The Floating Outfit 49

by J. T. Edson

  The warning was taken and the women held their racing horses to the track, no more attempts at overtaking were tried. Behind, the Apaches were closing the gap with every stride of their war ponies; it would be a close thing. The Mahon place was ahead but the Apaches were coming up fast and the women would have to get into the house. Dusty saw Lindy, Mary and Mrs. Mahon come out of the house and look in the direction of the buggies. The woman gave an order and the two girls went back into the house but she stayed outside holding the new Winchester in her hands.

  The first buggy was slowing by the gate now, the woman and her child getting out. She yelled and the horse started forward, pulling the buggy out of the way of the next to stop. This was the most dangerous time. The buggies stopped and allowed the families to tumble out and run for the house. The yells of the Apaches were growing louder all the time, scaring the women. The Rand family would be the last to unload but they were also the coolest.

  Dusty brought his horse around in a turn, started to lift the carbine and remembered just in time he was not on his paint. He came down from the saddle and lifted the short carbine, sighting it. The Apaches were urging their horses on at full speed, each brave wanting to be the first to count coup on the white-eye women.

  Dusty sighted carefully, he did not have more than twelve shots for his carbine and must make every one count. The Winchester carbine was a short-ranged weapon and not too reliable for shooting at over seventy-five yards. The Apaches were within that range now. He fired and saw a brave go backwards over the rump of his racing war pony. From Dusty’s side came the hoarse bellow of a shotgun and a second wild racing, war-yelling brave left his horse.

  Without taking his eyes from along the barrel of the carbine Dusty asked, “They all in the house yet, ma’am?”

  “Just about,” Mrs. Rand answered, cocking back the hammer for the second barrel of her shotgun.

  “Move back then, ma’am. Run for it.”

  The shotgun coughed again and the nearest brave was knocked flying from his pony. Dusty heard Mrs. Rand running across the garden and his carbine spat twice. Dusty might often say he was no hand with a long gun, but when the chips were down he could take pointers on marksmanship from no man, up to and including the Ysabel Kid. His two shots were meat-in-the-pot hits, one brave was down, a second’s horse rolling in the dirt.

  “Run for it, mister!”

  Dusty heard Mrs. Rand’s yell and turned. It seemed that every time he came to the Mahon place he ended up running across the garden, making for the door. The Apaches were shooting now, seeing there was no chance of counting coup on the small white-eye. However from the back of a racing war-pony and with a weapon new to their hands none of the braves made a hit. Dusty hurled himself the last few feet, through the open door and into the house. Mrs. Rand showed she knew what to do in such a situation, she slammed the door behind the small Texan and slapped the locking bar into place.

  Dusty was about to make for the living room and organize the defense of the house when he heard voices raised in argument from the Kid’s bedroom. Dusty went along the passage fast for he knew what to expect. In spite of the danger a grin came to his face at the sight.

  The Ysabel Kid was on his feet, swaying and trying to shove by Mary and Lindy. It was a good thing neither of them spoke much Spanish for some of the things he was saying to them would have made their hair curl.

  “Let go of me! Damn it all to hell!” the Kid roared when Spanish curses got no results. His face was pale and lined with agony caused just by being on his feet.

  “Lon!” Lindy gasped. “Get back in your bed. Stop it! You’ll open the wounds!”

  “All right, Lon!” snapped Dusty. “Get back in' that bed.”

  “Like hell!” growled the Kid. From outside they could hear the yells as the Apaches circled the house before attacking, and the bark of weapons. “I’m going—”

  “You’re back in bed, or I’ll put you there,” Dusty warned, then he saw a way to make the Kid behave. He studied the night-shirt his friend was wearing, it belonged to Mahon and was considerably more elegant than anything the Kid’s usual attire. “Get back in bed, you’ll be more use there than laying on the floor. Man, I’d bet ole Red, Doc and Waco’ll have a laugh when I tell ’em about that fancy night-shirt you’re wearing. They’ll surely all want to buy one.”

  The Kid instantly became contrite and obedient. He allowed himself to be lowered on the bed and lay back. The effort at getting up had sapped most of his strength but he knew he must try and help. His eyes went to Dusty and he growled, “You tell the boys about me and I’ll fix your wagon, but good.”

