they ban all down in the other saloon right now. All of them no-good nesters. If they want trouble they can have it.”

  A cowhand yelled his agreement and came to his feet, reaching for his hat. Other men began getting up. Even as he took action, Hardin saw Rangoon with his ranch crew at the side of the room.

  “Sit fast, one and all!” Hardin’s words were backed by the double click as his matched Colts left leather. By his side Tommy brought the rifle up, holding it hip high and lined, his face set and determined. “Colt, the sheriff wants to see you and the other ranchers down at the Gunn River.”

  “Sure, and walk right into a trap,” Vance, by Rangoon’s side, yelled.

  “All right,” said Hardin, shrugging his shoulders without affecting the way his guns were lined. “I’ll go get Mahon and Rand to come along here. Happen they aren’t scared to take a chance.”

  The ranchers exchanged glances. The biting scorn in the words hit directly at them as Hardin knew it would. Not one of the ranchers would sit back and allow the Texan to fetch the head of the nesters to the saloon. Blayne got to his feet and looked at his crew.

  “You bunch stop here. Sam, you and Johnny make sure none of them come out of here until we get back.”

  “You boys stay here—understand?” another rancher went on.

  His men understood, although they did not like the idea of their boss going into the saloon full of nesters. The ranchers started towards the door, one of them looked at Rangoon, who was coming along, and smiled:

  “Ain’t no need for you to come along, Rangoon. We’ll handle it for you.”

  For a brief flicker there was annoyance in Rangoon’s face but it changed to his usual mild expression before anyone could see it. “I think I’d better come. I might be a moderating influence on you.”

  The other ranchers did not object, they walked by Hardin and Tommy, through the doors and into the street. The cowhands settled back, but Vance nodded and a lank haired half-breed who sat at the rear of the room rose and slipped out of the back door, closing it silently behind him. Every ear was straining to catch some sound which would warn them their bosses were in trouble. If the nesters made any treacherous moves the cowhands intended to take a bloody and savage revenge.

  The Gunn River Saloon was no more noisy than the Banking House when Hardin entered followed by the ranchers. Mahon and Rand were seated at a table away from the other men, Hollister with them tilting his chair back on the rear legs and nursing a shotgun. The nesters’ leaders looked at the ranchers, then at Hardin and Tommy. Nothing was said, the hostile glances were enough to warn Hardin that he was walking on thin ice and that at any moment now a fire underneath might melt it away.

  “Let’s make some talk,” he drawled.

  “Who’s here for the Lazy S?” growled Blayne. “Where’s Cap’n Fog?”

  “Him and Mark were out when the word came in,” Tommy answered, following the orders Dusty gave him before leaving the ranch. “I come in as the spread’s rep.” Blayne nodded his acceptance although he would have preferred the Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. Tommy was a cool hand, it would do him no harm to accept some responsibility. The boy looked firm and grim enough back in the Gunn River Saloon when his rifle lifted to back up Wes Hardin.

  “Now gents,” Hollister spoke quietly, yet with authority. “Big Hunk here tells me he’s found one of the waterholes he uses wired off. So has near on every other farmer here.”

  “That’s why the ranchers are in town,” snapped Blayne. “We been finding the same thing. That waterhole we share with the Rands was wired off all way round.”

  “Which same’d be right smart, if Rand did it. Stop your stock getting to water,” Hardin drawled. “And his.”

  Blayne opened his mouth, then closed it again as the import of the words hit him. “Say, I never thought of it like that, but it’s right.”

  “By gar, Wes, I ban out to see that hole I share with Lake there. It was new wire—” the Swedish rancher put in.

  “I ain’t rich enough to afford wire of any sort,” Lake, the nester, spoke up.

  “And I sure ain’t,” the Swede pointed out.

  The other men looked at each other. Rand and Blayne exchanged looks, both thinking the same thoughts. Before Dusty Fog started them all considering the possibility of some outside influence stirring up trouble between the ranchers and cattlemen, none of them would have taken time to think twice. They would have accepted the evidence at face value and painted for war. Now they were willing to try to talk things out first.

  Blayne scowled. “It takes a fair bunch of men to lay all that wire in one night. More than any ranch around here hires.”

