The Floating Outfit 48

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Maybe not,’ replied the second of the watchers. ‘But Jacobs told us to stay put and make sure he don’t. Which I’m not figuring on doing nothing different.’

  After something over half an hour of unproductive surveillance, neither man was performing his duties with anything like enthusiasm. Yet, even if they had been, it was most unlikely—due to them giving their full attention to the building they were ordered to watch—they would have detected the menace which was stalking them from the rear.

  Returning by much the same route they had used to reach the River Queen Saloon, the Ysabel Kid and the elderly leatherworker had continued to avoid being located by the pair of watchers. On entering through the rear door by which they had left, they wasted no time in making preparations for what lay ahead.

  Having collected the ancient and worn-out pair of moccasins which had been requested, adding to them a heavy riding quirt he had claimed might be of use, McKie had gone to the small stable at the rear of his property. He owned two horses which would meet the needs of the young Texan. While he was saddling them, the Kid left by the front door and, mounting the big ‘skewball’ stallion, rode off as if meaning to leave town. Circling when satisfied it could be done without arousing suspicion, he rejoined his host. Stripping to just his breech-clout and weapon belt, he produced and donned a much more serviceable pair of moccasins from his war bag. As he intended to travel light and fast, he left his bedroll in the care of McKie. Making a bundle of his all black clothing, as he considered the need for the disguise was over, he fastened it to the cantle of his own mount’s saddle and the reins of one horse to the horn.

  With all made as ready as possible, the Kid and the elderly Scot separated. While McKie set off behind the buildings of main street in the direction of the saloon, the young Texan rode one horse and allowed Thunder to follow him loose, leading the other. Satisfied there would be no difficulty from allowing this to be done, he left his stallion and its companion by an empty house on the edge of town. Adding the quirt to his armament, but leaving the Winchester Model of 1873 rifle in its saddle-boot, he set off to remove what could offer an impediment to the carrying out of the first part of his scheme.

  Ground hitching the horse a short distance from the alley where the two hard-cases were lurking, the Kid made his approach with the kind of stealth which had saved his life on numerous occasions in the past. Knowing the kind of men they were, he felt sure they would not have listened to an explanation of his intentions. Therefore he had decided upon his most suitable line of action, although he would have hesitated before taking it if they had been merely honest if misguided cowhands. Each was wearing a hat, the crown of which would offer at least a measure of protection for the head. Knowing how much depended upon silencing both, before either could raise an outcry, he did not launch his attack in that direction.

  Gripping the leather wrapped, lead loaded handle of the quirt in his right hand, the Kid rammed the round knob at the bottom into the kidney region of the first speaker. Assailed by such agony it numbed his mind and prevented him giving more than a croak of great suffering, he collapsed to his knees.

  Letting out a startled exclamation, Jug spun around with his right hand reaching for the gun he wore. Unwittingly, he was playing into the hands of the attacker. Having allowed the handle of the quirt to slip through his fingers so he now grasped it by the other end, the Kid swung it in an upwards arc. The knob of the butt struck the hard-case under the chin, to the accompaniment of the crack of breaking bone as the contact was made. Crumpling like a rag doll from which all the stuffing had suddenly been removed, Jug toppled backwards with his weapon still in leather. As he was going down, his companion fell face forward in a faint and, by doing so, was saved from receiving further attention at the hands of their assailant.

  In one respect, the pair of hard-cases might have counted themselves fortunate!

  Generally when the Kid was dressed in such a fashion, he thought and acted like the Pehnane Dog Soldier he had been educated to be. Which meant he felt no compunction whatsoever over having to kill anybody he considered to be an enemy of himself or his friends. Although the two men must have been aware that the only way they could carry out their orders was to attack and at least render McKie unconscious, should he have let them see he was going to the saloon, they were lying in wait for him. They were, therefore, threatening his life. As far as Cuchilo—name warrior of the Dog Soldier war lodge—was concerned, this put them into the category of enemies. By which token, serious as their respective injuries might be, each was lucky to still be alive.

