The Floating Outfit 11

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Just one shot?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s all you’ll get,’ Dusty agreed.

  Baylor reached into the box and took out a single brass shell, slipping it into the breech. Then he followed Dusty towards the Raines wagon. He attracted no attention for the other people were attending to the wounded, loading weapons or snatching the brief respite to take a drink or a bit of food. Raines looked surprised when he saw Baylor coming with Dusty, for he knew the secret of the man’s identity. There was no time wasted for the braves were getting restless, waiting for the old man chief’s medicine to be made.

  Climbing into the Raines wagon Baylor rested his rifle on the edge. Dusty gave the Kid rapid orders and the dark young man followed Baylor in, not knowing what it was all about but knowing for sure from Dusty’s tones this was not the time to ask about it.

  ‘That’s him, right out back,’ drawled the Kid.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ Baylor replied, removing his coat and making a pad of it on the edge of the wagon. ‘Around five-fifty I’d say. Just a little wind blowing almost straight at us.’

  He settled down comfortably, resting his left hand, gripping the foregrip of the rifle, on the coat. His left eye closed and his right focused along the telescope sight. The Kid did not speak, he often jeered when his friends mentioned such a sight but this was too serious a matter for jeering. The Kid’s eyes were on the old man chief as Baylor settled down behind his rifle. The warriors were looking back towards their leader, only a few giving any attention to the train. In a few minutes now the medicine would be made and the brave-hearts would go pouring down on the white-eyes, wiping them and their train into a blazing and bloody mess.

  Baylor did not rush his aim. The Sharps rifle was the most perfect of its kind but like all black powder weapons likely to be erratic and uncertain at extreme ranges. The slightest breeze needed to be taken into consideration when shooting at a range of over a quarter of a mile.

  The rifle boomed out once, black powder swirling over the target as shown through the telescope. For all that Baylor had the instinct of a good shot, which told him he’d made a hit. The Kid, to one side, saw the old man chief suddenly jerk, the rifle falling from his hands. Then he pitched from the horse’s back and hit the ground in that limp and boned way a dead man always fell.

  ‘Got him,’ growled the Kid and grabbed the rifle from Baylor’s hands. ‘A real Tennessee meat-in-the-pot hit!’

  At that moment every Apache let out a hideous yell which brought all eyes to them. Around the rank of warriors the wail rose, mournful and wild. Every eye was on their fallen chief and the man who had raced his horse towards the spot. The man looked down, then spread his hands waist high and outwards, It was the sign which meant finished—dead. Slowly brave after brave rode forward, away from the train, the dead chief was lifted across his horse and the entire party rode away, the death song droning out as they faded into the distance.

  ‘It’s a trick!’ Raines spoke the words which were on the minds of the train’s people.

  ‘Sure ain’t, Colonel,’ the Kid replied, jumping from the wagon with the Sharps rifle in his hands. ‘He was the chief who made the medicine and when Tha—I downed him the others knew their medicine was bad. They’ve pulled out and it’ll take days for them to pick out a new old man chief and for him to make his medicine. We’ll be long gone from here before that happens.’

  The words carried to the people at the nearby wagons. It passed on around the train and cheers started while men asked who fired the shot which ended the life of the chief.

  ‘Mr. Cauldon,’ Dusty barked as Thad Baylor followed the Kid from the wagon. ‘You can have that rifle back now, thanks for letting the Kid use it.’

  ‘Good for you, Kid!’ yelled a man and the cry was taken up by others.

  Thad Baylor took the rifle and walked back to his own wagon where his wife waited. He could hear men cheering the Kid for the good shot he made. Baylor did not worry. He’d done what he needed to do and nobody suspected he was Thad Baylor of the Confederate Army.

  ‘I hope I never have to use this gun again,’ Baylor said to Mark as he rested the rifle against the wagon.

  ‘A lot of folks are alive who might have died, because you used it,’ Mark replied. ‘Don’t you fret none, Mrs. Cauldon, ma’am. Nobody’ll connect your husband with who he is. Not through Dusty and my knowing.’

  Mark raised his hat to the woman, then turned and headed to where Dusty Fog was waiting to give orders for the cleaning up, the removal of the dead Apaches and the burying which must be done.

