The Floating Outfit 10

by J. T. Edson

‘Kliddoe!’ the smaller of the Texans yelled. ‘Tell your men to lay down their weapons. Look up here and see what I mean.’

  Kliddoe and his men looked to where the Texan pointed, and all attempts to draw weapons ended. The top of the rim had several men, dark shapes hidden behind rocks or under scrub oaks. Each man was only in evidence by the shape of his hat and his rifle barrel which lined down on the camp.

  A man at the rear of the group pulled his gun out. Then, from behind the camp, top the other rim, a rifle cracked. Kliddoe and his men turned to see other men lining weapons down on them from behind. The man whose attempt to draw a weapon had brought the shot stood fast. The bullet had hit between his feet.

  ‘Any more shooting, and poor lil ole Cawther gets his,’ the dark youngster on the big white called. He sat close to Cawther Kliddoe, yet the watchers could see something metallic glinting close to their wounded friend. ‘I’ve got him on the point of ole Annie Breen here. And she’ll likely cut him in half, happen there’s trouble.’

  ‘Do what they ses, Uncle Jethro !’ Cawther howled, ‘this here Ysabel Kid’ll do for me, if you don’t.’

  A man clawed at his belt, trying to get his revolver out. Dusty’s right hand flipped and his long-barreled Army Colt cracked. For a fast took, off-hand shot at long range, the aim was good and lucky. The bullet sent dirt flying under the feet of the man.

  ‘Hold it, all of you!’ The Kid’s yell cut across the distance as Kliddoe’s men prepared to get into action. ‘Next to draw gets ole Cawther here cut in half. Then the boys on the rim’ll down Jethro.’

  ‘Drop your guns, all of you!’ Dusty barked out. ‘I’ll give you the count of five. Then we start into shooting.’

  On the third of the count, Cawther Kliddoe screamed for the men to let fall their guns. He knew how large the raiding-party was; but he also knew that he was number one mark for them. Jethro Kliddoe’s men might fight off the Texans, but he wasn’t going to be alive to see it.

  Jethro Kliddoe was in an awkward spot. His men were waiting for his guidance, ready to follow whatever lead he gave them. With his old bunch, if he had been in no danger, he would have started shooting and let Cawther take his chance. With the old hands, that would have been their only thought. These new men were not of that sort. They wouldn’t expect their leader to endanger the life of his favorite nephew.

  There was another thought in Kliddoe’s mind. He was under no delusion as to how the men of the South regarded him. Every Texas man on that rim would be lining his rifle, ready, willing and more than able to send lead into the hated Kliddoe.

  With this in mind, Kliddoe took the only course left open to him. He stepped forward and removed the revolver from his holster to toss it into the dust.

  ‘Move aside, Kliddoe. Let each of your men drop his guns, then get clear of them.’ Kliddoe took the orders, and man after man dropped his weapons, then moved to one side. Every rider was disarmed and stood clear of the weapons before the next move was made. Four more riders came over the rim and the group rode down the slope. The sullen Kliddoe men watched the riders coming nearer, but none made a move.

  Dude and Billy Jack rode forward to perform their part in the plan Dusty had made. They swung down from their horses and, taking a rope each, threaded the end through the trigger guards of the weapons, until all were fastened together in two piles.

  A big, burly man stepped forward from the Tax Collector ranks. He hadn’t the look of a Kliddoe tough, rather of a hard professional non-com. ‘You can get away with this. We’ve been appointed by the Governor to take tax on the trail herds. Colonel Kliddoe has a warrant to do it.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Sergeant Marples.’ The big man stared at Thora, as if he was seeing a ghost. Then he stepped forward and looked harder. ‘Miz Thora, by all that’s holy ! What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Taking my trail herd to Dodge.’

  ‘Your trail herd?’ Marples twisted round to face Kliddoe. ‘Did you know whose herd it was?’

  ‘He surely didn’t,’ the Ysabel Kid sneered, ‘His scout never told him about trying to force Miz Thora to hire him down in Texas, and how he dogged us all the way north.’

  ‘Scout?’ Marples turned his attention to the dark youngster who sat with a bowie knife resting against Gawther Kliddoe’s belt. ‘What do you know about Blount? And where is he?’

  ‘Gone, friend—to a far happier place than this. I surely hope it don’t get too hot for him.’

  ‘You killed him?’ Jethro Kliddoe asked.

  ‘He ended that way.’