  Dragging first one and then the other limp, unresisting hard-case further into the blackness of the alley, the young Texan gagged them with their bandannas and, using their waist belts, fastened their wrists behind their backs. He knew they would be unable to intervene physically without this being done. The precaution was being taken to prevent either recovering and raising an outcry which attracted unwanted attention before he had completed what he was about to do.

  With the securing accomplished, the Kid turned and strode swiftly in the direction from which he had come!

  Thirteen – That’s a Comanch’, That Was

  Riding the borrowed horse into the alley between the next but one and next buildings to the River Queen Saloon, the Ysabel Kid left it with its reins dangling. Drawing his bowie knife, he peered cautiously around the corner. Everything he saw met with his satisfaction.

  Closing a large jack-knife, Jock McKie was already approaching the front entrance to the saloon from the opposite end to the young Texan. Otherwise, the sidewalks on both sides of the street were completely deserted. As the conspirators had surmised, the noise which now reached their ears indicated that, wanting to ensure their continued support and lessen their willingness to listen to arguments against his project, Philo Handle was lavishing drinks on the local cowhands. By doing so, he was keeping everybody in the bar-room.

  Making the most of the opportunity with which he had been presented, the half naked Texan emerged from the alley. Striding swiftly from horse to horse at the hitching rails, he cut the reins of each in passing. Much to his relief, despite being liberated, none of them began to move away thus, perhaps, giving premature warning of what he was doing.

  ‘I’ve done them all over there,’ the elderly leatherworker announced, sotto voce, as the Kid was releasing the last animal on the side from which he was working. Pocketing the jack-knife, he went on, ‘Get going, boy—and good luck; May Ka-Dih 33 ride with you all the way!’

  ‘Save some of that god-damned goose for me,’ the young Texan requested, just as quietly. ‘If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be risking my fool neck this way.’

  Having delivered the sentiment, the Kid returned to the patiently waiting horse. Mounting, he advanced it into the center of the street. By the time he had done so, McKie had already disappeared through the front door of the bar-room. Satisfied that his old friend now had an alibi, he took another glance around and felt grateful that he was still unobserved.

  Despite having achieved so much of his scheme without any particular difficulty, the young Texan knew his task was still far from being a sinecure. He was all too aware of the danger if he should be caught, or even just seen, over the next minute or so. Excellent though his motives undoubtedly were, he would not be allowed to explain them. No cowhand ever took kindly to anything which would leave him a-foot and would shoot immediately, without waiting to ask why it was being done.

  ‘Lordy lord!’ the Kid breathed, drawing the pair of worn out moccasins from under the back of his weapon belt and tucking them securely beneath his left armpit. ‘Times like this, a man gets to wishing he’d led a better life!’

  With the wry comment made and the deed performed, the young Texan twisted the Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolver from its holster. Then, giving vent to an ear-splitting Pehnane Comanche war whoop which was savage enough to turn white the hair of anybody who remembered its past connotations, he gave a
signal with his heels and set his mount into motion. As it was bounding forward like a well trained quarter-horse leaving the starting line in a race, he fired a shot into the air and once again the awesome battle-cry left his lips.

  Startled by the commotion, the liberated horses nearest to the point from which it was originating swung away from the hitching rail. Gathering those further along as they went, they fled down the street. Allowing the moccasins to slip from beneath his armpit as he was approaching the end of the saloon, the Kid swung over to hang along the flank of his horse. By doing so, he placed its body between himself and the outraged men he felt sure would soon be appearing.

  Hearing what was happening on the street caused silence to descend in the bar-room!

  Everybody present knew cowhands frequently let off steam by whooping and firing a gun, but they were equally aware there were times when neither should be done!

  Discovering the effect which the outburst was having on the horses they had left outside, none of the customers regarded the incident as being harmless fun!

  Letting out yells of furious alarm and reaching for weapons, the occupants of the bar-room made hurriedly for the front door!

  McKie was the first man outside!

