The Floating Outfit 49

by J. T. Edson

  Mark Counter felt the horse give out under him and kicked his feet free of the stirrups. It had run with Mark’s great weight and given its all. Mark sprang clear as the horse fell.

  He staggered and only his iron will kept him on his feet but he faced the crowd. His horse ran to death under him but he had reached the town.

  Wes Hardin was by Mark’s side, holding the big cowhand erect until he caught his breath again. Frank Gunn, over his grippe, forced through the crowd with a bottle in his hand. Mark took the bottle and drank deeply from it, then looked around at the crowd. Nesters and cowhands mingled together now, waiting to hear what he had to say.

  “The Apaches are on the warpath,” Mark got the words out as fast as he could manage. “The nester women are at Mahon’s place, forted up and Dusty’s trying to hold the Apaches off.”

  There was no thought of feuding now, no hatred. Apaches were threatening womenfolk and the men in the crowd were as one.

  “Get your hosses!” Sam Blayne yelled.

  “Come on, Big Hunk!” Colt Blayne bellowed. “Young Silvie’s in trouble.”

  “Hold it!” Banjo Edwards snarled the words out, pushing through the crowd. “He’s lying, there’s—”

  Mark thrust Hardin aside. At the same moment his hands dropped towards the butts of the ivory-butted guns. In the West a man did not use the world Tar’ unless he was willing to back it with a roaring gun. Banjo Edwards was also going for his guns, taking his chance to match shots with Mark. He would never have a better opportunity to beat Mark Counter for the big Texan was exhausted from his ride. Even so, Mark’s long-barreled Colts were clear ahead of the gambler’s. Flame lashed from the barrels. Edwards was kicked backwards from his feet by the force of the bullets, his own guns just clear of leather, but he died without having time to line them.

  The half-breed lunged from the side of a building, his gun slanting up and at the same moment Vance started his draw.

  “Vance!” Tommy yelled and brought up the rifle, firing from the hip. He saw the big cowhand jerk back as the bullet hit him. Then the crash of Hardin’s guns, as he threw down on the half-breed, shattered the air.

  The other Flying Fish men stood still, not knowing what to make of the scene. Only the three who now lay dead were deeply involved in Rangoon’s plans. The others were ready to go and help rescue the white women from the Apaches.

  Even as the smoke rolled from the street, Mark thrust his guns back into leather. “Get me a horse,” he growled.

  “Rest up, boy,” Blayne answered, gripping Mark’s powerful arm. “You’ve rid far enough and there’s enough of us to handle things.”

  “Like hell!” Mark snapped back. “Dusty and Lon’re out there. I’m going with you, to help them.”

  A Flying Fish man came up leading a big horse. “Here, Texas, take this. It belonged to Banjo but I don’t reckon he’ll be needing it.”

  Rangoon stood on the side of the street, watching everything. A half-smile played on his lips. His final plan was spoiled, there would be no chance of his starting again, not with what Dusty Fog suspected. He gripped the sleeve of one of his men.

  “Ben, if Captain Fog’s still alive tell him I’ll be at the Flying Fish, waiting for him.”

  “Sure boss,” replied the man and ran for his horse.

  Rangoon watched the men riding out of town. Nesters, cowhands, riding in harmony and for a common purpose. Turning he went back to the bank, opened the safe and took out a carpet bag. He stuffed some of the money into the bag and left the rest locked in the safe. Regretfully he walked from the room, went to the livery barn and collected his horse to ride to his ranch.

  The rescuing party reached the Mahon place just as the Apaches launched their big assault. Hitting the braves like raging tornadoes the white men broke the attack and scattered the Indians. Then it was over, the Apaches who could, running for the safety of the reservation and seen on their way by a bunch of cowhands.

  There were happy reunions as the nesters went to their women. Silvie Rand flung herself into the arms of Sam Blayne and their fathers stood grinning at each other. Peace was on the land, the leading families of both sides were to be united.

  Mark and Dusty came together, neither spoke for a long moment but their handshake told a story. Mark grinned and drawled, “Lon all right?”

  “Why sure,” answered Dusty. “You get any tobacco while you were in town?”

