The Floating Outfit 19

by J. T. Edson

  She took up the clothes Mark bought for her and dressed, grinning as she found the shirt to be a size larger than she usually wore. Once fully dressed she took up her old Navy Colt, checked that it still carried its loads, rested the butt on her knee and slipped percussion caps on to the nipples, set the hammer on the safety notch between two of the loaded chambers and thrust the gun into her waistband. She made sure of the set of the weapon, put her battered cavalry kepi on at a rakish angle and left her room whistling an old army tune.

  A meal was Calamity’s first requirement and she got this in the hotel’s dining room. Then she left, walked out into the street and headed for the Bull’s Head. The first thing she noticed on leaving was the deserted aspect of the town. Along the street only the Bull’s Head saloon and the marshal’s office carried lights to show they were open for business. Not a horse stood at any hitching rack and nobody walked the streets.

  Knowing the west, Calamity could read the signs. Tennyson expected trouble. She could smell it in the air, feel it all around her. The citizens had closed their business premises and most likely stayed at home, loaded weapons ready to their hands as they had done in the old days when the Kiowa and Comanche Indians rode the plains.

  Although she had thought of visiting Mark Counter and seeing if she could do anything to help him, Calamity overlooked one vital detail. The Bull’s Head lay between the hotel and the marshal’s office. At the saloon’s hospitable doors she paused, then turned and entered.

  Her foot barely touched the floor inside when she froze, hands at her sides. The saloon contained only half a dozen townsmen for customers, but the full force of waiters, dealers and bartenders stood around and all of them wore guns. Guns towards which their hands dropped as she entered.

  “Hi!” she greeted, unperturbed by the way the men watched her. “Don’t shoot until I’ve had me a drink.”

  The hostile looks faded away and the men relaxed, although Viola and the few girls in the room threw scowls at the grinning Calamity as she headed for the bar. They might have shown their dislike in a more practical way, but Madam Bulldog had given definite orders which Viola passed on.

  “You looking for trouble, Calam?” asked Sam, sliding a beer along the bar top towards the girl.

  “Me?” she replied, looking innocent as a dove cooing in a peach tree. “Why I never look for trouble. Where at’s the boss?”

  “Be down soon.”

  Calamity caught the glass and raised it to her lips. “First since the last,” she remarked, then looked around the room. “You’re sure slack tonight.”

  “Yeah,” Sam replied and let it go at that, for he sure wanted to keep his eyes on the door.

  Time passed and at ten to nine Calamity heard a sound at the head of the stairs. She looked up to see Madam Bulldog at the top and just starting to walk down, moving with her usual light footed, rubbery grace which told that Mrs. Kusin’s handling had been just as successful as in Calamity’s case. Only this night Madam did not wear her working dress. She wore a black two-piece ladies’ suit with a frilly fronted white blouse. Calamity saw under the left side of the jacket as Madam Bulldog started to come downstairs. The saloonkeeper carried a revolver under her arm in a shoulder clip.

  Before Madam reached the bottom, the batwing doors opened and two men stepped in, two men with drawn revolvers in their hands. They timed the move just right, for just at that moment all eyes had gone to Madam Bulldog.

  “Sit tight, all of you!” snapped Tad Cousins.

  “Do it, or we throw lead into the gals before you get us!” Joe Cousins went on. “We’re looking for Madam Bulldog.”

  Their threat worked. The men might have taken a chance, but not to endanger Viola and the other girls’ lives.

  “I’m the one you want,” said Madam Bulldog, coming slowly down the stairs and stepping forward to face the two men. “The rest of them aren’t in this.”

  “You’re her, huh?” grunted Joe and started to move his gun around.

  At that moment Calamity Jane thrust herself from the bar, ignoring the gun Tad turned towards her. She pointed at Madam Bulldog and glared defiantly at the Cousins’ brothers.

  “Hold it!” she snapped. “Listen, you pair, I don’t know what’s between you and her, but I got first claim on her. This fat old cow cold-decked me out of all I own at cards, hocused my fire-water, then, when I come back the next morning for a reckoning, her and three of her calico cats jumped me and worked me over. So I’ve got me a gun and come looking for her. And I’m damned if I’ll stand back to let a couple of ring-tailed rippers come in and take her from me.”