  Dusty laughed. The other members of the floating outfit would never know of the Kid’s fancy taste in night-wear, but it was a good way to keep him in line for the future and Dusty stowed the thought away. He picked up the Kid’s gunbelt and laid it on the bed then turned to Lindy.

  “Open the Kid’s war bag and get his other gun out, you’ll likely need it. Mary, go in the dining-room and see if you can get a weapon.”

  Lindy opened the war bag and withdrew the Kid’s second Colt Dragoon. It was not a pair with the gun in his holster, but one of the round trigger guard, Third Model, butt cut for the attachable stock. Lindy lifted the canteen stock out and could not help but look at the plate in the butt. She read the inscription and wondered how such a fine weapon came to be in the Kid’s hands for he definitely was not either of the men named on the plate. vi She looked at the weapon, not knowing much about guns and not sure if she could handle such a heavy revolver. The Colt Dragoon was percussion fired and she knew how to load it but nothing more.

  “Slap that butt on, gal,” drawled the Kid. “She’s full loaded and only needs capping. You’ll find the caps in the buckskin bag there, with the pistol balls.”

  Lindy took out the Kid’s powder flask and bullet bag but her hands would hardly obey her as she fitted the caps on the nipples, readying the gun for use. “I’m frightened, Lon,” she gasped.

  “Sure, gal,” the Kid’s voice was cool and even, steadying her nerves. “Just you come and sit by me. Watch that window with one eye. You capped her all right so the rest’ll be easy.” He watched Lindy holding the stock; it was like the butt of a rifle, with extensions at either side, a piece to hook under the bottom of the pistol’s butt and a screw on top. “Put those bars there under the shoulders of the frame and the strap under the butt.” The girl obeyed, the extensions fitted into place and she looked for her next orders. “Tighten that screw on top. Do it as tight as you can.”

  Lindy obeyed. It said much for both the ingenuity of the inventor and the workmanship of Colonel Colt’s Hartford factory, that the girl found herself with what amounted to a six-shot carbine on her hands. She looked at the gun, then at the Kid. “What now?” she asked.

  “Get to that window and bust it. If any of them come at you let them get in so close you can’t miss. Don’t worry none, she’s loaded with forty grains and a soft lead ball. That’ll stop a man dead in his tracks; he won’t come in nearer if you hit him any place.”

  Lindy went to the window and looked out. She broke the glass with the butt of the carbine and looked out. The Apaches were circling the house, riding their ponies with skill and grace, shooting as they went. So far they were not attempting to charge the building, but from different rooms came the crack of the few weapons. Dusty’s voice reached her ears ordering the women to hold their fire unless they were sure of making a hit. Dusty was worried about their lack of ammunition. It would take Mark some time to get into town and bring help back. They would have to hold the house until relief arrived.

  Suddenly four braves hurtled over the fence and came towards the back of the house. Lindy stared at the squat, dark-faced men and was afraid, she had seen two men coming towards her in the same manner and missed them. Lining the Dragoon, Lindy let the hammer fall. The gun bellowed. Due to its heavy powder charge and comparatively light weight it kicked harder than the Springfield. Through the sm
oke she saw a brave stop in his tracks, foot raised from the ground. Then he pitched over backwards. She gasped, suddenly realizing she had killed a human being.

  One of the remaining braves fired his rifle; it was held hip high and by sheer chance the bullet smashed through the window grazing Lindy’s head, dropping her to the floor. The three braves were at the window, their dark faces leering in. From behind them and on the other sides of the house, another attack was beginning.

  Forcing himself tip on his pillows the Kid gripped his old Dragoon in both hands. He gave a wild rebel yell and fired. One of the Apaches reeled back, his face burst into a mask of blood. A second brave hurtled at the window and came through in a crashing of glass, landed on his feet and lunged forward. A hand caught his shoulder, turned him and a fist smashed into his face. The Apache was knocked backwards on to the bed, and never got a chance to recover. The Kid let his gun fall on the blankets and whipped up the bowie knife in his left hand. The right hand gripped the Apache’s lank black hair, drew the head back and exposed the throat to the great, ripping blade of the bowie knife. Sharper than many a razor, the eleven-and-a-half-inch blade bit down on to the brown throat, sinking in deep, then coming out. For an instant the great cut was clear, then blood spurted from it for the Kid’s knife lay in the Apache’s throat open almost to the bone.