  It was then that the Flying Fish cowhand came up and delivered Rangoon’s message. Wes Hardin loomed up, face

  hard and grim. “Dusty, Rangoon—”

  “I know, Wes,” replied Dusty. “I’ve known all along. Get me a horse.”

  Colt Blayne loaned Dusty his big horse without asking questions, even when Dusty ordered that the Flying Fish men should be held under guard until he returned.

  “Do you need any help, Dusty?” asked Mark, watching his friend mount the horse.

  “No, I’ll handle it. You take care of things here.”

  The Flying Fish men were rounded up, disarmed by Mark and Wes Hardin. One of the men growled, “What the hell, Wes?”

  “You’ll know when Dusty gets back,” Hardin answered. “Keep them here, Colt. I want to go in and see the Kid.”

  “What’s this all about, Wes?” Hollister asked, coming up from behind the back of the house. “These’re Rangoon’s men.”

  “That’s sure enough true,” Hardin answered. He smiled mockingly at the men who stood looking at him. “And Rangoon’s the man behind the trouble here in Gunn River County.”

  “Him?” Blayne snorted. “He’s only a little man and—”

  “That’s right, Colt,” interrupted Hardin. “Only a little man. But he was the big augur, the man who did everything from having Simmonds killed to arming the Apaches.”

  Twelve – Rangoon’s Reason

  The night was dark and still as Dusty Fog rode towards the deserted Flying Fish ranch house. The house itself looked deserted, except for a solitary light which showed from a window. Dusty did not expect to be challenged, or to find anyone but Rangoon. The small man would not leave a message just to murder him, that Dusty was sure of. There would be no ambush laid for him. So sure was he that he rode straight to the front of the house and left the horse at the porch hitching rail; stepped on to the porch and went through the front door. Along the passage he saw a door open and light showing through it.

  Gun in hand Dusty walked along the passage and halted before stepping into plain sight. He stood still, the house was as silent as a grave. All Rangoon’s crew had been in town and he had paid off his cook on his return, sending the man to Escopeta out of the way.

  “Come in, Captain Fog,” said Rangoon from the room. “I’m not holding a gun, although I tell you that there is one, fully loaded, on the desk in front of me.”

  Dusty holstered his gun and stepped into the room. Rangoon was seated at a desk in the center of the room; the desk top was clear except for a Merwin & Hulbert Pocket revolver. Rangoon leaned back in his chair, hands on the desk top but not near the butt of the gun. He looked like a mild cherub but Dusty knew he was the hardest man he had ever met.

  Slowly Dusty looked around the room. It was sparsely furnished and looked much like the living quarters of a soldier in a frontier post. There was a shelf of books like the one in Rangoon’s office at the bank. The only reading matter was of a military nature, books on tactics, official publications, histories of the War. Dusty turned his attention to the two pictures on the wall. One was of three men, big men if the comparison of them and their muzzle loading rifles was anything to go by. They wore the pre-Civil War army uniforms and one was bigger in every way than the other two. This biggest man looked familiar to Dusty, as familiar as a half forgotten picture in a book. The man was also on the other photograph; it appeared to have been taken on his wedding day, his bride was a big, buxom woman.

  Rangoon remained seated, making no move, his mild face showing no expression beyond the usual bland friendl
iness. “Do you like the picture of my father, Captain Fog?”

  “Your father?”

  “Colonel Grice Baldwin was my father.”

  “Grice Baldwin?”

  “Yes, you’ve heard of him?”

  “Why sure,” agreed Dusty, remembering the photograph from a book he had seen. “I’ve read about him and heard the old Army men talk about him. Wasn’t he the one who wouldn’t take any men into his regiment who stood under six foot? The man who boasted any man in his regiment could lick two men—and he could whip any man in the regiment?”

  There was a bitter note in Rangoon’s voice. “That’s right. That was the boast of Grice Baldwin, my father.”

  Neither man spoke for a time. Dusty did not know why Rangoon had left word where he could be found and waited to learn. At last he broke the silence. “We got all of your men. I reckon they might talk.”

  Rangoon did not reply to this. His eyes went to the pictures on the wall. “Did your father ever look down on you because of your size, Captain?”

