The Floating Outfit 19

by J. T. Edson

  Six foot three, even without the aid of his expensive, made-to-measure, fancy stitched boots, he stood and with the physique of a Hercules. His shoulders had a great spread to them, his frame trimmed down to a lean waist and long, powerful legs. Yet in no way did he look slow, clumsy, or awkward, exactly the opposite in fact, and he sat his horse in a manner which took less out of it than would a lighter though less skilled rider.

  His costly white Stetson hat, with its silver concha decorated band, sat on neatly barbered golden blond hair. The face, shielded by the wide brim of the low crowned hat, looked almost classically handsome, tanned, intelligent, virile and with strength of character etched upon it. In appearance he looked much like a Greek god of old who elected to wear the dress of a cowhand instead of his formal robes. In all things Mark tended to be a dandy dresser. His tan colored shirt had been tailored for him, as had the levis trousers which hung with turned back cuffs outside his boots. The tight rolled green bandana around his throat and trailing long ends over his shirt was made of pure silk. Once the Beau Brummell of the Confederate cavalry, now Mark’s dress style tended to set cowhand fashion in Texas.

  Around his waist hung a gunbelt with a brace of fine looking ivory handled 1860 Army Colts riding in holsters that looked just right and told a story to eyes which knew the signs. The entire rig, expensive though it was, looked both functional and practical, the kind of outfit a real fast man with a gun would wear.

  Mark Counter could lay just claim to being a fast man with a gun. There was more than just a dandy dresser to him. He knew the cattle business from calf down to shipping pen and acknowledged no superior at the cowhand trade. His strength had become a legend and his skill in a roughhouse brawl talked of wherever it had been seen. He could handle a rifle well, though not as well as his good amigo the Ysabel Kid. He could handle his matched guns very well, although not quite as well as his illustrious amigo, Dusty Fog. Reliable witnesses, men who themselves were no slouches at the art of getting them out and throwing lead through them, claimed Mark Counter ran Dusty Fog a close second in speed and accuracy. The general public, however, knew little of this, for Mark rode in the shadow of the fastest of them all, the Rio Hondo gun wizard called Dusty Fog.

  This day, and for the past two days, Mark Counter rode alone. The OD Connected had been very busy and, while Ole Devil would have spared the whole of the floating outfit if need be, Mark suggested he rode alone. On reaching Tennyson he would discover why his Uncle Tune needed his aid. If he then decided the situation called for more men he could send a telegraph message which would bring Dusty Fog, the Ysabel Kid and Red Blaze hot-foot to his aid.

  An ear splitting “splat!” sounded just over Mark’s head, a sound he knew all too well. The sound of a close passing bullet as it split the air above him. Even as he heard the crack of the shot to his left Mark went sideways from the saddle to the right. He landed on his feet, holding his right hand Colt with the hammer drawn back ready to use and with the bloodbay between himself and the shooter.

  Mark peered cautiously around the horse’s neck and across the range. The shot appeared to have came from the small clump of trees out about a hundred yards away; which did not make Mark feel any happier with his present situation. His rifle remained in the saddleboot and the problem would be how to get it from the left side without taking a bullet between his shoulders in doing so. Sure he held the revolver. Sure an 1860 Army Colt would carry and kill at a hundred yards. But a man didn’t like the idea of staking his life on it, not when matched against what sounded like a Winchester carbine. True the Winchester Model of 1866 used a comparatively light twenty-eight grain load, much the same as the Army Colt. The carbine, however, gave better range with its twenty inch barrel than did the Colt’s eight inch barrel length.

  Nothing stirred for a few seconds. Mark wondered who might be shooting at him and why no further shots came. He gave some thought of how he might lure his unknown attacker into a range where the Army Colt could be used with accuracy and deadly effect.

  “Yahoo,” whooped a voice he knew all too well. “Hi, Mark. Mark Counter!”

  Giving a disgusted grunt, Mark set his Colt’s hammer on the safety notch and holstered the weapon. He swung into his saddle once more and saw that he guessed the direction of the shot correctly and the make of the gun. Calamity Jane rode from the clump of trees with her Winchester carbine resting across her arm.

