The Floating Outfit 10

by J. T. Edson

  Toon looked up sharply, taking in every detail of the mocking-voiced youngster. ‘I put the Injun sign on that spread, sonny. Likewise passed the word that nobody hires to them.’

  ‘Waal, now,’ the tallest of the trio’s voice was a deep, southern drawl. ‘That’s for the lady to say, her being from the Rocking H and all.’

  ‘Funny bunch, huh?’ Hendley growled before his boss could speak. ‘We got us a real bunch of funny men here, ain’t we, Ed?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The hired killer’s voice was harsh and menacing. ‘We sure have Joel. Likely they’ll laugh themselves to death.’

  The small man had been watching all this. He spoke, his voice mild. ‘You mean you’re asking us not to hire to Rocking H?’

  ‘The boss here don’t ask cowhands nothing,’ the hired killer answered. ‘He’s telling you—and I’m here to see you does as he tells you.’

  ‘Mean he’s ordering us?’ There was a deceptive mildness in the big cowhand’s tones.

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘Well now, I never was much of a hand at taking orders. Fact being that ole General Bushrod Sheldon always said I was the worse order-taking soldier in his command.’

  ‘That means you aims to take on agin the boss’s orders?’ asked the killer tensing slightly, his hand lifting.

  Toon flashed a glance at the hired gun. He didn’t want these three young men shooting if he could help it. Like Salt, he could tell good hands when he saw them and he had need of good hands for his own trail drive.

  ‘This here’s Ed Wren,’ he said warningly.

  If he expected any sign of fear, or any other emotion, at the mention of the name, he was sadly disappointed. Not one of the three gave any sign of ever having heard of the man called Ed Wren.

  The three young Texans still remained lounging in their saddles; they studied the hired killer. Then the dark young man replied, his tones mocking and sardonic.

  ‘Waal now, seeing’s how we’re all so cozy and being real formal like, allow me to present us. I’m Loncey Dalton Ysabel. This here gent on the blood bay’s Mark Counter.’ He paused for a couple of seconds, to let the names sink in, noting the worry lines which were forming on two of the faces. ‘This here,’ he waved a hand towards the small rider. ‘Ain’t nobody much at all. Happen you never even heard of him.’ He paused, then: ‘His name is Dusty Fog!’

  Two – The Immortal Words of Colonel Sam

  ‘Dusty Fog!’ In all her life Thora had never heard four voices put so much different expression in just two small words. There was wild elation in old Salt’s whoop as his suspicions were confirmed. Toon’s startled croak showed his worry, and there was fear and uneasiness in Hendley’s tones. Only the hired killer’s voice held a sneering disbelief.

  To Thora alone the name meant very little, at the moment. She tried to remember what she had heard about a man called Dusty Fog.

  ‘Him!’ The hired killer jerked a contemptuous thumb at the small Texan. ‘A short runt like that, Dusty Fog! Who the hell are you—?’

  ‘Mister!’ There was a flat and sudden menace in the small man’s soft-drawled words. ‘Leave us remember the immortal words of Colonel Sam Colt: ‘Be not afraid of any man, No matter what your size. When danger threatens, call on me, And I will equalize.’’

  Ed Wren scowled; he wasn’t used to prospective victims spouting poetry at him. ‘Meaning?’ he hissed.

  ‘When ole Colonel Sam brought out his first six-gun, back to Paterson in the old days, he made you and me both the same height.’

  Thad Toon licked his lips nervously. ‘Now easy, Dusty.’ He, for one, didn’t doubt who this small, soft-spoken young man was. ‘We ain’t after no fussings with you three; our fight’s with the Rocking H.’

  Thora’s mouth opened to claim the three men were hired to her; she closed it again when she realized that she had not told the three cowhands whether they were hired or not. She wanted to say something and try to avert the trouble which plainly was coming. Before she could do so, Dusty Fog took the matter out of her hands.

  Without taking his eyes from the hired killer, Dusty reached back and unstrapped the bedroll from behind his saddle. Holding it one-handed, he said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am. Cookie, throw her in the wagon.’