  Such was the apparent eagerness of the elderly leatherworker to avenge the loss of the animals, he sprang into the line of fire between the men following him and the object of their outraged attentions. His old Dragoon bellowed, but without the shot taking effect. Before any of the others could get by and line a weapon, the half-naked figure hoisted himself back on to the saddle of his swiftly moving horse and followed their mounts into the darkness. As he disappeared, yet another of the savagely menacing yells left him.

  ‘That’s a Comanch’, that was, gents!’ McKie announced, returning the old Colt to the holster of the gunbelt he had donned as part of the preparations made to implement the Kid’s scheme. ‘Or I’ve never heard one.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn who it is!’ Philo Handle replied angrily, realizing how his proposed rescue bid would be affected by the loss of the animals. ‘Get some horses and fetch back those he drove off, men!’

  ‘I wouldn’t even try, was I you,’ the elderly leatherworker warned, pointing to the two objects lying in the center of the street. ‘’Cause he’s left his old moccasins behind!’

  ‘What if he has?’ Handle demanded.

  ‘When a Comanch’ does that, it means he’s “raided”—which’s what they call stealing—a bunch of hosses and figures he won’t need to walk no more,’ McKie explained, concluding the rancher was too concerned over the loss to wonder how he had reached the saloon in spite of the two hard-cases sent to prevent him from doing so. ‘Which being, he for sure isn’t about to let nobody take them back from him. I mind one time it happened, even went along with the fellers’s aimed to get their hosses back.’

  ‘What happened, Jock?’ inquired the oldest of the four ranch segundos, studying the elderly leatherworker with a somewhat speculative gaze which was mirrored by his companions.

  ‘We got to figuring it wasn’t worthwhile going on after he’d put three of us down with a buffalo gun from way out of range of our rifles,’ McKie replied, delighted by the way in which everybody was listening to him. ‘All except one of us, that is. He’d got him a real stubborn streak and would keep going. Couple of days later, a Company of Rangers come on him. He was dead and, from the look of him, he hadn’t died quick nor happy. And that, gents, is what happens should you go after a Comanch’ when he’s left his old moccasins on the trail.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what happened to him, or what’s been left behind!’ Handle stated, glaring at the elderly leatherworker. Then a realization came and he darted a glance along the street. However, putting the thought from his mind, he went on, ‘Come down to the livery barn with me, some of you men. I’ll hire every horse there, so you can go after those you’ve lost.’

  ‘Yeah, come on!’ Ira Jacobs supported. ‘No god-damned Injun’s going to run off my hoss and live to ride it!’

  ‘It’s been more than a fair spell since we’ve had any Comanch’ down this way,’ the spokesman for the segundos commented, watching the rancher and the hard-case leading away everybody except himself, his companions and the elderly Scot. ‘Fact being, way I’ve heard it, they’re all living on the reservation now.’

  ‘Could be some young buck’s got tired of living there and wants to try some of the old ways,’ McKie offered with disarming innocence. ‘I’ve heard tell of such happening now and then.’

  ‘And me,’ conceded the spokesman, who had played poker sufficient times with the leatherworker to believe there was far more to the suggestion than appeared on the surface. ‘Only we’re a hell of a way from the nearest reservation.’

  ‘There’s some’s might say it’s real lucky one got took with the notion and come down here tonight of all nights to do some of his “raiding”, though,’ remarked the segundo of the Forked Stick ranch, another frequent participator in poker games with McKie as one of the opponents. ‘Do you know what that god-damned, fancy-talking dude’s fixing to do, Jock?’

  ‘I got told something about it, Sammy well,’ the Scot admitted, refraining from showing he heard a shrill whistle from somewhere on the outskirts of the town although he knew what it portended. ‘And I float my stick along with you boys in reckoning he’d’ve done a heap more harm than good by it.’ Having no desire to put the local cowhands to too much inconvenience, or to cause the loss of the saddles which would in all probability be the personal property of each, even though their mounts might belong to the respective ranchers by whom they were hired, the Ysabel Kid had only driven the horses liberated outside the saloon as far as the edge of Wet Slim. Swinging his borrowed mount aside shortly after passing the last building of the street, he had ridden in a half circle around the town. There had been no need for him to take the chance of being seen by going closer. The whistle which the elderly leatherworker had just heard was a signal to his big ‘skewbald’ stallion. It would instruct Thunder to go and join him, leading the second of the animals with which he had been supplied.