  In the years since Charlotte Canary left her family in the care of the St. Louis convent and faded for ever out of their lives, the eldest daughter, Martha Jane had travelled far and made something of a name for herself.

  The last time Mark saw her she had been riding the box of a freight wagon, wearing an old buckskin jacket, patched pants, battered old hat and scuff-heeled boots. It appeared her fortunes had taken a turn for the better. Now she wore an expensive Texas style black Stetson hat sitting on her shortish, curly red hair. Her face had a tan, was still good looking, friendly and bore its usual reckless grin. She stood around five foot seven, her figure rich and full, maybe just a mite buxom but still firm fleshed and attractive. The rolled up sleeves of her tartan shirt showed arms a mite more muscular than a lady ought to have, but Calamity never set herself up as a lady. The tight rolled silk bandana hung long ends down between the full swell of bosom as the breasts strained against the shirt which hung open one button too many. The levis trousers looked like they had been bought a size too small the way they clung to and emphasized her full hips and thighs. Around her waist hung a new black gunbelt with an ivory butted Colt Navy revolver nestling in the fast draw holster, butt forward at the right side. On another woman this might have looked like an amusing affectation, but Mark knew Calamity could draw and shoot in just under a second and put lead into a man-sized target at gun-fighting ranges at the end of that time.

  Calamity charged forward and at the last moment swung her horse with the grace of a polo pony and halted it at the side of Mark’s bloodbay stallion. The horse, a fancy, high-stepping buckskin stud, like Calamity’s outfit, pointed to her affluence.

  “Mark, you ole goat!” she said, booting the carbine and thrusting a hand out towards him. “Where you headed? Where’s Cap’n Fog and the Kid? How you been keeping yourself, you ole coyote? See Belle Starr lately?”

  “Ease off and let me answer one at a time,” he replied, finding her hand felt as hard and strong as ever. “You look like you’re in the money.”

  “You said it. I’ve been freighting for the army up north, but we paid off a piece back and some of the boys allowed they could play poker. Which same only goes to show, now don’t it.”

  “Sure does,” agreed Mark, knowing Calamity fancied her skill as a poker player. “Where’re you headed, gal?”

  “Down trail a piece, saw you coming and allowed to give you a surprise. Boy, you sure lit down from that hoss real pronto. Where’re you making for?”

  “Tennyson,” Mark replied, hoping she would be hide-bound for some other town.

  “Yahoo!” whooped Calamity. “Ain’t this my lucky day. Here’s me headed for Tennyson myself. We can ride in together.”

  Which was just about the last thing Mark wanted. In fact he could not think of anybody he would less want to head for Tennyson with. His uncle ran the law in Tennyson and needed help, most likely in some serious matter pertaining to his office. While Mark could not think why Calamity would be headed for Tennyson he did know one thing for sure, the visit would most likely wind up with trouble. Calamity’s idea of fun was to ride in, find a saloon, locate its toughest female employee and pick a fight with her. If in doing this Calamity could also embroil the rest of the saloon in a general free-for-all it made her day and she enjoyed it to the full.

  Not that Mark objected to a good fight and had been in more than one free-for-all in his time. Only right now he was on business, serious business, and a saloon ruckus came under the heading of pleasure. He knew that Calamity would do her damnedest to get him involved in a fight if she coul
d, just to see him in action and admire his skill in a brawl.

  “Why Tennyson, Calam?” he asked. “It’s nothing but a sleepy lil one hoss town. I’d have thought you’d be headed for Wichita.”

  “Nope, Tennyson,” she replied, then as if it explained everything, “Madam Bulldog’s there.”

  It explained plenty and Mark could have groaned at the words. He had overlooked the stories he heard about Madam Bulldog. Now he saw the reason for Calamity’s visit and did not care for what he saw. It spelled but one thing—TROUBLE. Might even be the trouble he had been sent for to help handle although he doubted that. His Uncle Tune might not be a spring-chicken, but he could handle fuss between two women even if one of them be Calamity Jane.

  “You heard of her?” Calamity asked after they had rode on in silence for a moment.