  Salt rose and reached over in front of Thora to take the bedroll, a broad grin of pure delight on his seamed face. He took the bedroll and swung it back into the wagon with a delighted, ‘Sure thing, Cap’n Fog, suh, sure thing.’

  Thora got the feeling that she had somehow missed something, a sign of some kind. There was a stiffness in the three men standing before her, a tension in the air that hadn’t been there before. She alone didn’t know the full significance of Dusty’s action. The others knew it well, too well. They knew that when a cowhand threw his bedroll into the wagon he became part of the outfit, and any trouble the spread got into was his trouble. It meant that he was fully committed to the brand; their fun his fun; their fight now his fight.

  Toon and his two men knew it and they knew that they would have to fuss with Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid if they fussed with the Rocking H.

  Mark and the Kid had handed their bedrolls up to the cook, just to show where their feelings in the matter lay. The action had not gone unnoticed by Thad Toon; he was even more disturbed by the action, for he knew much of those three young men.

  Dusty watched the hired killer all the time and spoke to Salt. ‘Start the wagon, Cookie.’

  Salt reached for the ribbons, his eyes watching the Double T men ahead. ‘They’s in the way, Cap’n.’

  ‘Happen they’ll move.’ Thora had a sudden feeling that she should say, or do something to stop this small man getting hurt. Before she could make up her mind to say something Salt had twitched the reins gently against the sides of his mules. The wagon started to move, flanked by the three cowhands.

  Toon and Hendley stood still for a moment. Then they moved aside, having decided that war was off for this day. Ed Wren stood firm, his hand lifting, for he was paid to fight. He was a paid killer and had his reputation to consider. To back out of a fight would mean that his future employers would remember and not pay so well. He thought of this and made his move.

  It was a good move in any company; any but the present.

  Thora saw the dandy-dressed killer’s hand lash across his body to the butt of his gun. The move was fast. Faster, to her terrified eyes, than any other she had seen.

  The crash of a shot made her start up, the concussion of the explosion jarring at her nerves and the acrid smell of burnt powder coming to her nostrils. Ed Wren pitched to one side, blood running from the side of his head. His gun fell from his hand, unfired, and landed in the dust of the trail. He crashed down by the side of it an instant later.

  Twisting round, Thora looked down at the small Texan. Somehow, Dusty looked taller than any other man there. He sat lounging in the saddle, his left hand holding a smoking revolver. Dusty lifted the gun to his lips and blew smoke from the barrel, then spun it round and holstered it.

  The big paint moved forward, passed in front of the wagon and halted in front of Thad Toon. Cold gray eyes looked down at the rancher and a soft voice drawled, ‘I only creased your hired man, mister. The next time I have to shoot, I’ll kill—and it won’t only be the hired man I go after.’

  The Rocking H wagon carried on and Thora leaned over to see what was happening back along the street. Mark and the Kid stopped their horses and were watching whilst Dusty spoke to Toon. She turned back to Salt. ‘Who did they say he was?’ she asked.

  ‘Why, Miz Thora, ma’am. That’s Cap’n Dusty Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry.’ The name didn’t mean much to her, she was still confused by all that had happened. ‘Is he really fast with a gun?’

  ‘Waal now, Miz Thora,’ Salt scratched his jaw thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t go and say he was fast, ma’am. See, take men like Wes Hardin, King Fisher, Bill Longley or Ben Thompson, they’re real fast with a gun.’

  ‘Well?
’

  ‘Ma’am, sides of Cap’n Fog they’re only l’arning.’

  Thora gulped, and sank back in her seat. The men named were the best exponents of gun work Texas had produced. She wondered what kind of men she had hired.

  Salt could have told her something about them, things he had heard in the years since the war.

  Dusty Fog might look like a quiet, unassuming young man. He might be passed over unnoticed in a crowd, but not if the crowd were painted for war. At fifteen, he had joined the Texas Light Cavalry in the War Between the States: a year later he had been a Captain, and for two years had made a name for himself. It was a name that ranked with Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby as the supreme raiders of the Confederacy. Where Ashby and Mosby had fought in the more publicized East, Dusty had led his men to harass the Yankee troops in Texas and New Mexico. In doing so he had caused many a Yankee commander to wish that he was dealing with an older and more conventional fighting man.

