The Floating Outfit 19

by J. T. Edson

  Deciding he would go along to the saloon as soon as he had checked at the jail, Mark turned into the marshal’s office of the jail building. His eyes went to the rack of weapons, three Winchester rifles and three double barreled, ten gauge shotguns supplied by the town for use by the marshal and his deputies, if he ever found call to need deputies. Mark crossed to the rack and took the rifles out one after another. Much to his surprise he found they were clean and only needed loading to be ready for use. He realized that he knew little about the running of his office and would need to find out.

  A check of the desk log showed his uncle had a temporary deputy, the old retired marshal, who acted as a jailer and up until the day of Mark’s arrival had kept the jail and its weapons cleaned. Mark decided to pay the man a visit as he had not met him yet.

  Before Mark could do this he received a visitor. The agent for the Wells Fargo office entered carrying two telegraph message forms and looking worried.

  “This here’s from Cousins!” he said, slapping one down before Mark. “It just now come in.”

  Mark took the form and read, “To the people of Tennyson. I will be coming soon. I want only Tune Counter and Madam Bulldog. Let me have them. Keep clear of me and you won’t get hurt, Hank Cousins.”

  “Where’d it come from?” asked Mark, putting it on the desk.

  “Gopher Hole way station.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “About half way between here and the place he sent the last from,” replied the agent worriedly. “And that means—”

  “That he could be here by noon if he pushed his horse,” Mark interrupted.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Take it and show Mr. Hoscroft, ask him to bring the Town Council to see me.”

  All the time they spoke Mark watched the man’s face. Something warned the big Texan that his visitor was hiding something from him. The agent turned, walked slowly towards the door, halted and came back again. His face worked with a variety of emotions as he looked at Mark. Then, as if making a difficult decision, he laid the second form on the table.

  “Viola, that’s Madam Bulldog’s boss girl, sent this off, just afore Cousins’ message came in.”

  “Kusin, Sand City,” Mark read. “Come as soon as possible. Madam Bulldog.”

  He put the form down on the desk top and looked at the man. “So she’s sending a message to somebody to come. What makes it so important?”

  “I was on a way station with a feller called Svenson for a year,” replied the agent. “We were miles from anyplace and he taught me Swedish to pass the time. I never forgot it, a man working for Wells Fargo needs to know a little of language with all the folks coming west.”

  “Well?”

  “It never struck me, not until I got the message from Gopher Hole.”

  “What never struck you?” growled Mark.

  “Kusin is Swedish for cousin.”

  The man looked almost sick with worry as he said this. Mark did not speak for a long moment as he thought over the import of the words. He looked down at the message form and frowned.

  “Has Madam Bulldog or Viola ever sent a message to this Kusin before?” he asked.

  “Nope. Only messages Madam ever sends is to likker salesmen and gals like Viola don’t send telegraph messages all that often,” answered the man. “What do you reckon it means?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would she be sending word to Hank Cousins?” asked the man.

  Mark thrust back his chair and came to his feet. The cold expression on his face caused the man to take a rapid step backwards.

  “We don’t know this is to Hank Cousins,” Mark warned grimly. “So don’t go talking about it around town.”

  “I didn’t even aim to tell you,” replied the agent indignantly.

  Not for the first time since his arrival in Tennyson did Mark marvel at the devotion, friendship and respect with which many of the citizens regarded Madam Bulldog. The agent did not believe that Madam would be sending for Cousins and had clearly been undecided what he should do for the best. He had told Mark about the mysterious message as a last resort and wanted reassuring that the owner of the Bull’s Head Saloon was not betraying her friends. Only Mark could not give that reassurance. From the little he had seen of Madam Bulldog he doubted if she would do such a thing as send for Cousins.

  “Why would she send word to Cousins?” groaned the agent when Mark did not reply. “If it was anybody else I’d say they wanted to do a deal to save their own hide. But not Madam Bulldog.”