  “Reckon you can take her?” asked Joe.

  “You reckon I can’t?” Calamity spat back. “Just stand back and leave me try.”

  Joe threw a glance at the clock. By now his father would have the men staking out the jail house and be well on his way to Doc Connel’s house. He flashed a glance at Tad who grinned and nodded. They did not object to committing a cold-blooded murder, but knew every man for hundreds of miles would be out after them if they killed a woman, especially a well-liked and respected woman like Madam Bulldog. If they let Calamity Jane do the killing it would serve their purpose and all blame fall on the girl. From the look of Calamity and Madam Bulldog they sure had tangled and as none of the girls showed signs of injury it looked like Calamity got licked fair and now made loser’s music. If the girl tried and failed to kill Madam, then they could still cut in and finish the job.

  “Get to it!” Tad ordered. “Nobody else move.”

  On receiving permission Calamity turned to face Madam. Her hand lifted to hover the butt of the Navy Colt. Madam moved around to stand squarely facing her, her eyes on the girl’s face, the good one trying to read some sign of warning that Calamity was about to make her draw.

  Behind the bar Sam threw a look at his ten gauge. He swore an oath to himself that, even if he died in doing it, he would cut Calamity in two pieces with a load of blue-whistlers should she throw down on and kill his boss.

  “When you’re ready, Madam,” Calamity said calmly.

  Unaware of the developments around them, Mark Counter and his deputies sat around the desk and in a low stake, but highly enjoyable, poker game. Mark tossed his hand into the pot with an expression of disgust and rose from the desk.

  “About time you lost one,” snorted old Corky. “See now how you pay your deputies so good. You take it off ’em playing poker.”

  Mark grinned and paced the room while waiting for the next pot. He knew he would have a fair wait, for Corky had become a long-winded card player given to much deliberation before making any move, even if the move be the simple act of folding and tossing into the deadwood in the table center. So Mark strode the length of the room and turned. In doing so he chanced to glance out of the window.

  That one glance told him the long awaited moments of action had come. It also warned Mark that he had made an error in tactics. He had one man in the rear cells, watching the back of the jail, but unless he was badly mistaken they were held prisoner inside the jail building.

  What he had seen was two men standing in the alley between the two opposite buildings. More, he had seen one start to raise a rifle but be restrained by the other.

  Mark did not panic. He knew he must think fast, for the Cousins bunch had at last reached Tennyson and even now would be moving. He crossed the room in the same relaxed and casual manner he had done several times before and threw a glance at the alley at the other end of the facing building. Sure enough another man stood at it, rifle in hand. That meant they were not just casual idlers even if the prevented raising of the rifle had not already told Mark as much.

  He crossed to the desk and rested his hands on top, looking at the men. He stood with his back to the front windows so the men outside would not be able to guess what he aimed to do.

  “Don’t get up, or look,” he said. “There’s three men with rifles outside. They’ve got us bottled in.”

  To give
them credit, not one of the men at the table gave the slightest sign of surprise, or of being aware that the watchers had them pinned in with the only way out under easy range for a rifle.

  “What’re we going to do, Mark?” Cork asked. “This means Cousins’s in town.”

  “I know,” Mark replied. “We’ve got to get out.”

  “Won’t be easy,” growled Corky. “Could try rushing ’em.”

  “They’d cut us down as we went through the door,” Mark answered.

  “I allus reckoned this place should have a back door,” growled one of the deputies.

  Mark looked at his hands, then at the men. “So do I. Keep on playing like we didn’t know they were there.”

  He passed back through the door into the cells section where Hoscroft sat in a cell and watched through the rear window. The banker, taking his turn like the rest at the most boring of all the jail duties, looked at Mark as the big Texan entered the cell.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Cousins’s playing it smart. Got us bottled, three men out front. Just move to one side and leave me room to work.”