  Hardin’s face suddenly darkened in anger. He remembered Rangoon’s visitors of the previous night. An Apache would do anything to obtain one of those wonderful sixteen-shooting Winchester rifles. He would raid for it, steal for it, kill for it. He might even help lay wire fences in the darkness of the night to ge
t hold of a Winchester. The Texan moved forward ready to say what he suspected.

  A glint of something metallic caught Hardin’s eye as he stepped forward. It was only a quick glance but Hardin knew what it was and acted with the speed which had kept him alive since being turned outlaw. He came around, hands crossing and the matched guns leaping out. The lead slashed into the bat-wing doors just in time. The hand holding a revolver jerked back, but the shot crashed out. Hardin flung himself across the room and out of the saloon, he heard rapidly-fading footsteps outside. Before he could go and see if there was a chance of catching the shooter it was too late.

  Cowhands poured from the Banking House Saloon. They came fast, and with their guns in their hands ready to avenge the treacherous attack on their bosses.

  Eleven – Apache Rampage

  Smoke rose into the air in a thickening black cloud. Dusty Fog and Mark Counter halted their horses and the two girls stopped behind them. Dusty sent his horse up a slope and looked down the other side. He heard the others following and was about to stop them. Mary brought her horse to a stop by his side and gulped. Lindy gave a gasp and turned her head away from the sight below. A wagon was burning at the foot of the slope, two shapes laying by it, stiffening on the ground. Dusty told Mark to take the girls back out of sight and rode forward.

  It was not a pretty sight. The two bodies were mutilated but there was enough of them for him to make an identification. He looked down at the pain-wracked and agony-twisted features of Poggy, the renegade who sold arms to Indians. Dusty still could not remember who the man was. The hole between Poggy’s eyes meant nothing more than he had been shot. His empty holster and the clean stripped loops of his belt told their story as did the mutilation. The Apache never took scalps preferring more basic trophies.

  Turning his horse Dusty headed back to the others. Mary looked at the cold, grim set of his face and felt a shudder run through her. Never had she seen Dusty look so disturbed.

  “What was it?” Lindy gasped. “An accident?”

  “Nope. Start those hosses for your place as fast as you can. The Apaches are out and they’ve got rifles,” answered Dusty. “Rifles—!” Memory flooded back to him of a man sat on the back of a horse with a rope tied around his neck and a cottonwood tree spreading its great branches overhead. “Poggy. Now I remember him. Poggy, the renegade. Lord, Rangoon wouldn't try a thing like that.”

  “Like what?” Mary asked. Mark did not need to for he remembered Poggy.

  “Come on, put those pet makers to work!”

  The very urgency of Dusty’s voice ended Mary’s questions. Obediently she used her spurs to make her horse move faster. Lindy followed her friend, worried by Dusty’s attitude and puzzled by his words. She watched the way Dusty and Mark were acting and felt fear creeping over her.

  Dusty reached down and drew the Winchester carbine from the saddle boot. For once in his life, although he would never admit it to Mark, he wished he was carrying a rifle, with the full sixteen-shot magazine capacity instead of the twelve his carbine supplied. The loads in the carbine were all he brought with him for he had never expected anything like this. He also wished he was riding his big paint instead of one of the Lazy S rough string. The paint was an animal he knew he could rely on and trust when under fire, he did not know if this horse would allow him to use weapons from its back. Mark was also riding a Lazy S horse, a big brown stud which ate work and would carry his giant frame. He was nursing his rifle as he rode and Dusty guessed Mark was wishing he had got more than the bare loads for it.

  They held the horses to a fast trot over the rolling folds of the range. All the time Dusty and Mark were keenly alert and watchful but they saw no sign of the Apaches. The range looked empty of life but the distant smoke from the reservation was now going. That was a bad sign, it meant the council was over, the fires dying out and the braves riding.

  “Hold it!” Dusty said, bringing the others to a halt as they topped a rise. “What do you make of that, Mark?”

  In the valley below them, winding along in an untidy straggle were several buggies, each driven by a woman and most of them with children in the back. Apart from a few boys in their early teens there was no sign of men in the party.

  “They’re our people,” Lindy gasped out. “Almost every family in the valley and it looks as if they’re headed for my home.”

  “Let’s go talk to them, then!” Dusty ordered.

  Mark suddenly jerked his head without speaking. It was a sign Dusty caught even though the girls did not notice it. Following the direction of Mark’s gaze. Dusty saw a cloud of dust, the faint shapes of riders under it. He did not need to look twice to know what the riders were. Nor to guess that the riders had seen them and were headed their way. He started his horse down the slope, following the girls.