  ‘Hold it!’ Dusty’s bark cut across the angry mutter of the Kliddoe men. ‘You all reckon that Kliddoe is working for the Governor in this here head tax collecting?’ The men growled their agreement. He went on: ‘That warrant is a fake. Stone Hart, of the Wedge, proved that once, and Shangai Pierce the second time. Kliddoe’s got no more right to tax the trail herds than I have.’

  ‘You rebs would say that,’ Marples growled.

  ‘Friend,’ the Kid’s voice was that deceptive mild tone again, ‘you stand behind Kliddoe because he’s a real, noble Yankee hero?’ Marples nodded and tried to speak but the Kid went on. ‘Waal, I’ve got something to show you. Happen it’ll make you real proud to know Colonel Jethro Kliddoe. If friend Billy Jack here’ll tend to Cawther.’

  Kliddoe watched the thin, miserable-looking man take the knife and assume position as guard on his nephew. Then he stared at the thing the Ysabel Kid took from his saddlehorn. He recognized the object and felt a sudden panic. If this dark boy possessed that thing, he must have something more—something that spelled finish for Jethro Kliddoe.

  The Ysabel Kid dropped lightly from his saddle; in his hands he held a third model Colt Dragoon with an attachable canteen stock fitted to the butt. The gun was a finely engraved piece and, in the walnut of the stock, was a silver plate. All too well, Kliddoe knew what was engraved on it.

  ‘This here Dragoon came into my hands in the War. Me’n my pappy were riding scout for Colonel Mosby and we got us a Yankee Captain. Pappy gave me this gun. The butt-plate reads: “To Mason Haines, from his good friend, Jethro Kliddoe.”’

  The Kliddoe men all looked at each other. Three or four of them, including Marples, knew who Haines had been.

  ‘So that’s what happened to Cap’n Haines?’ the big man growled.

  ‘Sure.’ The Kid didn’t take his eyes from Kliddoe’s. The dark young face was emotionless as he savored the moment he had waited for since the day he first came by the gun. ‘It wasn’t the gun that got us all interested. It was a letter we found in the canteen that got us.’ Reaching into his vest pocket, the Kid removed an old, yellowed envelope. ‘Yeah, Kliddoe. I’ve still got the letter. Ole Devil kept me too busy to bring it to you afore this.’

  Kliddoe didn’t move or speak. His face had lost all its color. The end was very near, if the men believed that letter.

  ‘What does the letter say, Lon?’ Thora asked, her face as pale as Kliddoe’s.

  ‘It’s addressed to William Clarke Quantrill,’ the Kid replied. He ignored the sudden gasp from the listeners as he opened the envelope and took out the letter. ‘It reads: “Will meet you outside Lawrence on the night of August twentieth. Am only bringing ten men as I am not sure how many more I can trust. Warn Anderson and Todd we are coming, as we will have to travel in uniform. Your information about the wagons was a dud. They were all Quakers, and not worth robbing. The only way I can avoid trouble is to lay the blame on Bosanquet.” The letter is signed “Jethro Kliddoe”, and marked with his seal.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Kliddoe began. ‘I never—’

  Marples and another man moved forward. ‘Let’s have a look at that letter.’

  The Kid passed over the letter without a word. Both men studied the broken, but still legible, seal on the back. Then they glanced at the writing. The second man took a paper from his pocket and compared the writing on it with that of the letter.

  ‘That’s Kliddoe’s all right—a
nd that’s his seal!’ Marples spat in the dirt at Kliddoe’s feet. ‘Yeah. And now I think about it, you was away from us when we heard about the attack on Lawrence.’

  Thora swayed in her saddle. The world seemed to be spinning round her. She could hardly believe her ears, but knew that her father’s name was cleared by the letter that proved Kliddoe a traitor. More, it implicated him in the sacking of the town of Lawrence, Kansas, along with the gangs of Quantrill, Anderson and Todd.

  Marples leapt forward to catch the girl and help her from her horse. ‘I never believed your father ordered that attack.’

  The other men turned on Kliddoe, their faces showing hatred. They stopped as Kliddoe’s saber came out and made a flashing arc. ‘Get back, all of you!’ he snarled. ‘I’d rather be killed by these rebel scum than by you. Go ahead, shoot me down. There’s not one of you would dare face me with a saber.’

  ‘Well now, I wouldn’t say that.’ The soft-spoken words cut across the shouting of the crowd and stilled it as they turned to see who had spoken.