  Taking up his shotgun Hoscroft watched Mark approach the window and take a firm hold of the bars, one in each hand. Then Mark lifted his right leg and pressed the sole of his foot against the wall.

  “You’ll never do it, man!” Hoscroft gasped when he saw Mark’s intention.

  Mark did not reply to this. His enormous muscles started to bulge and writhe as he strained with all his might against the strength of the stonework surrounding the bars. Never had Hoscroft seen such grim determination shown on a man’s face and Mark applied all his might and power against the bars. Sweat poured down Mark’s face but he kept up that steady, yet power packed pull on the iron. He felt as if his lungs must crack, yet still held on and still his leg forced against the side of the cell.

  “You can’t do it,” Hoscroft began, “No man c—!”

  At that moment the words trailed off, for he became aware of a steady trickle of powder running from a thin crack at the side of the window. He realized what this powder must be. Concrete crushed up by the pressure. He stared and saw the very framework of the window begin to quiver.

  “Warn the others!” Mark gasped, relaxing for an instant before a final effort.

  Without needing other instructions Hoscroft left the cell. He entered the front office acting like a sentry relieved for a cup of coffee. While pouring his drink he told the others what Mark planned to do. They showed no sign of the tension all were under, but sat ready, though they doubted if even Mark could do it.

  Inside the cell Mark drew in a deep breath and took a firm hold of the bars once more and put on the pressure. Slowly, so slowly that it appeared nothing would happen, the stone gave. With a rumble and clatter the bars and their framework were torn from their bed. Mark lowered the heavy frame to the ground and leaned against the wall breathing heavily.

  Hoscroft came in fast, staring unbelievingly at the torn gash where the window had been. Mark rested against the wall for a moment then turned and said:

  “Pass me the shotgun. I’ll get around the side.”

  Before the other men could make any objection Mark slipped out through the window. He took the shotgun Hoscroft passed through, drawing back both hammers and checking that the percussion caps sat ready for use.

  “Get ready,” Mark ordered. “I’ll take the two, they’re on the side nearest to the saloon and Doc’s house. Once I start shooting get the windows bust and cut loose. There’s no time to waste.”

  He turned and headed around the corner of the building out of sight. Moving his feet carefully, feeling for anything against which he might kick and cause a clatter which would warn the watchers across the street, Mark kept to the shadows. Knowing there to be no door at the rear of the building, the men at the other side never suspected a thing until he almost reached the corner. Then one saw him and let out a yell, throwing his rifle up. Fast taken or not, his bullet kicked chips from the wall close to Mark’s head. The big Texan did not hesitate, the ten gauge in Mark’s hands boomed out a reply to the rifle. He saw the man jerk back as buckshot ripped into him, stagger and hit his pard even as the second man tried to get his rifle up. Mark changed his aim slightly and emptied the other barrel. He heard the man scream, heard also the shattering glass and the roar of a rifle from the jail front and knew Hoscroft or one of the others must have been ready and waiting to cut in.

  There was no time to waste. Mark dropped the empty shotgun, for he saw both his men lay on the ground. He did not know how badly hurt they might be, but he had to get to Connel’s house as quickly as possible. Madam Bulldog had men to help her and the doctor stood alone.

  One of the two men Mark cut down with the buckshot rolled clear of the other. It was Burt Cousins, and the outlaw, snarling with agony-filled rage, gripped and brought up his rifle, aiming on the big Texan as he sprang from the side of the jail and ran down the street. Even as Cousins took aim old Corky burst from the jail holding his old Dragoon, the gun roared like a cannon and Cousins lifted almost to his feet under the impact of the lead, then dropped, draping himself across the still body of Potts.

  At the other end of the building Jacobs decided discretion to be the better part of valor, turned and ran for safety.

  Calamity Jane’s eyes locked Madam Bulldog’s as the girl tried to pass a message. Calamity winked with her good eye, the eye on the side away from the Cousins brothers, but Madam gave no sign of knowing, or even seeing the wink.

  “Take her, Calamity!” Cousins snarled. “Or we will.”