  Eight – Red Blaze Meets a Man

  The people of the train let their cheering die away as the Apaches faded from sight. Bull Gantry came along the wagons and halted before Dusty, holding out his hand.

  ‘You called the play right, Cap’n Fog,’ he said. ‘If we’d been running up that slope when they hit none of us would have made the top.’

  ‘I couldn’t have brought the wagons up without good men to drive in the dark,’ Dusty replied. ‘Take charge of the stock, will you. Have them run down to the water, let them drink then graze. Keep a guard on them, although I don’t reckon we need it now.’

  The Kid collected his big white and Red’s claybank, they saddled and rode out without waiting for orders, following the departed Apaches to make sure they did not return. It was not likely but a man lived longer by not taking fool chances and by not passing up any bets, no matter how unlikely.

  Dusty was about to start work when he saw Maisie coming from under her wagon. She put a hand to her head and slid to the ground. A group of women gathered about her and Dusty walked towards them. Maisie lay on the ground and one of the women looked up at Dusty.

  ‘The poor dear’s fainted, no wonder, caught under that wagon all the time.’

  Dusty did not reply. He saw another woman hurrying forward with a bowl of water in her hands. Dusty gauged his distance, then by a seeming accident tripped the woman, caught her and steadied her but the water flew over Maisie. The result proved what Dusty suspected, for Maisie gave a startled squeal and came out of her faint far quicker than one might have expected. Dusty apologized to the woman for his clumsiness then walked away. He was thoughtful and his thoughts were directed to the young woman called Maisie Simons. He knew she’d shot down at least two Apaches with the long barreled Navy Colt and did not know why she could pretend to faint like a scared eastern woman. Her faint was pretended for the recovery had been too fast for it to be otherwise.

  The thoughts cut off as Dusty found himself surrounded with people who each wanted their particular problem dealing with. The train preacher, a young man who Dusty liked and admired as being what a man of the church should be, was making his rounds, comforting the bereaved but giving them work to do which would stop them brooding and falling into despondency. The wounded needed care and attention but Doc Fremont had that in hand. Dusty gave his orders, men to dig graves were sent out with Jim Lourde in command. The stock was already heading down the slope. The dead Apaches were removed and Dusty gave Mark a task which brought a wry look to the big man’s face. However, Mark did not argue. He took a sack from the Raines’ wagon and walked out. Mark did not expect the thing he was looking for to be pleasant and he was not wrong. He got the thing into the sack and took it to where the grave-digging party worked, leaving it to receive Christian burial, which would be more than the rest of the dead woman’s body would receive unless the cavalry found the burnt out home before the buzzards and coyotes finished the meat and the ants left nothing but a skeleton.

  Mark felt sick. In his life, from seventeen, he’d lived with violence and done more than his fair share of killing but the horror of that head was the worst thing he’d ever seen. He walked around the train, watching the boys, with the callousness of the very young, collecting the Apache weapons which lay around. They picked up knives, war axes, lances, pulled arrows from woodwork of the wagons and found bows. Mark went forward to give a warning about touching the fi
rearms discarded or dropped by the Apaches and about fooling with the bows and the razor sharp, needlepointed war arrows.

  A fight broke out away from Mark. He directed his steps towards it, bending and scooping up two wildly thrashing boys, holding them apart and in mid-air with a big hand gripping each boy’s waist belt.

  ‘All right, all right, that’s enough fighting,’ he snapped. ‘Aren’t there enough arrows to go around?’

  ‘Not like this’n, Mark,’ replied one of the boys, delighted that he was one of the two selected for special attention by the big Texan.

  Mark glanced at the arrow which lay at his feet and saw straight away what made it so special. Fastened around the shaft was a piece of white paper and Mark could see the string which fastened the paper to the arrow. He bent and took up the arrow, dropping the two boys on to their feet as he did so.

  ‘I’ll take this’n,’ he said. ‘Where’d you find it?’

  ‘Over there, on the ground,’ one of the boys replied, pointing to just in front of Maisie Simons’ wagon.

  ‘Now you light out and stop your fooling with those Apache guns,’ Mark ordered. ‘Leave them be until the menfolks can collect them.’