  “That’s the way I see it,” Mark answered. “There’s nothing about the Cousins bunch to make Madam reckon they’d do a deal with her, or that they’d stick to their side of it if she made one with them.”

  He could see the look of relief which came to the man’s face. The agent did not waste any more time, but, after stuffing away the telegraph form concerning Madam’s mysterious friend in Sand City, headed out into the street to collect the town council for a meeting with Mark.

  The town council came quickly. Hoscroft as mayor, the old storekeeper Mark bought Calamity’s clothes from earlier, the town preacher, two more men who ran businesses in town and, although not a member of the council, the old-timer who acted as jailer.

  Quickly Hoscroft introduced the council to Mark, for he had met none of them the previous day. The jailer went under the name of Corky and was a leathery old hard-case with a pair of twinkling and surprisingly young looking eyes. He hitched up the worn old Dragoon Colt slung at his side and stoutly affirmed that he stood by Mark no matter what the rest decided on doing.

  “How about this message, Mark?” Hoscroft asked.

  “It tells us only what we know already,” Mark answered.

  “All it gives us more is that Cousins is nearer than he was yesterday.”

  “And the message itself?” put in the storekeeper. “There’s some might say we ought to do what Cousins wants, stand pat and let him make the play his way.”

  “Which’s just what he wants,” drawled Mark. “You give in to him this time and he’ll walk over you, or the next bunch who wants an easy town to ride will.”

  “Cousins has played this hand before when he’s been after somebody,” Hoscroft interrupted. “Sent word ahead that he was coming and I know of one case where the town turned a man out to Cousins. This time let’s show him he’s bucking a town that’s got guts enough to face him down.”

  “That’s the way I likes to hear you talk, Ted,” Corky growled.

  “I say barricade the streets and keep men on watch ready for him!” stated the storekeeper.

  “And how long could we keep them out there watching?” asked Mark. “Cousins won’t be here today most likely. He want to get folks spooked, give them time to think. Nope, we can’t barricade the streets or have men on guard. There’s a hundred ways Cousins and his bunch could get in here after dark and we can’t cover them all so as to stop them, that’d take near on a regiment of sentries and look-outs.”

  “What do you suggest, Ted?” the preacher asked.

  Although it had become the usual thing for the town council to look to Hoscroft for suggestions, this time he did not have an answer available. He frowned and paced the room for a long minute. Mark watched, waiting to hear what the other men wished to do before he put his plans into words.

  At last Hoscroft came to a halt and faced the big young Texan across the desk. Drawing in a deep breath Hoscroft put forth his thoughts and his ideas came very close to what Mark intended to ask them to do.

  “What I suggest is that we appoint four special deputies to be on watch at all times in the jail under Mark and ready to go should Cousins arrive. That will give Mark a well armed fighting force at his disposal ready to stand off an attack until the rest of the town can organize.”

  The other members of the town council exchanged glances then looked at Mark for his views.

  “That’s about what I was going to ask f
or,” Mark drawled.

  “I don’t have no work on,” Corky grunted. “You can take me on full time if you like, Mark.”

  “You can be first deputy then, Corky,” Mark answered. “I’ll see Doc Connel and Madam Bulldog, find out if they want guards at their place.”

  “If I know Madam I can tell you the answer,” chuckled Hoscroft. “And you’ll get the same from Doc. They’ll not want to take your men.”

  “Don’t reckon we could keep it up indefinitely either,” Mark said quietly. “We’ll just have the four men here all the time and on the first sight of the Cousins bunch we’ll get two men to the Bull’s Head and two more to the doctor’s. The rest of the town had best to keep off the streets, we don’t want the deputies to have to wait to find out if it’s a friend or not coming towards or behind him.”

  “I’ll see to that for you,” promised the gaunt owner of the Tennyson newspaper. “For the first time since I started I’ll run an extra edition.”