  Kliddoe studied the small man on the big paint stallion. ‘Who might you be?’

  ‘The name is Dusty Fog, Captain, Texas Light Cavalry. Is there another saber in the camp?’

  ‘There is, in my Sibley.’ For a moment, there was a gleam in Kliddoe’s eyes.

  ‘Get it, Lon,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Dude, take this gent here and collect Kliddoe’s horse. Let the gent saddle it and fetch it back.’

  Marples and the Texan walked away towards the horse-lines to pick Kliddoe’s mount. Dude was relaxed and showed no suspicion that any foul play might be contemplated by Marples, and the northern man ignored the gun in the Texan’s holster.

  The Kid crossed to the Sibley to collect the saber. He had wanted to settle with Kliddoe himself, but Dusty had taken the play from him by accepting the challenge. He promised himself that he would sit out as long as Kliddoe played fair; but at the first sign of treachery, he would be free to take whatever hand he felt was required in the matter.

  Thora came to Dusty, who smiled down at her worried face. ‘Dusty, you mustn’t go through with this. Kliddoe is good with a saber.’

  ‘He called us rebel scum.’ Dusty’s eyes were cold. ‘No man can call me that and live.’

  The Kliddoe men were talking amongst themselves. The original five moved away from the rest watching the two piles of guns on the ground. One of the other men stepped forward to address Dusty: ‘Cap’n Fog, we all know you by reputation. You fought as a soldier in the War and behaved with honor. We don’t see any need for you to go through with this and, if you’ll let us, we’ll take Kliddoe in for trial.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. But this is between Kliddoe and me. He called the play, so we’ll let them fall and see how they lie.’

  The Ysabel Kid returned to hand over the saber to Dusty. He looked around, then glanced at Cawther Kliddoe, ‘Didn’t you tell these gents how many men were up on the rim?’

  Twelve – Captain Fog Shows More Talent

  At the Kid’s words, every man looked up towards the rim. The figures with the rifles were still there, alert and motionless. Motionless. Every Kliddoe man looked harder, slowly it came to them. There was only one man on each side of the rim. The rest of the attacking force were nothing but dummies, hats stuck on bedrolls. In the half-light of the dawn, with the rifles sticking out, they had been enough to fool Kliddoe and his men.

  For a moment there was silence. Then Marples threw back his head and roared with laughter. Man after man of the new Kliddoe men joined in the laughter, slapping each other on the back in their delight at the neat way they had been tricked.

  ‘You danged rebs!’ Marples gasped at last. ‘You’re trickier than a city three-card monte man.’

  Kliddoe removed his belt, then stripped off his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He felt admiration for this small, soft-talking Texas man who had fooled him. Taking the saber, he walked to his horse. He was in bad trouble and likely would die one way or the other. His one wish was to kill the man who had outwitted and ended him.

  Dusty unbuckled his gunbelt and handed it to Marples in silent tribute to the man’s honesty. Then he checked the girths of the saddle, patted the neck of the big paint and swung up. Kliddoe watched Dusty, a secretive sneer playing round his lips. He rode out into the open away from the camp. The Texan followed. They halted, facing each other, some thirty yards apart. Kliddoe lifted his saber in a mocking salute and noted that the Texan at least knew how to hold and salute with a saber.

  Lounging easily in the saddle, Dusty hefted the long saber. It was sharp enough and balanced well, but he would have preferred to be using his own, Confederate Haiman-made saber for a serious fight.

  Billy Jack stepped forward and asked formally: ‘Are you ready, Colonel Kliddoe?’

  Kliddoe nodded.

  ‘Captain Fog?’

  Dusty agreed.

  ‘Then fight!’

  The two horses leapt forward as Billy Jack’s words cracked out. Kliddoe sat erect in his saddle, saber held at the guard, ready for use. In contrast, Dusty appeared to be lounging in his kak, his saber loosely pointing along the neck of his horse. It was plain that he was the better horseman of the two and, in an affair of this kind, the better rider had an edge.

  Kliddoe hurled his big black horse full at Dusty’s mount, trying to knock the paint off its feet. Too late, he realized just how big the stallion was. At the last moment, he tried to swing the black clear, but Dusty slammed his paint into it and staggered it. Kliddoe brought round his saber in a backhand slash at the Texan’s head. Dusty parried the cut, deflected it, then flickered out the point in a trust. It was Kliddoe’s turn to parry now; he caught the blade and turned it just in time, then spurred his horse past. Dusty cut at Kliddoe and almost scored a hit as the other man rode clear.