  The boys muttered their disapproval but already Dusty had men going around to collect the firearms and make sure they were unloaded. So the boys headed out in search of more arrows.

  ‘Found this,’ drawled Mark, holding out the arrow.

  Dusty took the arrow and turned it over between his fingers. Before he could speak he saw the Kid and Red return. They joined him with the news that the Apaches showed no signs of returning and that he could discount Apache attack as a factor in the train.

  ‘Good,’ drawled Dusty. ‘Where’d this come from, Mark?’

  ‘Near the Simons wagon,’ Mark replied; ‘On the ground the kid who found it told me.’

  ‘Fired from an Apache bow?’ asked Dusty mildly.

  ‘That’s what we’re supposed to think.’

  The Kid grinned. He could use a Comanche buffalo-bow with some skill and knew this arrow never left any kind of bow, not with the message attached to it. The bulky knots by which the paper was fastened were on the side of the arrow which slid across the face of the bow when fired, would have struck it and deflected the arrow.

  ‘No Apache fired this,’ he drawled. ‘What’s the message?’

  Dusty worked the paper free without unfastening the knots, then spread it out open and looked down at the writing.

  ‘This should warn you,’ he read, ‘that I mean business. Turn back or the next time the Apaches won’t stop.’

  Raines came over at Dusty’s call. He took the paper and looked at it then growled, ‘I’m nearly sure it’s the same handwriting.’

  Taking out his wallet from the inside pocket of his buckskin jacket Raines opened it and took out the other notes he’d received. He opened them and with Dusty compared the writing.

  ‘Looks the same to me,’ Dusty drawled and turned the newest paper over. He could see some vague marks on the paper and with his left hand took a bullet from the box on the table. Rubbing the lead tip of the bullet on the paper Dusty covered it with a black smudge. Not entirely covered though, for the depression made by a pencil writing on a sheet which once lay over this one showed through. They were not distinct but for all that the words could be read.

  ‘T. Ortega. Lazy O, c/o Post Office, Backsight, Arizona Territory.’

  ‘Ortega again,’ growled Raines.

  ‘That arrow wasn’t fired by any Apache, not carrying the message,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘And those bunch weren’t tied in with any renegade white man,’ the Kid went on. ‘Which same only leaves us the one alternative.’

  ‘Where’d you learn big words like that, Lon?’ asked Louise, coming up and having to say something to relieve the tension she felt.

  ‘From a milk-faced lil blonde dude gal I met on a wagon train,’ the Kid replied. ‘Gal about your si—’

  ‘I was just about to ask Maisie if she could have her servants make up a meal for us,’ Louise interrupted mildly. ‘I seem to remember the last time I had trouble with you. Something about an apple pie.’

  The Kid grinned and raised his hands. ‘All right, gal, I quit.’

  ‘About this arrow?’ asked Raines, not wishing to be sidetracked.

  ‘Like Lon said, it couldn’t be fired with the note on,’ Dusty answered. ‘So it must’ve been done after the attack. Everybody was excited and there was some coming and going. Anybody could’ve thrown it by Mrs. Simons’ wagon.’

  Louise took the note, her face became hot and angry. ‘You mean Maisie could have thrown it!’

  ‘Sure, then come back and pretended to throw a faint so’s nobody would suspect her,’ agreed Dusty. ‘It could have been somebody trying to throw suspicion on Mrs. Simons, or just a coincidence the arrow landed where it did.’

  The girl opened her mouth to make an angry suggestion that they questioned Maisie but before she could, saw the train preacher coming. He told Raines he would be starting the burial ceremonies soon and asked if they could attend. Raines nodded but Dusty asked to be excused as he and his men had work to do.

  ‘Do you reckon it was Mrs. Simons?’ Mark asked after Louise and her father left to join the people around the graves.

  ‘All I know is she can throw a gun nigh on as good as Cousin Betty.’

  Mark grunted for he knew how well Betty Hardin could handle a gun. Then he remembered Miss Considine and the time the Apaches broke through the circle.

  ‘She’s not alone in that,’ he drawled. ‘I saw Miss Considine shoot an Apache off Gantry’s back in a shot that needed some close aiming, and not take long to do it. She handled a gun like she knew what it was about.’