  When discussing the plan for disrupting the rescue bid, knowing range bred horses, the young Texan and McKie had been certain that almost all of those driven off would be retrieved without too much difficulty. Some would halt before going too far and might even return to the town. The rest would in all probability go straight back to the areas which they regarded as home. 34 On the other hand, even if any of them should be lost, the conspirators were satisfied the Kid was acting for the best. Verbal dissuasion would not have prevented Philo Handle from leading the ill-advised expedition. Therefore, in their opinion, the means employed were fully justified if it caused a postponement of what they knew was practically certain to lead to the death and not the liberation of the kidnapped girl.

  ‘That’s for sure!’ the spokesman for the quartet growled and the other three rumbled grim concurrence, but none of them gave any indication of having heard and attached any significance to the whistle. ‘They’d’ve never got close enough afore they were seen coming to get her out of Escopeta alive.’

  ‘Only, with his army being left a-foot like it is,’ McKie commented, in such an unemotional tone he might have been making no more than desultory conversation rather than discussing a subject upon which the life of a beautiful young woman depended. ‘I don’t reckon’s how he’ll be doing it tonight and who knows what tomorrow’ll bring to make him call it off for good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to sound all suspicious, Jock,’ the spokesman asserted. ‘But how come I keep getting this sneaking feeling you’re nowheres near’s surprised by this Comanch’ showing up’s some might reckon you should be?’

  ‘My mama allus told me’s, being the seventh son of a seventh son, I’d got what she called “second sight”,’ the elderly leatherworker answered blandly. ‘Which same mean’s I can sometimes see thing’s hasn’t yet happened. Like right now. I’ve got this f
eeling’s how your hosses might be easier to get back ’n’ I let on just now.’

  ‘You mean’s that Comanch’s left his old moccasins on the trail just might not’ve been a Comanch’ after all?’ Samuel Barraclough hinted, beating his companions to the question.

  ‘Like I said, I’ve got this feeling,’ McKie replied. ‘Only, right now, maybe you boys’d best be getting down to the livery barn your own selves. When those hands of your’n find there’s not anywheres near enough saddle-hosses to go ’round, could be there’ll be some argument over who gets what.’

  ‘Why sure,’ grinned one of the segundos who had so far remained silent. ‘And I’d surely not be wanting for us Box L boys to miss out on being able to go look for our hosses.’

  ‘The same goes for the Forked Stick,’ seconded Barraclough. ‘Which same’s my exact feelings on it,’ claimed the fourth segundo. ‘Let’s go and make sure they get shared out fair. No matter how long doing it takes.’

  ‘After you’ve seen to it,’ the elderly leatherworker said, satisfied that he had allayed the concern felt by the quartet over the fate of the horses. ‘I’d be right obliged happen you’d drop by at my place ta smoke a pipe, have a dram of good Scotch whiskey and jaw over old times.’

  ‘I don’t know about Sam, Beau and Dirk,’ drawled the spokesman. ‘But I’d sooner hear some talk about this Comanch’ who maybe isn’t a Comanch’ after all.’

  ‘Could be we’ll talk some about that,’ McKie admitted. ‘Only don’t let on to nobody else’s I’ll be doing it. I don’t talk too good when there’s too many people listening to me.’

  ‘That nobody wouldn’t be good old Mr. Philo Handle, by any chance?’ suggested the segundo of the Box L. ‘Now would it?’

  ‘You’ve guessed it as right’s the Injun side of a hoss,’ confirmed the elderly leatherworker. ‘Should any of them get to know, they might get took with the notion I’m snubbing them and take their business some other place.’