  “Some,” Mark replied.

  “They say she can play better poker, out cuss, drink, shoot, fight and spit any woman around. Waal, she can’t. Not while old Calamity Jane’s still on her feet and r’aring to go.”

  Now Mark knew for sure what Calamity’s intentions were. Like some men would ride out of their way to meet a fast gun and pick a fight with him, so Calamity Jane sought out, to try conclusions with, any tough woman she heard about. Calamity felt some pride in her toughness and the notoriety it brought her way. She laid claim to the same talents as legend had it Madam Bulldog showed, so what would be more natural but that Calamity would ride over to Tennyson and see who was the better woman.

  Only this did not cause Mark to feel any happier about meeting Calamity, In a tight spot and when guns roared Mark would not object to Calamity at his side, for the girl had sand to burn and could handle her weapons. At a time like this, with some real urgent business on hand. Calamity was about as welcome as a rattlesnake in bed. Yet there didn’t seem much he could do about it. Texas was a free country and Calamity could ride to Tennyson if she felt like it.

  They rode on together. Towards dusk Calamity took her carbine from the saddleboot and blew the heads from four big jack rabbits which showed such poor sense as to halt in their flight within shooting range. Then as night closed in they headed for a small wood which gave them shelter and through which flowed a small stream. There they made camp. Like Mark, she carried her bedroll on her Cheyenne roll saddle but instead of a Manila rope had her blacksnake whip strapped to its horn. Mark cared for the horses while she made a fire and prepared the meal. Give her credit, Calamity sure knew how to cook up a mess of rabbit meat in a way that would make a man’s mouth water, Mark thought. She also made real good coffee in the true range tradition that a spoon should be able to stand upright in it.

  After the meal they sat for a time talking over their last meeting and some of their mutual acquaintances. Calamity also talked of her forthcoming meeting with Madam Bulldog. She had heard of the saloonkeeper during her freighting trip and at its end prepared herself to enter the lists and toss down the gauntlet. Staking her pay in a poker game, she built it into a good-sized roll out of which she bought an eye-catching outfit, a new gunbelt and Colt and a fancy horse. She aimed to show folks what a real tough gal looked like.

  “Well,” Mark drawled. “I’m turning in now.”

  Taking his bedroll, Mark opened it out, spreading the seven by eighteen foot water-proof tarpaulin cover on the ground, exposing the two suggans, heavy patchwork quilts and a couple of blankets as well as his depleted war bag which contained ammunition and spare clothing.

  Calamity came over and looked down at the top suggan which appeared to have been built around three gingham dresses, several garish frocks and various items of female underclothing.

  “That the suggan you had made after the battle at Bearcat Annie’s, Mark?” she asked.

  “Sure is.”

  “From all I heard that was some cat-brawl. I wish I’d been along for it.”

  The incident to which Calamity referred had occurred while Mark served as Dusty Fog’s deputy in the Montana gold camp called Quiet Town. Three female deputies went into Bearcat Annie’s saloon to arrest the owner and create a diversion to allow the male members of the town’s police force to enter and take a bunch of hired gunmen. Mark needed a new suggan at the time and had one made from the torn clothing. From the look of the suggan it had, as Calamity said, been some fight.

  One thing Mark knew for sure. No matter how Calamity felt on the subject, the law in Quiet Town had had enough on its combined hands without her adding to its complications—just as he had right now.

  “Yes sir, I’d sure liked to be there,” sighed Calamity, sounding like a housewife wishing she could have attended some cooking contest. “What’re you headed to Tennyson for, Mark?”

  “Uncle Tune’s the law up there. He sent a message he needed some help, so I came along.”

  “Sure pleased you did,” she sighed. “Gets to be lonely, sage henning without company.” She threw a glance at him. “I’m going to turn in.”

  “And me,” Mark answered. “Good night, Calam.”

  Mark settled down, drawing the blanket and suggans over him but did not bother snapping the hooks and eyes of the tarp to make himself a waterproof cover, for the sky held no sign of rain. For a time he lay awake, listening to the night noises and the stamping of the horses. He wondered why his Uncle Tune might need him.