  “Can’t say he ever did. Reckon he knew it wasn’t my fault I didn’t grow any taller.”

  “Then you were lucky. Grice Baldwin lived only for bigness. He was a big man; the only one I’ve seen who was his equal is Mark Counter. Grice Baldwin lived only to have the biggest things about him. Horses, men, they all must be big for him. He married my mother because she was the biggest woman he could find. That way he expected a big son. The night I was born he took bets that I would weigh over ten pounds at birth—I weighed six, no more. When he found out I was not going to grow big, he parted from my mother. Sent her away from him, gave her enough money to live in comfort and educate me,” Rangoon spoke softly but his voice held torment and anger. “He made two stipulations to his settlement. The first was that she never allowed me to use his name. The second was the most brutal, that she called me Horace. She did for he would have thrown her aside without a cent if she refused. She took her name of Rangoon again and told everyone she was a widow. Always the Army held a fascination for me, Captain, I’ve read almost every book on tactics that was written. My size and appearance were against me. I was too small for acceptance at West Point. I always looked mild, and fat. But I’m strong, Captain, far stronger than you’d think looking at me. Nobody would ever take me seriously. I would have been in my element in the Army but they would not accept me. When the War began I enlisted, hoping to be posted into a fighting unit. They allowed me in as a Quartermaster officer. Me, a man with more knowledge of tactics than half of the Army’s officers. I only accepted in the hope that I would be able to get to a fighting regiment later on. But they kept me well back from the fighting line and I rose to major, tied somewhere safe at a desk.”

  Dusty sat on the edge of the desk, watching Rangoon’s face. He could guess how the other man must feel. They were both small in a country of big men. Yet it was easier for Dusty. He had never felt his lack of inches, not when there were so many ways in which he could excel over the bigger men.

  “You were the major with Hantley on the Cumberland?”

  “Hantley!” Rangoon spat the word out. “I was sent to the Cumberland, near the fighting area, to check on some stores. There was supposedly no danger but I was given an escort commanded by a Lieutenant. Tom Hantley was his name, a dull, stupid and drunken lout with little or no command of his men. Through his stupidity we were lost and I brought us to the house on the Cumberland. We were attacked by a small battalion of Confederate infantry. Hantley wanted to surrender but I refused. He was scared and lost his head. There was a good cellar in the house and Hantley was never sober enough to fight. I commanded the men. I defended the house, Captain. Hantley was too drunk even to fire a rifle. Those rebs could shoot, Captain. They got man after man in my small command but we held them off. I used every military trick I could think of and we held them off. I was wounded on the first day, but I kept on my feet. One thought kept me going, that I would be given my chance at a fighting command as a result. I took a second wound on the day we were relieved and fell unconscious as I heard the bugles of Custer’s regiment coming to help us. They found two men left alive. I was unconscious and Hantley managed to make himself sober enough to take the credit for the defense. There was not another man left alive who could tell the truth. When I recovered sufficiently to understand what was happening Hantley was a hero, a major, commissioned in the field as a reward for my defense.”

  “You could have told them,” Dusty remarked, guessing what was to come.

  “Who would believe me?” Rangoon asked pathetically. “Hantley was the sort of man who looked like a hero, I was not. I sounded a few people out, trying to say what happened. They treated me as the fortunate man who was with Hantley when he made his gallant defense. Inside a year nobody remembered I had anything to do with the fight, or any of the men who died to make it possible. Hantley was all they remembered. Look in any book of the War and see what I mean.”

  “I know. I’ve read a few.”

  “And never saw the name of the major who was with Hantley in any of them.”

  “No, I never did,” agreed Dusty. “So you wanted to get back at Hantley.”

  “I did. The War was over when I was finally released from hospital and I was turned out of the Army. They kept Tom Hantley in on a permanent commission. I watched his career. It was one of blunder and missed opportunity, but that one defense blinded everyone to it. I followed him to the Black Hills, where I met Poggy. Only Hantley’s coming down with fever saved him there. He would have gone the way of Custer, massacred by his ego and blind stupidity. I waited, he was next in Washington where there was no chance of my getting at him. Then he came to New Mexico; to the fort near the Apache reservation; to his home town. I followed him but the very fates must have worked against me for he was sent to Arizona Territory and the Apache Kid killed him.”