  There was no time for Dusty to get his guns into action, for two more Apaches were in the room. One hurled himself at Dusty, the other drew his knife and flung himself at the Kid. The brave was almost on the Kid, knife lifted for a killing blow. Dropping his knife the Kid lifted the old Dragoon and fired from a range of not more than three feet. He could not miss, but with a lesser weapon, one without the man-stopping power of the old Dragoon, the Kid would also have died. The Apache’s momentum would have carried him on to plunge the knife home. As it was, the ball struck the brave and knocked him backwards across the room. The Kid fired at another brave who came to the window and the Apache drew back.

  The second brave was hurtling at Dusty. A squat powerful warrior, bigger and heavier than the small Texan. He came with a knife in his hand for it was counted a greater triumph to take coup with a knife than a rifle. He appeared to knock Dusty over but the Texan was going down before the man hit him. Catching the man’s dirty shirt Dusty pulled as he went backwards. His shoulders hit the floor but his feet went into the Apache’s stomach. Pulling down on the shirt Dusty heaved up with his feet throwing the brave over. It was a well-done trick but the Apache was no mean hand at wrestling. He was taken by surprise but landed with an almost cat-like agility, going through the door and into the passage, still holding his knife.

  They both made their feet at the same moment and the Apache came in again, lifting the knife for a stab. Dusty went under the slashing blade. His right hand stabbed out, fingers extended and held together thumb bent over the palm. He used the karate nukite, the piercing hand, driving his fingers full into the Apache’s solar plexus. The brave gave a strangled cry and doubled over as if he had been kicked by a mule. Dusty struck again, clenching his fist and smashing it with all his strength against the Apache’s temple. The warrior was knocked sideways, his head smashed into the wall and he went down in a limp heap.

  Dusty wasted no more time on the Apache, he was out of action for a long time, if not permanently. He saw the Kid was still able to shoot and that the window was clear, then heard Mrs. Rand yell and darted from the room.

  Lindy was on her hands and knees, she reached up and touched her head, the fingers came away red and she forced herself on to her feet, staggering to the bed. Her foot touched something which yielded and she looked down, then gave a scream. The Kid’s knife-killed victim was anything but a pleasant sight. Lindy lost control of her nerves and began to cry hysterically. The Kid’s hand slapped hard across the girl’s face and her sobs died off: His voice was weak but still held a bite to it.

  “Stop it, gal! Quit that yelling, will you! Go get me the other gun and make a start at loading this one.”

  The Kid knew Lindy’s wound was not serious and watched to give the girl something to take her mind off what she had seen. Lindy’s eyes went to the bloody sight on the floor but she held herself in control. Picking up the carbine-stocked Dragoon she brought it to the Kid and then with shaking hands started to strip the spent caps from the other gun.

  The Apaches rushed at the front of the house, smashing down the fence and churning over the garden. Mrs. Mahon and Mrs. Rand used their guns from the windows, firing at the charging braves. Mrs. Rand centered her shotgun on two braves who were hurtling forward ahead of the others. She fired and saw one go down, the other only caught a couple of balls in the side, they hardly slowed him down. The shotgun coughed again but Mrs. Rand missed the man she aimed at and sent another rolling over in the dirt. She saw her mistake, the brave hurled himself headlong through the window, smashing glass and sash. He grabbed the shotgun as he came in. Mrs. Rand knew she could not hope to hold it so she let go and her hard, bony fist smashed into the Apache’s face. It was a good punch and thrown by an arm powered with muscles many a man would have liked to own. The Apache’s head snapped to one side and he crashed to the floor. Mrs. Mahon spun around, firing the rifle. Her first shot struck the Apache in the head, rendering any further attention unnecessary.

  The window was crowded with Apaches, all trying to get in. Mrs. Rand let out a yell of, “Texas”; and dived for the shotgun. The other women in the room started to yell and scream, getting in each other’s way as the Apaches were doing at the window. Every brave wanted to get into the house and at the white-eye women. So they crowded up, and struggled instead of taking their time.