  Mrs. Rand watched the approaching riders with grim eyes, she gripped the butt of her shotgun even though she recognized Lindy. Her eyes missed nothing, catching the smile on Silvie’s face as the girl recognized Mark.

  “Howdy ladies,” greeted Dusty, raising his hat. “Going for a picnic?”

  “What if we are?” growled Mrs. Rand, hefting the shotgun.

  “Like to ride along with you, ma’am, happen you are,” answered Mark. “We don’t know the range hereabouts and might get lost.”

  “Get lost, huh!” Mrs. Randy grunted, her eyes going to Silvie again, then to Lindy and Mary. “You stand a good chance of getting lost with those two gals.”

  “Start the wagons, ma’am,” Dusty’s drawl was firm and grim. “There’s Apaches on the warpath and they’re coming fast.”

  Dusty guessed the woman’s type right, she would not panic at the word, “Apaches.” Without even batting an eye Mrs. Rand nodded to Silvie and the girl started her team forward. The other buggies moved slowly along, but Mrs. Rand pulled to one side to allow them all to pass her. Her eyes were on Dusty and Mark, wondering if she could trust them. They were cowhands, and at the best of times the cowhand was a practical joker Yet she did not think there was any joke this time. That small Texan’s face was too grim and set for a joking matter. Apart from the odd shotgun the women were not armed, her own girls could all use weapons but they did not have any with them. If Apaches came on them out in the open they would be in a bad way.

  Dusty was just as aware of their state in the event of an attack. They would have no chance at all unless they could reach the Mahon place and fort up. With this in mind he started to give his orders.

  “Mary, tell Mark the best way to reach town from here. Mark, you-all cut across the range and get help for us. Most of the ranchers’ll likely be in town over this wire trouble. Lindy, when Mary’s finished you and her get on ahead. Tell your mammy to get out all the ammunition she can lay hands on and keep the front door open ready. We’ll be coming in fast when we arrive.”

  There was no arguing or discussing Dusty’s right to give orders. Mark knew Dusty was the best man to run the defense of the house and that his own chore was by far the safer. He listened to Mary’s range geography lesson, then headed his horse in the direction she gave him. Mary and Lindy did not waste any more time, they put their pet makers to use and sent their horses racing off, headed for Lindy’s home.

  Dusty rode up the slope and looked over the range, the dust cloud was close now; too close for comfort. He could make out the individual Apaches and see the rifles they held in their hands, new Winchesters. Even as he turned his horse Dusty could guess what happened and swore he would get Rangoon for arming the Indians. Right now there was not the time to waste, flight was the only hope for the women below. He raced his horse down the slope and Mrs. Rand caught his signal, reached down for her buggy whip and ordered her family to hold tight.

  “Apaches coming, move out!” Dusty roared. “Yeeah!”

  It was the rebel war yell, a cry many a Yankee army man had learned to hate in the Civil War. Dusty screamed it out as he caught alongside the first wagon and jerked his boot from the stirrup iron
to kick the horse in the ribs. The old buggy horse, a cull from some ranch remuda, still retained enough fire to take exception to such treatment. It lunged, slamming into the harness and hurling the buggy forward. The woman driving it was middle-aged and looked as if she knew what to do, she did not panic and held her horse under control. Behind her the other women were all urging their horses on. Everything now depended on the distance to the Mahon house, how far behind the Apaches were—and the driving skill of the women.

  Dusty brought his horse to a halt, allowing the buggies to go by him. He was wishing he had taken Mark’s rifle to augment the arms of the party but it was too late. Mark was a dot on the horizon and there was no chance of getting him back to collect the weapon from him. So Dusty rode at the rear of the party, ready to go forward and prevent any buggy leaving the track they were following. The track was not ideal for fast driving but it was safer than the range; once a buggy left the track there was every chance it would break an axle or overturn.

  From behind came the deep drumming of fast-moving hooves and the wild yells of the Apaches as they followed. It was a sound which was guaranteed to scare anyone who had ever heard it before and made the women lay their whips to the racing horses.

  Dusty sent his horse hurtling along the racing line, crowding a scared woman’s buggy back into line. “Don’t try and pass!” he yelled. “Keep in line.”