The Floating Outfit 15

by J. T. Edson

  ‘So this’s him, Cap’n Dusty.’

  ‘This’s him,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Are Sarah and Sandy hurt?’

  ‘Gal’s a mite shook up, but not hurt,’ Billy Jack replied. ‘Sandy shoved her down and laid over her so that the tree hit him. Got a couple of bust ribs and his shoulder’s cracked. The boss-lady said I should come and see if you pair needed any help.’

  ‘We need some,’ Dusty stated. ‘Is the wagon damaged?’

  ‘Just the canopy.’

  ‘Go bring it here. We’re toting him in with us.’

  ‘Yo!’ Billy Jack answered, needing no more detailed instructions, or any explanation. Collecting his waiting horse, he mounted and rode off to carry out Dusty’s orders.

  ‘You’d better get afork that off-yellow crow-bait and burn grass to San Antonio, Cousin Red,’ Dusty went on. ‘Have the sheriff send out for that yahoo’s body. But before you do it, send word to the mission and ask for one of the fathers to meet the wagon when it comes in.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Red promised. ‘Reckon you’ll be all right here?’

  ‘Sure. That jasper who lit out won’t stop running until he hits Kimble County again. Besides, Murphy may say something.’

  For all his easy assurance, Dusty took the precaution of bringing his paint to the edge of the trail and slipping his Winchester carbine from its saddleboot. If he should need a weapon, he preferred one he knew rather than a borrowed gun of uncertain performance. Resting the carbine against the dead horse’s rump, he did what little he could to make Murphy comfortable.

  While waiting for the wagon’s arrival, Dusty listened to Murphy’s pain-induced mutterings. He hoped to learn who hired Murphy to kill Sandy McGraw, but did not. Instead the killer talked incoherently of Rosa Rio’s treachery, some girl he knew below the border and, to Dusty’s surprise, about the legend of Jim Bowie’s lost mine.

  Deciding that pain caused Murphy’s mind to wander, Dusty ignored what he heard. The girl meant nothing to him and he had witnessed part of Rosa Rio’s betrayal, so did not doubt she also passed word to the Kimble County gang. As for the old legend, Dusty knew it all too well.

  According to the story, Jim Bowie discovered a fabulous silver mine while hunting wild horses in the days before Texas broke away from Mexico. War came before the great knife-fighter could exploit his finely and he took the secret of the mine’s location with him when he died at the Alamo. As all his companions from the wild-horse hunt also perished in the fighting which cost Mexico a province and eventually gave the United States its largest State, nobody knew where the mine might be.

  Of course people searched for it, as they always will for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and with no more success. In fact selling ‘genuine’ maps showing the mine’s location exceeded the disposal of ‘real’ gold bricks as the top stock-in-trade of Texas confidence tricksters.

  Murphy did not strike Dusty as being the kind of man to fall for such a hoary trick, although some surprising people had been taken in by it. Possibly the killer had made money from it on occasion and wished the fact to be taken into consideration at confession along with his other sins.

  Before Dusty could form any conclusions, the wagon arrived. After turning it to point in the direction of San Antonio, Kiowa jumped down to help load Murphy into the rear. On first hearing what Dusty required, Sarah had objected to letting the killer ride with his victim. However Betty had persuaded the other girl that Dusty acted for the best, stating that Murphy alone could tell them who hired him. So Sarah raised no opposition as the men placed the wounded Murphy in the wagon.

  Once more Kiowa drove the team, while Betty went inside to help Sarah and also to listen should Murphy make any statement regarding his attempts to kill the young couple. Already Murphy was sinking fast and the girl wondered if he would live to see the priest Red had raced to collect and would have waiting in town.

  ‘Did he say anything, Cap’n Dusty?’ Billy Jack asked as they rode ahead of the wagon.

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty answered.

  ‘You reckon it was that Finwald hombre hired him?’

  ‘It could have been,’ Dusty admitted. ‘But I’m beginning to doubt it.’

  ‘Any good reason for you doing that?’ Billy Jack wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing more than a hunch.’

  ‘I for sure hope we learn one way or the other,’ the lean cowhand said miserably. ‘Some of the boys are plenty riled up about that snake and the shooting. When they hear about this game, they’ll likely start reaching for a rope.’

  ‘Then you tell them I said for them to put it down again,’ Dusty growled.