  After the War Dusty had been selected to go into Mexico and bring back Bushrod Sheldon and his men, who were serving Maximillian. That was where he had teamed up with Mark and the Kid. Since then, they had ridden for Dusty’s uncle, Ole Devil Hardin.

  Mark Counter could have carved a name for himself in the annals of border gunfighting, had he not chosen to ride with Dusty. He had been a Lieutenant under Sheldon and was said to be the finest all-round fighting man in the West. He was faster than most with his guns, a better than fair shot with a rifle and as a fist-fighter had few equals. He was a top hand and knew cattle if anything better than Dusty did. His father owned the biggest ranch down in the Texas Big Bend country, but Mark preferred to ride with Dusty and the Kid as part of Ole Devil’s floating outfit.

  The Ysabel Kid was last, but by no means least, of this trio; they tell many tales of the Ysabel Kid down in Mexico. He might look young and innocent, but men who had seen him in a fight knew how far the innocence went. He was good with his old Dragoon gun, the finest exponent of the art of cut-and-slash since James Bowie went to his death at the Alamo. It was with his rifle that he excelled; there was a saying down on the Rio Grande about the Kid and his Winchester ’66: ‘When the Ysabel Kid hits his mark it is ordinary; when he misses it is a miracle.’

  There was more than just a bone-tough fighting man to the Ysabel Kid; he was acknowledged as a first-rate tracker and reader of sign and as a student of Indian ways. His knowledge of Spanish was only exceeded by his mastery of six Indian tongues.

  All in all, although Thora didn’t know this, Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid were good friends to have in a fight; they were also real bad enemies.

  The three young men rode up alongside the wagon again and not one of them gave so much as a look behind them at Toon and Hendley. Dusty smiled up at her, and he looked young and insignificant again. ‘Didn’t have a chance to tell you before, ma’am, but Uncle Devil sent me along to be trail boss when he heard about Cousin Ben’s trouble.’

  Thora frowned; she was willing to accept Dusty as a hand, but he looked too young to be able to handle the dangerous task of being a trail boss. Then she remembered how fast Ed Wren had grabbed for his gun, and how this small man had beaten him to the shot—also the worried look on Toon’s face when he heard who the small man was.

  Whatever misgivings Thora might have had, Salt Ballew didn’t show any. He greeted Dusty’s words with a yell of delight. ‘Yowee!’ he howled. ‘We don’t have us no more worries now, Miz Thora. Men’ll come in faster than a Texas blue norther when they hears Cap’n Fog’s riding trail boss. We’ll certain be plumb belly-deep in pick of the town.’

  Thora thought this over for a moment, she could not remember her husband ever mentioning anybody called ‘Devil’ and wondered who he was that he should send men to help her out. ‘Do you know Ben?’ she asked more to cover her lack of decision than for any desire of information.

  ‘He’s nodding kin,’ Dusty replied. ‘Met him one time when he came to the Rio Hondo for the Christmas turkey-shoot.’

  Thora nodded; she could see how she had not heard much about this relative of her husband. Since coming west she had learned something of the kin system of the South. Nodding kin were distant relations and she wondered why one would take the trouble of helping out the Rocking H.

  The town marshal stepped from his office; he had been a witness to all that had happened along the street and seen the shooting. Now the wagon had arrived, he stepped out to have a word with them.

  Salt halted the wagon and the three cowhands also stopped, each lounging in the saddle and looking down at the marshal. Looking back, he asked, ‘He dead?

  ‘Nope,’ Mark replied. ‘All cooks look like that.’

  ‘Not Salt. I know he ain’t but half dead—and that only from the Stetson down. I meant Ed Wren.’

  ‘Just creased,’ Dusty answered. ‘You should keep such evildoers out of your town, Frank.’

  The marshal didn’t take any offence at this and turned his attention to Dusty. ‘I try, I try. So the sooner you three hellers light out the happier I’ll be. I can do with you here the same way I can use a hole in the top of my head.’

  ‘That’d be what I’d call an improvement.’ the Kid replied.