  Mrs. Rand caught up her shotgun but she knew there would not be time to put in more loads. Then she saw the shape of a man at the door. A man? A smoke-wrapped devil with a roaring Colt in either hand. Dusty was coming through the door, his matched guns spewing out lead as fast as his ambidextrous prowess allowed. The window was suddenly cleared under the smashing hail of lead, the Apache attack broke and the warriors pulled back outside the fence.

  “Get one of the ladies who can handle a gun to go to help Lindy,” Dusty ordered as he went to the table and started to reload his Colts. “She took a bullet nick, not bad, but she’ll need help.”

  “You go, Lou,” Mrs. Rand said for Mrs. Mahon was very pale. “Let Susan Mae have your rifle and use Lindy’s gun.”

  “I’ll go with you, ma’am,” drawled Dusty. “I want to hear what Lon’s got to say about things.”

  Mrs. Mahon and Dusty went along the passage and into the Kid’s bedroom. The woman stopped and stared at the three dead Apaches. There was horror in her eyes as she turned to Dusty and pointed to the one on the floor, the Kid’s victim.

  “Did you—?”

  “No, ma’am, I just tossed them to ole Lon and he did it.”

  “Caught me the big ’un myself,” growled the Kid. “Get shut, Lindy’s telling me what the Apaches are doing.”

  Lindy was by the window, peering out cautiously. She turned and said, “They all pulled back, left a couple to watch the house and went around the front. Is that good, Loncey?”

  “Not good, or bad as it stands on the face of things,” replied the Kid, his voice weak but definite. “They’ve been held off once and they’re going to make some medicine. Happen they get the right answer they’ll try again. Weil be under them, belly deep and they’ll take a powerful heap of stopping.”

  “Get your head fixed, gal,” Dusty ordered. “Anybody hurt yet?”

  “They got Mrs. Feisten, wounded a couple more,” Mrs. Mahon answered. “We’re almost out of bullets.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Dusty said. The situation was serious and the next attack would be forced home with more determination than the last. “Load everything that shoots and get ready.”

  “But don’t let nobody start shooting unless they can hit,” warned the Kid.

  Mary came in, face smudged and dirty but grim. “They’ve killed a
horse, got a fire going and are cooking it.”

  “That means we’ve got a few minutes, Dusty,” the Kid drawled, laying back for he was nearly exhausted. “They’ll eat before they come in, but when they come—Lord, they’ll come for keeps.”

  Dusty finished loading both the Kid’s Dragoons for him.

  Then, before he turned to make a round of the house and see what he could do about the defense, Dusty looked at the Kid and nodded to the two women. The Kid caught the sign and gave his affirmative nod; if the Apache got into the house he would make sure neither woman fell alive into their hands.

  In the town of Escopeta men poured from the two saloons. The nesters, wanting to know who had tried to use the gun from the door, the cowhands thinking their bosses were in trouble. It was unfortunate that no rancher managed to be amongst the first men out of the Banking House Saloon. The cowhands saw Hardin leave the saloon followed by armed nesters and drew the conclusion that their bosses were in bad trouble. The nesters saw armed cowhands bearing down on them and took the line that they were in danger.

  “Hold it, all of you!” Hardin barked out the order to the advancing cowhands.

  “Keep going, boys,” a Rangoon man shouted from the back of the crowd. “He won’t shoot!”

  The cowhands hesitated. They knew Hardin’s reputation and knew he would not give the order unless he meant to back it with a brace of smoking Colts. In the cowhand bunch Banjo Edwards saw the hesitation and growled an order for one of the Flying Fish men to down the Texan. He knew that if one man started shooting it would spread. Not one man would wait, but would start his gun talking. Wes Hardin was good with his guns but he could not handle the entire crowd. They would get him and the fight become general.

  A wild, rebel yell rang out, sounding over the silence before the storm of violence. Loud it rang, and the men heard the rapid beating of hooves as a rider tore towards the town.

  “Apaches are out!”

  The yell brought a halt to every move. It was the only cry which could have stopped the trouble before it started. When the Apaches were out all white men needed to stand together. Every eye went to the big man who rode into town. The horse staggered as it came towards the cowhands, passing the nesters.