  ‘Aw shucks, Cap’n Dusty, he’s only a Republican.’

  ‘There’s a law against hanging folks informal-like,’ Dusty reminded his former sergeant-major. ‘Even Republicans.’

  ‘Damned if I can see why, there’s too many of ’em about anyways,’ sniffed Billy Jack, then his voice took on a more serious note. ‘Like I said, Cap’n Dusty, feelings’re running plenty high in town. Sandy’s real well liked and young Finwald ain’t.’

  ‘Only having Finwald as guest-of-honor at, a cottonwood hoedown isn’t going to settle anything,’ Dusty pointed out.

  ‘It’d settle him,’ Billy Jack replied.

  ‘And won’t help any,’ Dusty insisted. ‘Especially if it comes out later that he’s innocent.’

  Dusty believed that he could hold the men in check, even though most of them did not work for the OD Connected. Yet things might go wrong. He had to return to his home in the near future and after his departure a wrong word when the whisky flowed could bring the whole business to a boil again. So Dusty wanted the affair straightened out before he left San Antonio. Everything depended on the man dying in the back of the wagon. He alone could clear, or incriminate, Finwald if he wished.

  On approaching the outskirts of the town, Dusty saw that Red had acted with customary efficiency. A doctor and priest stood with the redhead, looking towards the wagon. Riding up to the waiting men, Dusty told them quickly what had happened and why he sent to them. Without wasting time, the doctor and the gray-haired priest entered the wagon. Kiowa started the team moving once more, driving the horses at a fast walk through the town in the direction of Sarah’s home. As they passed the Bull’s Head saloon, one of Sandy’s friends looked out. He spoke over his shoulder, shoved open the batwing doors and stepped through. Accompanied by a growing crowd, the cowhand followed the wagon.

  Betty jumped from the rear of the wagon as it halted and went to where her cousins dismounted by the picket fence.

  ‘Murphy’s going fast,’ she said. ‘The doctor claims there’s no chance of him leaving the wagon alive.’

  ‘We’d best get Sandy and Sarah out of it then,’ Dusty stated. ‘Let’s go, Red, Billy Jack.’

  ‘Sure,’ Red answered. ‘Has he said anything, Betty?’

  ‘Nothing that makes sense,’ the girl admitted, watching Billy Jack fasten her horse alongside Dusty’s paint after leading it in for her. ‘He’s going fast and there’s not much time.’

  Working swiftly under the doctor’s guidance, Red, Billy Jack, Kiowa and Sarah’s father—the latter having come from the house on seeing the wagon’s unexpected return—carried Sandy to a place where his injuries could receive more adequate treatment. Sarah allowed Dusty to help her down and ran after her husband. Then Dusty looked into the rear of the wagon where the priest started to kneel at the dying man’s side. Meeting Dusty’s inquiring gaze, the priest shook his head and turned his attention once more to Murphy.

  ‘It won’t be long now.’ Dusty told Betty.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘We’ve got company, Cousin Dusty.’

  Much as Dusty wanted to learn the identity of Murphy’s employer, the thought that he might do so by eavesdropping on the killer’s dying confession never entered his head. Already prepared to withdraw out of hearing distance, the arrival of Sandy’s friends gave him a greater reason for doing so.

&nb
sp; ‘Who done it, Cap’n?’ demanded a brawny young cowhand in the lead of the party.

  ‘The same feller who tried before,’ Dusty replied. ‘A hired gun called Murphy.’

  ‘He around?’

  ‘In the wagon—and stopping there.’

  The crowd’s advance came to a halt. Practically every man in it had served under Dusty’s command during the war and knew that when his voice took on that clipped, incisive note it was time to sit back and listen with both ears. Although a number of hostile glances flashed in the direction of the wagon, none of the men made any attempt to approach it.

  ‘Thing now being who hired this Murphy hombre,’ remarked a second man. ‘His sort’s not pulling those kind of games for fun.’

  ‘You know who hired him, Cap’n?’ growled the first speaker.

  ‘Not yet,’ Dusty admitted.

  ‘Maybe you ain’t asked him right,’ said the brawny cowhand.

  ‘Could be, Tule,’ Dusty said quietly.

  ‘We could ask,’ Tule went on.

  ‘But we won’t!’ Dusty stated flatly, recalling other occasions during the war when he had needed to take a firm line to control the brawny cowhand.

