The Floating Outift 33

by J. T. Edson

  Never before had Dusty been so completely aware of how fast his reactions worked. With the Army Colt’s seven and a half inch barrel and two pounds eleven ounces of weight, Dusty had always been aware of drawing and holding it. Not so with the new gun. His brain sent the message, his reflexes reacted, the gun came out and with its magnificent balance and excellent pointing grip he had not needed to waste even a split second in thought of where it might be pointing. The gun just came out, pointed where he was looking and roared.

  It was a sobering thought.

  Another sobering thought came to Dusty. Had he been using his old Army Colts he might now be dead for he would never have scraped that extra fraction of a second he needed to prevent Chavez drawing and shooting. Chavez would have died, but Dusty most likely would not have lived to see it.

  The speed with which Dusty drew and shot took the other occupants of the room by surprise, including the Kid who had stood alongside Dusty before when the small Texan fetched out an Army Colt and used it. Then, even as the dead body of Chavez went down, chairs were thrown over, women screamed and men rose.

  At their table the two half-breeds saw their boss cut down, saw him beat at a moment when they could have sworn victory must be his. They grabbed at their guns, not bothering to draw but tilting back the holsters to fire through the open bottoms. This method could be very fast and deadly at close range, especially when done by a couple of men who had clearly practiced it many times.

  In a fast done twist hand draw the Kid brought out his old Dragoon and thumbed off a shot. Dusty’s back was to the men, he would never get around in time and the Kid knew he could only get one of them. He hoped the other had selected him as the target not Dusty.

  King Fisher had been as surprised at the turn of events as anybody, but, trained gunfighter that he was, he recovered fast. When Dusty drew and shot, Fisher had been amazed, at first thinking for some reason the small Texan had cut down on him. Then he realized that Dusty’s bullet went into somebody beyond the door, but he was already on his feet, hand dipping. He saw the Kid’s dilemma and threw his hand into the pot. The ivory handled Colt flowed up from its holster in the smooth, effortless manner which marked the difference between a fast man and one of the top guns. Flame lashed from its barrel, lead scything into the nearer half-breed a full three-eighths of a second before the Kid’s old Dragoon’s cannon-ball load ripped open the other’s skull and sprayed his brains into the air. Three times Fisher fired, angling his bullets into the man, sending him reeling into the wall to slide down in a lifeless pile.

  Once more Margarita showed the speed of her reactions. Even as Dusty’s bullet ended Chavez’s life, the girl headed for a side door. She passed through it almost before the half-breeds died. Running down the passage Margarita went out of the rear door. Drawing up her skirts she ran towards the lights and the noises of the Mexican quarter.

  A shape loomed up before her. She sent her hand under her dress front to where a Remington Double Derringer lay hidden.

  ‘Miss Plonchet?’ growled Whang’s voice, forgetting as usual the ‘de’ before her name. ‘Down here, I’ve got hosses.’

  Swinging into the saddle she set the horse running. Whang rode by her side and not until they left the town behind them did either speak. Then Whang broke the silence, turning towards her as they headed the running horses along the trail to the border.

  ‘Wagon got across safe, there was about a hundred of the men waiting down there, Barrio sent them.’

  ‘And Chavez?’

  ‘He would come back to face down Cap’n Fog. Did they meet up?’

  ‘He met up.’

  ‘And?’ asked Whang.

  ‘You need a new leader. I have never seen anything so fast as the way Captain Fog drew his gun.’

  ‘Figured that might happen. Enrico sure was set in his ways, warn’t nothing I could say or do’d stop him coming back.’

  Not until they splashed through the waters of the Rio Grande did Margarita draw rein. She found a large body of men waiting and recognized Esteban, one time rival of Marcus and now, in fear that Presidente Ledro would carry out his promises to smash the bandidos, holding rank in Marcus’s army.

  ‘Barrio sent us north,’ Esteban said. ‘It was after the Four began raiding us more than before. Right the day after you left.’

  ‘Captain Barrio sent you after us on the next day?’ asked the puzzled girl.

  ‘No. The Four began raiding as never before. Four times in a day they struck at our people. Eighteen killed and seven wounded in three raids the next day. They, the Four, hit without warning, from all over the country.’

  A suspicion formed in Margarita’s mind.

  ‘Did Captain Barrio send a message for me?’

  ‘I have it here.’

  Taking the note, the girl rode to where a group of men sat around a large fire cooking a meal. In the light of the flames she opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper which she spread open, reading Barrio’s neat writing.

  ‘Have reason to believe that you are being followed. The Four are getting so active that I think they wish to hold our men here. Two raids took place within an hour of each other at most, although more than sixty miles apart. It seems our four friends have found help. I am sending Esteban to meet you. Use him as you wish.’