  At that same moment they all heard the thunder of shots from along the street. Joe and Tad Cousins threw quick glances at the wall clock, for it wanted five minutes to nine o’clock and they knew their father could not have reached Connel’s house yet. More, the shots sounded from the wrong way. It seemed that Burt had run into trouble down at the jail. For an instant both men’s guns wavered out of line.

  “Now!” yelled Calamity.

  She pivoted around, hand lashing to the butt of her Navy Colt. If Madam had not read her sign right she would damned soon know about it.

  Madam Bulldog’s right hand shot across, under her left jacket side, closed on the grip of the Cloverleaf and brought it out. A split second after Calamity’s move, Madam also turned. She saw the brothers trying to bring their guns into line just as her gun barked—a flicker of a second before Calamity’s Navy Colt spoke.

  Too late the two outlaws tried to get their guns into line. Tad sent a wild shot into the bar between the two women, then Calamity’s Navy bullet struck him. An instant ahead of Calamity’s shot, Joe took a .41 ball in the chest and reeled back. He kept his feet and tried to line a gun. A ragged volley tore from the weapons held by Madam’s male workers, drawn the moment they saw a chance. Joe hit the wall, almost torn to doll-rags by the lead.

  Still on his feet Tad stumbled back through the bat-wing doors. He heard running feet approaching, pounding along the sidewalk towards him. Turning, he saw a big blond man wearing a marshal’s star who came sprinting at him. Snarling in rage Tad tried to raise and use his gun.

  Mark Counter saw Tad erupt from the saloon after hearing the shots. Saw also the gun Tad held and drew left handed, firing on the run. Twice his long barreled Army Colt bellowed. Tad reeled back under the impact, hit the batwing doors and fell inside.

  “It’s Mark Counter coming by!”

  The yell left Mark’s throat as he holstered his Colt and landed on the board walk before the Bull’s Head. He did not wish to get shot by someone inside under the mistaken impression he belonged to the Cousins gang.

  “We got the other one!” came back an answering yell. Calamity Jane’s voice or Mark missed his guess.

  He did not stop, for the most dangerous of all the Cousins bunch was headed after his uncle.

  Hank Cousins heard the shots even as he ran towards Connel’s house, after making a round trip keeping well clear of the backs of
the houses. He heard the rifle, then the boom of the shotgun. He heard other shots just as he started to mount the stairs leading to Connel’s surgery. The meaning of the shots became clear to him. His plan had slipped somehow, failed and his boys were in trouble. Then he heard Mark’s yell and caught the muffled reply. If Mark Counter had escaped from the jail his son Burt must be dead. This thought received stronger confirmation by the fact that no more shots sounded by the jail and Burt would die fighting.

  Snarling in rage Cousins halted in his climb. His three sons had been killed and his own chances of getting Tune Counter, and escaping after it, sank to lower than zero. He must get away, gather a big bunch around him and sweep down on Tennyson in a raid which would make Quantrill’s attack on Lawrence, Kansas, look like a Sunday-school outing.

  Cousins turned and started down the steps, his gun in his hand. He saw Mark burst into sight around the edge of the next house. With a snarl he brought up his gun to take a careful sight.

  Against a lesser man it might have worked. Mark saw the shape against the white wall of Connel’s house. Saw it and went down in a dive, fetching clear his right hand Colt (he had holstered the other to run the easier) even as he fell. He heard Cousins’ bullet slap over his head, then he lit down and his left hand started to fan the hammer of the Colt. The shots thundered out like the roar of a Gatling gun. Splinters kicked from the banister above Cousins, inched nearer for two more shots even as he aimed again. Just before Cousins touched off the shot Mark’s next bullet caught him and caused his lead to fly harmlessly into the air. Twice more Cousins rocked under the impact of the lead, then slowly, almost reluctantly it seemed, his body crumpled forward and fell to the ground, his gun clattered down the steps away from him.

  Coming to his feet Mark walked forward, holstering his empty right hand Colt and drawing the weapon from his left holster. He saw the door at the head of the stairs burst open. Connel and two men appeared, all holding weapons, they looked down at the body, then towards Mark, who hurriedly called out so they would recognize him and not throw lead.