  ‘He tried to kill Sandy,’ Tule pointed out.

  ‘I know that,’ Dusty replied. ‘And I know he’s dying in there. A priest’s with him and nobody’s going to interfere.’

  Silence, broken only by an occasional low mutter, fell over the crowd. They stood studying the wagon, but none offered to move beyond the small man who was between it and them. At last the priest dropped to the ground and looked in Dusty’s direction.

  ‘It’s over, Dusty,’ Betty said, for her cousin’s attention remained on the crowd before him.

  ‘I’ll see what the priest has to say,’ Dusty replied. ‘You boys just stay put for a whiles longer.’

  ‘The war’s long over,’ Tule muttered as Dusty turned away. ‘We don’t have to take his orders no more.’

  ‘You fixing on telling him so?’ asked a leathery old timer dryly.

  On giving the matter some rapid thought, Tule decided not to comment on it. Maybe Captain Fog no longer had the backing of the Confederate States Army’s disciplinary machinery, but he rarely relied upon it even when having it available. Nor did anything in his record since the war lead Tule to believe Dusty would no longer employ the very effective methods by which he dealt with disobedient or unruly soldiers.

  ‘I just figured we ought to do something about Sandy,’ Tule finally claimed.

  ‘So do we,’ drawled the old timer. ‘And happen Cap’n Dusty’ll tell us what and when we do it.’

  ‘Can I speak to you, father?’ Dusty asked, joining Betty and walking up to the priest.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The man in the wagon tried to kill Sandy and Sarah McGraw.’

  ‘So your young friend told the doctor while we waited for you to arrive,’ the priest said, speaking excellent English despite his Mexican birth.

  ‘I want to learn why and who hired him to do it,’ Dusty went on.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain Fog,’ the priest said. ‘But I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘This’s real important, father,’ Dusty said. ‘You see those men there? Every one of them is Sandy’s friend. They reckon they know who hired Murphy and aim to get even for Sandy. I’d hate like he—I’d sure hate to see an innocent man suffer.’

  ‘And if the one they suspect is guilty?’

  ‘You can rely on Dusty to see that legal justice takes its course, father,’ Betty put in. ‘I realize that you cannot violate the sacred rites of confession, but we must know if Chester Finwald did hire that man.’

  ‘He did not,’ stated the priest.

  ‘Murphy told you that?’ the girl asked.

  ‘He told me. You see, I’ve heard about this business and made a point of learning what it was about. While young Finwald is not one of our people, I felt I should try to learn the truth.’

  ‘Would Murphy tell you the truth, father?’ Red put in, having rejoined his cousins when he saw the crowd arrive and stood in the background ready to back up Dusty’s play if needed.

  ‘A dying man doesn’t lie, my son,’ the priest assured him. ‘Especially one with many sins on his conscience.’

  ‘If it wasn’t Finwald, who did hire him?’ Red asked.

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ the priest answered.

  ‘Murphy didn’t tell you?’ Red demanded.

  ‘No. He only said that Finwald was not the one.’

  ‘Thanks for your help, father,’ Dusty put in.

  ‘I wish I could do more,’ the priest replied. ‘Now I will make arrangements for his burial.’

  ‘Sure, father,’ Dusty agreed. ‘I’d admire to search his property if I can.’

  ‘That will be a matter between yourself and the marshal,’ the priest said.

  ‘If Murphy hasn’t enough money for the burial—’ Betty began.

  ‘I understand,’ the priest told her.

  While the conversation had been taking place, the crowd drew slowly closer. Turning towards them, Dusty said, ‘Finwald’s not the one, boys. You may as well go back to whatever you were doing.’

  ‘How’d you know for sure it wasn’t him?’ demanded Tule.

  Stepping by Dusty, Red thrust his face close to the brawny cowhand. ‘Tule, you never had one lick of good sense, but try to get some and pronto. You’ve pushed Cousin Dusty just about as far as any one man can without wishing he hadn’t real rapid. Now my advice to you’d be go back, drink your drink, have your fun, but leave thinking to them with something in their heads to do it.’

  Having learned the hard way that Red fought only slightly less effectively than his cousin, Tule swallowed any objections he felt at the words. A glance around showed him that the remainder of the crowd accepted Dusty’s advice and that they were starting to drift away. Then the old timer stepped forward.