  No more time was wasted in talk. The council headed out of the office to carry out their part of the business of organizing Tennyson’s defense. They agreed to get volunteers to take four hour tours of duty as deputies and that, with the exception of the preacher, they should take their turn.

  For the first time Mark gave his office building a thorough examination to see how it would stand as a defensive point. After the big establishment at Quiet Town with its line of cells, large front office and a room which quartered the six man police force, Tennyson’s jail looked small and puny. It had been built of stone and amounted to no more than one large room partitioned by a wooden wall. At the front side of the wall, with two windows and the double doors facing the street, lay the marshal’s office. Mark passed through the partition door and found himself in a narrow passage, facing the steel barred doors of the two small cells, separated by a stout wooden wall, each with two double bunks which had been secured to the floor and each of which had a small window with two stout iron bars instead of glass.

  The jail had been built for a town which could not keep a large police force and so the only door giving access to the building lay on the front street, facing the marshal’s desk. Mark noted this with approval, it would save the need to have a man fully occupied with watching a rear entrance.

  “It’ll do,” he said as he came from the cell section and found Corky seated at the desk loading the shotgun with powder and buckshot. “Seeing’s how I can’t get a seat at my own office I’ll make the rounds. Don’t you go shooting yourself in the leg.”

  Gorky’s reply, which followed him to the door, came hot, pungent and blistering and covered the entire Counter family in its spread. Mark turned and grinned at the old-timer.

  “You’ve been listening to Madam Bulldog,” he said and left before Corky could think of an adequate reply.

  Mark first went to the livery barn. He attended to his own and Calamity’s horse, forgetting the girl no longer owned the big buckskin. After taking them out to the two empty corrals behind the barn and telling the owner of the establishment he would be back at nightfall and stable them, Mark went on to Doc Connel’s house to see his uncle. Tune knew the town much better than did Mark and agreed with the arrangements made for its defense. Doc Connel bristlingly asserted that he did not want his office cluttered with men and that he and Tune ought to be able to take care of themselves.

  “I’ve got a shotgun here,” Doc stated grimly. “And to hell with the Hippocratic oath in Cousins’ case. I didn’t waste time patching this worthless cuss here up to have some murdering skunk shoot him and give me more work.”

  “All right, Doc,” Mark grinned, seeing his uncle to be in good hands and knowing that Tune could handle his Colt if need be. “But if you hear any shooting get the house door locked. I’ll be along as fast as I can.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that,” promised the doctor grimly. “I tried to get Milly to go and stay with the Hoscrofts but she won’t. Danged woman, gets more ornery ’n’ balky every day.”

  “They reckon a woman starts to take after her man,” drawled Mark and left the room.

  He had reached the door of the consulting room when he heard Doc’s enraged yell and knew the meaning of his words had sunk in. In the sickroom Doc looked at Tune with a wry grin.

  “There ain’t one of you Counters to improve on the others.”

  “Sure ain’t,” answered Tune cheerfully. “That Mark’s growed into a real smart man.”

  From the doctor’s home Mark went along to the Bull’s Head. He found the place open and a few customers already in. Sam left the bar and came to join Mark on catching the big Texan’s signal.

  “Now there’s no need for you to worry, Mark,” he said when Mark told of the idea for defending Madam Bulldog. “I got a ten gauge under the bar and all the waiters are heeled. The only way Cousins and his lousy buncy can get at the boss lady is through us.”

  “All right,” Mark replied. “As soon as I hear a shot I’ll bring the deputies along on the run.” He grinned at Sam’s surprise. “Sure, we’ve got deputies, a regular city police force.”

  “Say, I’ve just got a meal on order, why not set and join me?” Sam said.

  Mark looked at the wall clock and found, to his surprise, the time had reached noon. He accepted Sam’s offer and joined such of the saloon workers as were present at a table for a meal brought over from the cafe along the street. Viola was not on hand and none of the others seemed to know anything about the mysterious telegraph message the blonde sent to Sand City. Mark asked no questions about the message, for he did not want all kinds of rumors to start circulating until he got to the bottom of the matter.