  “Why carry on then?” Dusty asked, feeling sorry for the other man.

  “I was willing to forget everything, when that infernal book of Hantley’s came out. The people of town gave me a copy—”

  “Which you threw at the wall from the look of it.”

  “I did. For once in my life I lost my temper. Those fools from Escopeta gave me the book to show me how a real soldier fought the War. One of them even said I should change my saloon’s name to Hantley’s Place. That was when I swore I would be revenged on them. I started to stir up trouble between the ranchers and the nesters, just in small ways, building them up for the Simmonds and Mahon business. I’d got Poggy out buying rifles and never stopped him.” There was a harder note in Dusty’s voice as he interrupted. “So you aimed to arm the Apaches all the time?”

  “Only as a last resort. I meant to arm them and give Tom Hantley some bad trouble. It took time to gather so many weapons without raising suspicion. I never thought I would need the arms; the business you and your friends spoiled would have been enough. It was a pity about Simmonds and Mahon, they were both good men. That was why they had to be killed. I suppose you know why?”

  “Sure, kill the fighting men and the moderate-tempered folks wait for the law. Kill the moderate men and the fighters start fighting without thinking.”

  “Yes. You and I could have made a great team. It was to be war to the end and in war there are always casualties, the innocent suffer. There was suspicion and distrust, even after you showed them that someone was stirring up trouble between them. Nobody knew who they could trust, everybody was suspicious of his neighbor. Only I was never suspected. Even my men were not suspect, they worked for that nice, little, Mr. Rangoon. They never suspected me and I hated them for it. They looked down on me, those big men. Treated me as though I was a half-wit or something, all of them, none thinking I was the man behind their troubles. Only you suspected me. You—the Rio Hondo gun wizard, the Confederate hero, Dusty Fog. You recognized me for what I was. I meant to smash the others, even if I must use the Apaches to do it—One thing though, Captain, I did not think the Apaches would stri
ke this way or so soon. I thought the county would be embroiled in a range war.”

  Dusty could see the tragedy of this man; clearly in comparison with his own life. Dusty was honest enough to admit he was well-known, almost famous. In the War he had been a fighting man, leading a company of Cavalry. He had done very well, but Rangoon could have handled a troop just as well given the chance. Dusty was known, respected and admired throughout the range country, even by taller men. Nobody ever regarded him as small. Rangoon might have been the same, respected and admired. It was a tragic waste of what could have been a very useful life.

  “I’m sorry. More sorry than I can tell you,” said Dusty, swinging down from the desk and facing Rangoon, hands hanging by his sides.

  “Thank you. And now, Captain, what are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to take you in, Major,” Dusty answered. “I could have passed over your causing trouble between the folks. Might have overlooked your having Simmonds killed. I’d even forget about your having Lon shot down, we got enough of the bunch who did it to even things up—But I can’t forget, or forgive, your arming the Apaches and endangering the lives of women.”

  Rangoon nodded, his face was still that mild mask. “I’m sorry about that. I’ve a carpet bag here in the desk, with money in it.” He waved down Dusty’s objection. “It’s not a bribe, Captain. I’m still gentleman enough for that. It’s the money taken from Simmonds. I’d like you to return it, or I will see Mary gets it. The rest of the bank’s funds, less my own money are in the safe. I meant to try and make a fresh start away from here.”

  “I can’t let you go.”

  Slowly Rangoon rose to his feet, eyes never leaving Dusty’s face. His shoulders braced back. “I know!”

  Rangoon’s hand went down to sweep the Merwin and Hulbert gun up from the desk. At the same instant Dusty’s hands crossed, the bone-handled guns sliding out in that sight-defying flicker of speed which was the difference between a top gun and a man who was just fast. Rangoon’s short-barreled weapon spat as flame tore from Dusty’s guns. The bullet ripped a hole in Dusty’s hat brim. Through the whirling smoke the small Texan saw Rangoon reel back, hit in the chest. For a moment Rangoon stood; his gun slid from his limp hand, and he went down.