  ‘Asking your pardon, and not doubting you any, Cap’n Dusty,’ he said. ‘But you wouldn’t know who did hire that jasper?’

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty admitted. ‘But I aim to find out.’

  The statement appeared to satisfy the majority of the crowd. Even Tule raised no more dissent, but turned and walked away with the rest. Having listened to her cousin and watched his handling of what might easily have been a tricky situation, Betty let the men go before raising a point which puzzled her.

  ‘Just how do you aim to find out, cousin dear?’

  ‘Trust a woman to ask fool questions,’ Red put in. ‘How are you fixing to do it, Dusty?’

  ‘Way I see it is this,’ Dusty answered. ‘First off there’s only one man around here with reason to want Sandy dead, and he didn’t hire Murphy—’

  ‘Unless Murphy lied,’ Red drawled. ‘Which I don’t think he did either.’

  ‘So you think maybe it’s somebody up San Garcia way behind Murphy?’ Betty asked, acting as if Red did not exist.

  ‘Like somebody said,’ Dusty replied. ‘Sandy never owned a ranch before. Or will, if he pays off the back taxes on it by noon of the tenth.’

  ‘Somebody would want the ranch pretty bad to hire a killer to stop Sandy claiming it,’ Betty commented. ‘And why would he want Sarah dead?’

  ‘Sandy wouldn’t go up there so soon if she had been,’ Dusty replied. ‘Or maybe Murphy heard about Finwald and thought up a good way to throw the blame away from his boss.’

  ‘What’re we going to do about it, Dusty?’ Red asked.

  Before Dusty could make a reply, the house door flew open and Sarah came out. Running along the path, she halted in front of the cousins. Her face was a mixture of relief and concern.

  ‘Cap’n Dusty,’ she gasped. ‘Sandy’s recovered—’

  ‘Bueno,’ Dusty began.

  ‘It’s not good!’ Sarah replied, almost in tears. ‘The doctor says he mustn’t travel for at least a week. So we won’t be able to reach San Garcia in time to pay the back taxes. We’ll lose the ranch if Sand
y isn’t there.’

  ‘Don’t you worry none on that score,’ Dusty told her, darting a glance at Red. ‘Sandy’s going to be there.’

  Guessing what Dusty planned to do, Betty smiled and laid a hand on Sarah’s arm. ‘And so are you, honey.’

  ‘I won’t leave Sandy!’ Sarah stated.

  ‘You’ll be in San Garcia just the same,’ Betty promised.

  Part Two – The Man Behind the Hired Gun

  Chapter Nine

  Never had the town of San Garcia seethed with such suppressed excitement, not even when one of the local spreads returned from a trail-drive to the Kansas railhead market. Normally a sleepy collection of wood or adobe homes and business premises scattered haphazardly close to the Rio Moreno, it showed a bubbling eagerness which hinted at big doings in the near future. Many of its citizens had already gathered in the central plaza and were waiting for what ought to be a time to be remembered. Fastened in prominent positions around town and scattered widely across the surrounding countryside, notices announced the sale of the McGrath ranch to offset lapsed taxes.

  Everybody in town knew full well that Cal Mobstell of the Rocking Rafter outfit wanted to add the McGraw place to his not inconsiderable holdings. Nor was it any great secret that Francisco Cordova hoped that day to increase the size of his already large Whangdoodle ranch and augment its resources with Seth McGraw’s water. As each rancher possessed sufficient wealth, and the backing of loyal, hardy men, to gain his way in most matters, the auction ought to prove interesting to say the least.

  Already Cordova’s Mexican crew had gathered in the Paraiso cantina, but the band did not play and the flashing-eyed señoritas of easy virtue remained in their rooms. Down at the other end of the plaza, in the Golden Goose saloon, Mobstell and four of his cowhands sat sipping beer in a silence made the more menacing when compared with their usual rowdy behavior in town. Every ingredient was on hand for a hell of a ruckus, the only requirement being somebody to start stirring up the pot.

  Feeling like a cook preparing a stew of gunpowder, dynamite and nitroglycerine, Herbert Corlin, the county land agent, came down from his room on the saloon’s first floor. Small, thin, wearing an expensive town suit, Corlin gave the impression of being a cowardly weasel. He jumped nervously as he saw Mobstell rise and walk towards him; yet the bulky rancher’s broad face bore a friendly grin.