  The paint was as fast on its feet as many cutting horses and came round before Kliddoe got his black round. They came together, the Yankee rising in his stirrups to get more strength behind each blow and to take advantage of his extra reach. He was revising his opinion of the fighting qualities of his opponent. At first, he had thought Dusty had the basic rudiments of the saber. Now he knew different; the Texan was very good.

  Dusty for his part, was alert, watching every move and thanking the providence which had caused him to keep up his saber-practice down in the Rio Hondo country. Steering the paint by knee pressure alone, Dusty used the point of his weapon in flickering thrusts. He knew he had to tire the other man. Kliddoe fought savagely, his saber cutting and slashing; but all the time, that flickering point kept him back and gave him trouble.

  They separated and rode in a circle, the paint turning the faster. Kliddoe hauled back on the mouth of his horse, making it rear high, hooves lashing down at Dusty. The Texan slid over the flank of his paint, out of the saddle even as the hooves hit his saddle. Then the paint was past the black. Dusty was still holding the saddlehorn with his left hand. He bounded lightly and went a’fork with a leap. Bringing the paint round, he headed back at Kliddoe.

  The blades licked and glinted in the early morning sun. Kliddoe was still trying to get an advantage from his extra reach, but Dusty’s fast-moving point was something he couldn’t get by. The watchers studied the fight; some of them knew saber work, and could see that both men were even in skill. Only the Texan’s superior riding was tilting the balance. However, Dusty knew that his paint was tiring. The big horse had been worked hard against the grain-fed freshness of Kliddoe’s black.

  With this in mind, Dusty started to attack himself, forcing the paint in, point licking at Kliddoe with a speed and precision that drove the bigger man back.

  Desperately, Kliddoe beat at the saber. Then, with his left hand, he forced Dusty’s blade down on to his saddle. Raising the hilt of his weapon, he smashed it down on the blade. A moan went up from the crowd as Dusty’s saber smashed, the broken blade falling to the ground.

  Kliddoe screamed in triumph and he slashed at the Texan. His
blade was parried by the broken stub of blade, then Dusty was by him and clear.

  Hauling on the reins, Kliddoe brought his horse round, tearing at its mouth. Dusty rode clear, but even now was bringing the paint round again. He threw the broken saber to one side, then sent the paint at Kliddoe. The other man rode forward, guessing what Dusty would try. The Texan was going to swing by on the left, to avoid a saber cut, and hang over the side of his saddle. Rising in his stirrups, Kliddoe twisted himself slightly, ready to cut at the leg as the Texan went by him.

  Nearer the two horses came, hooves thundering and dirt flying as they closed on each other. Kliddoe saw the Texan was looking to his left and prepared to cut down, severing Dusty’s leg, if he rode Indian style over the flank.

  At the last moment Dusty’s paint swung. Kliddoe gave a startled curse; the horse was going to his right. He tried to turn back, felt a pair of hands grip his leg and haul his foot from the stirrup. Then he was falling from his horse, landing hard, but he still held his saber as he came up.

  Dusty came from his saddle before the paint halted. He landed lightly, turning to face Kliddoe. The other men started to run forward to stop this unfair fight. Kliddoe saw this and rushed in. He swung wildly and Dusty avoided the blow. Throwing the saber aside, Kliddoe made his supreme bid. The little derringer he had hidden in his waistband came out, lined.

  Coming into the attack Dusty saw that he was too late; the murderous single-shot weapon came up to line on him. A shot roared and Kliddoe staggered forward as lead hit him. An instant later the Ysabel Kid’s bowie knife sank in between his shoulder blades.

  Marples hefted Dusty’s Colt, then said apologetically: ‘I’m sorry, Cap’n Fog. Didn’t figger you can lick a hideout gun with your bare hands, so I cut in.’

  The men swarmed forward eagerly. One stopped and collected the two parts of the broken saber. Examining the blade, he spat out a curse: ‘Some hero—the blade of the saber’d been weakened.’

  The broken saber was passed from hand to hand. Man after man saw the telltale marks where the blade had been weakened in forging. It was an old trick of professional dualists. Both blades were the same. They would hold up under normal fighting, but a sharp blow at the right spot snapped the steel.