  A boy entered the saloon bearing a thick sheaf of newspapers fresh from the Tennyson Herald’s press. The arrival of an edition at this unprecedented time of the week attracted much interest and the boy sold all his copies. Mark bought one and found the editor had given the council meeting full treatment and that their advice to the citizens for when Cousins came had been printed. Mark only hoped that when the time came folks would remember and stay off the streets. If he and his deputies could pin the Cousins bunch down someplace, they could use the town’s help, but not until such time.

  From the talk which welled up around the saloon and the offers of help Mark received, Tennyson’s citizens intended to extend a strenuous hospitality to the killer and his family. However, Mark emphasized his desire that only he and the four deputies met the first attack and folks agreed to it.

  On his return to the jail Mark found his first group of special deputies gathered and waiting for him. Much to his surprise he found Stern, the blacksmith, one of the party but the burly man appeared to hold no grudge over the incident of the previous day. In fact Stern shook hands and apologized for his actions, then stated his willingness to obey orders. From what Mark saw of the man during the period they spent together the more he decided Doc Connel had been right. Stern was the kind of man who would be easily persuaded that some action be for the best and then would let himself be talked into leading the movement.

  Five o’clock came around with no sign of the Cousins bunch and Mark left the jail to walk along to the Wells Fargo office and see the stage arrive. It came in a few minutes late and Mark, leaning on the wall at the end of the building, watched the door open. A big, heavily built woman climbed out. From the look of her she was a townswoman, respectable and not too well-to-do, though not poverty-stricken either. She took the big carpetbag handed to her by one of the passengers who stayed in the coach, nodded to the driver and walked along the street. Mark gave her little more than a glance, being less interested in the big blonde woman than in any other person who might climb from the coach. In this he had no luck for only the woman got down.

  Mark strolled along to where the driver and agent stood talking.

  “No more getting off here, friend?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Drop anybody off within a couple of miles from town?” Mark went on.


  “Nope, Olaf Cussing’s missus was the only one who booked anywhere near here, marshal.”

  “That was the blonde woman who got off?”

  “Sure, her and her husband run the bathhouse in Sand City. You thought I might be bringing in some of the Cousins’ bunch?”

  “It was a thought,” agreed Mark. “See any sign on the way to town?”

  “Nope, kept looking, so’d the guard,” answered the driver. “Sheriff at Sand City said for me to tell you he’s holding all his deputies ready to come and sit in, but he’d rather you handled it alone if you could. He’s got a big gold shipment at the company office and wants to keep all his men on hand if he can.”

  “We’ll manage then,” Mark promised and was about to walk away when a thought struck him. “Say, if any of your passengers want to get off within four miles of town, make damned sure what they’re fixing to do and if they can’t give a real good reason for getting off hawg-tie them and come back on the run.”

  “I’ll see to it,” the driver promised.

  Feeling puzzled Mark turned and headed back to the jail. It looked like the telegraph Viola sent to Sand City did not have any result. He found a fresh batch of deputies on hand, told them their duties and went to the cafe and had a meal. After that he headed for the livery barn to stable his and Calamity’s horse for the night. With this done he headed towards the hotel to collect his bedroll, for he would be spending the night at the jail and did not see why he should spend it in discomfort.

  Mark was opening his door when he heard noises from Calamity’s room. He wondered if the girl’s pain made her give the squeals and gasps which sounded. Mark walked to the door and listened. Calamity’s crackling, profanity, interspersed by slapping sounds, squeals and little helps of pain came to his ears.

  Not knowing what to expect Mark prepared to investigate. He wasted no time in knocking, that could be dangerous both to the girl and himself if something should be wrong beyond the door. His right hand brought out its Colt, then he lowered a shoulder and rammed into the door, bursting it open. Mark flung himself through the door with his revolver held ready for use.