  Thora started to get to her feet; she knew the marshal was a fair and brave man and expected to see her three hands thrown into jail for the shooting. They didn’t seem to be trying to avoid it, with their attitude towards the marshal. ‘Capain Fog is my trail boss,’ she put in hotly, then realized she had committed herself now. ‘We only came to hire hands, after that we’ll be going. You know that Thad Toon had that man in town to stop us hiring—’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the marshal interrupted with a wink at the three cowhands. ‘I know what Thad’s been saying and wondered just when somebody’d take up that fancy-dressed gun-slick.’ He looked along the street to where Toon and Hendley were carrying the gunman towards the doctor’s house. ‘I’ll have a few words with Thad. Don’t you worry none, Miz Thora, with Dusty here as trail boss you’ll get your crew, the town’s full of men all looking for work.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Thora saw that her crew was in no danger of being arrested. ‘I’m sorry it came to shooting.’

  The marshal grinned. ‘So’s ole Thad I reckon.’ The grin faded. ‘You heard that Kliddoe’s got a new bunch and working the Dodge City area?’

  ‘We heard.’ Dusty didn’t sound any too worried by the prospect. ‘I reckon we’ll just have to hope and pray we slip by him.’ The marshal could see that trio of hell-twisters doing any praying over a thing like that. He lifted his hand in a cheery salute. Then he turned to head down the street, to tell Thad Toon something to his advantage.

  Granite City wasn’t much different from a hundred other such towns in the West. The business section, comprising stores, saloons and the jail, shared the main drag with the Granite Hotel—the finest, in fact the only, hotel in town. Outside this imposing building Salt halted his team.

  Mark helped Thora down from the wagon and then the three young men attended to their horses. They returned to join her on the porch and Dusty pulled a chair up for her, then sat on the rail with his back to the street. For a moment Thora thought that he was showing a lamentable lack of precaution, presenting his back to anyone coming towards them. Then she saw that Mark and the Kid were lounging on either side of her and all were in a position to cover the others’ blind spots. She saw that Salt was down at the store getting last-minute purchases for the drive.

  Dusty asked for permission to smoke and then rolled three smokes one after the other. She watched his hands at work and realized that he was using his right hand now, not his left. She didn’t know it but Dusty was completely ambidextrous. He had trained himself to be that way since his early school days. It had been part of his defense against his lack of inches, a defense which had driven him to become the chain-lightning gun-handler that he was.

  ‘Do you know what they say about the herd?’ she asked.

&n
bsp; ‘Sure, they’re offering five-to-one it doesn’t get through, back in Fort Worth.’ Dusty replied. ‘I’ve ten dollars on it.’

  ‘There’s a lot against our getting through.’

  ‘Man’d say you called that right. I heard about Cousin Ben getting gunned in Dodge. Word has it that a friend of Earp, skin-hunter called Shag Moxel, boasted he’d done it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the Kid put in. ‘Happen we’ll know the truth when we get up there.’

  ‘You mean that, knowing about Earp’s threat, you’re willing to go to Dodge?’

  ‘Sure.’ It was Mark who answered her startled query. ‘Earp doesn’t mean a thing. And don’t tell me about him arresting Ben Thompson in Ellsworth: I was there and know what happened. Earp’s just a loudmouth who likes a badge to hide behind. He’s not even a regular lawman in Dodge, just one of the extra hands they take on in the trail season.’

  ‘Mark’s right!’ Dusty agreed. ‘Earp talks big but he’s not big inside, unless he has the backing. Kliddoe scares me more than Earp, and he doesn’t scare me all that much.’

  Thora licked her lips. Kliddoe was one man she didn’t want to talk about. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Hire us some men, unless you have enough.’ Dusty looked along the street as he spoke. ‘Who was that hombre we had words with back there?’

  ‘Thad Toon, owner of the Double T. He’s our neighbor and wants to get his herd moved out first.’

  ‘Does, huh?’ Dusty’s smile made him look even younger. ‘He won’t get his wanting.’

  Thora felt a momentary misgiving at taking on this young man: he would never be able to handle the crew. However, Salt approved of having Dusty Fog as trail boss and Ben had told her to take the cook’s advice on such things. She knew that Salt would never lead her wrong on a matter as important as this.

  ‘How many men will we need? The herd is about three thousand head.’

  ‘How many of your own men are you sending?’