  ‘What sort of gun?’

  ‘Remington Beals from what I saw of it, Dusty,’ Mark replied. ‘Navy model.’

  ‘And Mrs. Simons used a long barreled Navy Colt. They both handle a .36 bullet so we’re no nearer to clearing either of them,’ Dusty drawled. ‘I’m going to have a talk with Mrs. Simons right now.’

  Maisie stood watching her two remaining helpers, one having been killed by an Apache bullet in the fight. The two men looked up as the Texans walked towards them and Maisie spoke in rapid Cantonese, apparently telling them they could go for with half bows the two Chinese men walked away.

  ‘They’ll attend to burying Wong. He’s not a Christian and I reckon a man’s entitled to be buried the way he wants,’ she said. ‘I should be with the folks at the buryings, but I’m not what you might call a real religious woman.’

  ‘It’s your choice, ma’am,’ Dusty replied, noting the way the woman talked, the free and easy conversation. The woman was more than she appeared, more wordly than the widow she pretended to be. ‘Reckon we might feed with you?’

  ‘Feel free. I told the boys to make enough for Louise and her folks.’

  ‘Like you to make up a couple of bundles of food for the Kid and Red, too,’ Dusty went out. ‘I’m sending them out on a scout later today and want them to have food along.’

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Maisie replied.

  ‘You over your faint, ma’am?’

  ‘Sure, Captain. I must have been so scared I just let go and fell down in a swoon. It’s funny, I never did anything like that before.’

  ‘Gets us all, ma’am,’ drawled the Kid sympathetically.

  The burying was over and done with, the Raines family returned to their wagons after a meal with Maisie. Dusty stood looking at the neatly wrapped and tied bundles of food on the table although he had so far not sent either of his friends out on a scout.

  ‘Uh!’ Louise muttered, looking at her grimy hands. ‘We haven’t been able to take a bath since before Hammerlock, Dusty. Is there a place up ahead anywhere?’

  ‘Not for two or three days,’ the Kid replied. ‘We’re going to move fast in the morning to get clear of these Apaches in case they find a new old man chief.’

  ‘Why’nt
you go around and tell the ladies to use the stream at the foot of the slope?’ Dusty asked. ‘There’s some bushes for cover further down and I’ll stop any of the men following you. Then when you’re through we can go down and tidy up.’

  The idea met with considerable approval, even among the people who lost loved ones in the fighting. Dusty watched the women streaming down the slope, saw both Miss Considine and Maisie among them and felt satisfied. The two Chinese were back with Maisie’s wagon while Gantry and Miss Considine’s remaining driver stood by the big woman’s two Conestogas. There would be no chance of searching either.

  That night as they sat alone at the Raines’ fire Dusty asked Louise a question which considerably surprised her.

  ‘What did you ladies wear down by the stream?’

  Louise tried to appear shocked as she gasped, ‘Dusty!’

  ‘Look, this’s serious. What did you wear?’

  ‘What does one usually wear at such a time?’ Louise replied. ‘We went in—er—raw.’

  ‘All of you?’

  ‘All I saw.”

  ‘How about Mrs. Simons and Mrs. Considine?’

  ‘I didn’t see either of them,’ Louise admitted. ‘They both went into the bushes away from us. I thought it was funny in Maisie’s case as she’d always joined the rest of us when we bathed before—why do you ask?’

  ‘Maybe I’m just curious.’

  ‘And maybe you aren’t,’ she replied heatedly. ‘There’s more to your asking than curiosity, Dusty, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon there is. Back to Hammerlock, when Collins was killed, the Kid threw a bullet at whoever did it. Likely nicked him—or her.’

  Louise looked angrily at Dusty. ‘I’m tired of all these insinuations. Maisie has never given me any cause to suspect or dislike her.’

  ‘Sure, so there’s no better person to be behind the trouble or working for whoever is behind it,’ drawled Dusty, holding his hand up in a peace sign. ‘Look at it this way, Louise, I’m not saying she’s behind anything, only that things point to her being that way. If she was you reckon happen she’d sneak up behind you and beat you on your lil ole pumpkin every time she saw you, just to make sure you got good and suspicious about. I don’t. She’d play it the way she is doing.’