  “Mark!” Calamity called from the other side of the fire.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m cold.”

  What could a Texas gentleman, raised in the traditions of Southern chivalry and hospitality, do? Could he allow a poor girl to lie shivering in cold through all the silent hours of the night?

  He most certainly could not!

  Rising to his feet, Mark carried his bedroll to where Calamity lay peeping up at him. He placed his own blankets on top of her and sat down.

  A few minutes later Calamity whispered, “I’m so warm now I’ll have to take this damned shirt off, Mark.”

  “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day,” he answered.

  Calamity Jane sat on her blankets and looked across the clearing as she tucked the shirt into her trousers. By the stream Mark Counter stood shaving without the use of a mirror. He had removed his shirt for his morning ablutions and the rising sun’s beams played on the muscles which writhed and moved under his tanned skin. Calamity got to her feet and gave a contented sigh.

  “Yes sir, Martha Jane,” she thought. “That Mark Counter’s a real hunk of man for sure.”

  After breakfast, prepared by Calamity, they rode on once more. On the ride they talked of many things, but love was not one of the subjects they discussed. Neither Calamity nor Mark harbored any thoughts of romance, even after their interlude the previous night. Certainly she did not visualize herself dressed in white, looking virginal and bride-like before the altar and becoming Mrs. Mark Counter. She had known Mark for some time and counted him as being a good friend. Calamity always tried to be generous to her friends.

  Shortly before noon they topped a ridge and received their first view of the town of Tennyson. Calamity let out a disgruntled curse as she studied the place, for it did not come up to her preconceived ideas.

  “Huh!” she grunted in annoyance. “What a one hoss town. You reckon there is a Madam Bulldog, Mark?”

  “You reckoned there was,” he replied.

  “That was before I saw Tennyson,” she sniffed. “I’ll bet she’s nothing but some fat old calico cat who one time got lucky with a deck of cards. Still I’ve come this far, so I might as well ride the rest of the way. Might even be able to help you and your uncle out.”

  Mark did not reply to this. He doubted if his Uncle Tune would thank him for bringing Calamity along. However, Mark could think of no way to prevent her coming and so decided to make the best of a bad job.

  A crowd gathered about the building which housed Doc Connel’s home, office and what passed for a hospital in Tennyson. Some two dozen or so citizens stood in a sullen half circle before the outside flight
of stairs which led up to Doc’s office. In the front, acting as a leader of the people, stood Joe Stern, the local blacksmith and a man much admired for his strength, if for nothing else, around town.

  Right at that moment Stern faced Connel like a bear confronted by a fighting cock. The description seemed very apt for Doc Connel stood little more than five foot six and had all the aggressive spirit of a game bird. No man in the town had ever succeeded in browbeating Doc or making him back water. From the look of things he did not aim to let them start this day.

  “Now you listen to me, Doc!” Stern said in his most blustering manner. “It ain’t that we don’t respect Tune Counter. But them Cousins bunch sent a telegraph message sayings they’s coming looking for him. And you knows what that means.”

  “I know what you bunch here are,” Doc replied in his most hide-blistering and insulting tone. “I suppose if Hank Cousins told you to string Tune up from a cottonwood tree you’d do it.”

  A mutter of objection rose from the members of the crowd. None of them paid any attention to the two riders who came towards them, for all eyes were on their leader and the chief of the opposition to the ‘run Tune Counter out of town’ club.

  “Now you know we wouldn’t do that, Doc,” Stern objected. “All we want to do is put ole Tune in a wagon and take him to Sand City where there’s a sheriff and deputies and the cavalry at the Fort to protect him.”

  “Tune wouldn’t make five miles in a wagon,” Connel replied. “Which same Sand City’s over fifty miles on bad roads. He stays!”

  Neither Mark nor Calamity Jane had the slightest idea what the gathering might be about. They brought their horses to a halt and Mark raised his voice, cutting off the mutters of objection which rolled from the crowd.

  “Excuse me, folks. Where at’s Marshal Counter?”

  The crowd turned their scared faces to him, taking in his matched Colts and general air of tough ability and handiness. They next looked Calamity over with some curiosity.