  ‘Thank heavens that one of you can think,’ Margarita said and slipped the note into the fire then turning to Esteban who had followed her. ‘Did you send an escort with the wagons?’

  ‘Thirty men, and left teams of horses along el Camino Real.’

  ‘Good. Now split your men into ten-man patrols and send them to watch the river to make sure nobody crosses tonight or tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’ growled Esteban. ‘The Four are to the south. We’ve seen no sign of them up here.’

  ‘Two of the Four are in Texas,’ Margarita replied, spitting the words out angrily. ‘I want to make sure they do not return to the Casa Almonte area.’

  ‘As you say,’ grunted Esteban and turned to give the orders.

  In the Lodgepole hotel for an instant after killing Chavez and hearing the Kid and King Fisher deal with the two half-breeds, Dusty stood still. Then he realized the girl had taken advantage of the situation and fled. One quick taken glance told him he did not need fear further attack from anybody in the room.

  ‘Get the gal, Lon!’ he called and darted through the side door.

  The pause had given Margarita her chance and she already passed through the rear door before Dusty reached the passage. He looked around, not sure where she might have gone, then darted to the door, his gun still in his hand. He did not know who might be waiting out there in the darkness, and wished the hotel did not have such good lights. Going out through that door might be dangerous enough without being framed in light.

  Thinking about what might happen would make going out no easier. Dusty drew a deep breath, jerked open the door and flung himself out, diving for the blackness beyond the pool of light. At any moment he expected to feel lead smash into him but nothing happened.

  ‘No sign of her, Dusty?’ asked the Kid as he and Fisher came from the hotel.

  ‘None,’ Dusty answered. ‘Listen!’

  They strained their ears, catching the faint sound of hooves drumming off into the night but, with the noise from the hotel behind and the Mexican quarter before, not even the Kid could say how many horses or in which direction they went.

  ‘Maybe she went up to her room to grab her belongings,’ the Kid suggested.

  ‘Sure, she could have. Let’s go see.’

  Turning, Dusty headed back into the hotel, looking around him. The side door led into a passage at the rear of the house and used by hotel staff to keep them from mingling with the guests. There were several doors, but no sign of stairs leading up to the next floor.

  An angry bellowing heralded the arrival of Judge Buckley. He stepped through the door to the dining-room, a ten-gauge shotgun under his arm, and ordered the curio
us members of the crowd to stand back and not interfere with the due working processes of the law.

  ‘What in hell’s all this about, Dusty?’ asked a puzzled sounding King Fisher.

  ‘I’ll explain in a few minutes, King. Thanks for your help in there. See any sign of her out front, Judge?’

  ‘The gal? Naw, not a sign. If she came this way she could use the side stairs to get up to her room.’

  Something in Dusty’s attitude warned Buckley not to waste time in asking foolish questions. He threw open a door, exposing a flight of stairs going upwards.

  Following Dusty, the Kid and Fisher, Buckley came out on to a passage lined with room doors.

  A man coming from one of the back rooms halted in his tracks, staring at Dusty and the others. The bulky and heavy looking saddlebags fell from his arm and landed with a dull thud at his feet as he backed hurriedly until his spine rammed into the door jamb.

  ‘Y—you’ve got nothing on me!’ he yelped. ‘There’s no law against selling firearms to Mexicans.’

  Until the man spoke Dusty never even thought of finding the arms salesman. Now he could see it all, how the girl managed to contact her man so quickly. Dusty had never thought, but there was no reason why the man should not put up in the hotel. Like Vincent said, the law did not prohibit the sale of arms to Mexicans and so there had been no need for clandestine meetings out on the range, although Dusty expected the arms would have been kept out of town a piece until the deal had been settled.

  Cold anger filled Dusty. The girl had played him for a sucker, beaten him at the art of deception. His anger did not direct itself at Margarita for he could admire a shrewd enemy. Dusty’s anger leveled itself at this man whose lust for profit put weapons into the hands of a cold-blooded crowd of killers to be turned against Dusty’s—and Vincent’s—own people. True Vincent probably did not know of the plans Marcus had for the weapons, but even had he known he would still have sold, relying on his being well clear of the danger area before the shooting began.

  ‘Which’s her room?’ the Kid asked.

  ‘That one,’ Buckley replied.

  Lowering a shoulder, and drawing his Dragoon, the Kid butted into the door and burst it open. His precaution proved unnecessary for Margarita had not returned to her room. It stood empty, her few belongings left behind.

  ‘She’s lit out, Dusty,’ said the Kid, holstering his Dragoon as he stepped from the room. ‘I’ll go start saddling the hosses.’

  He went fast and the other three turned their full attention towards Vincent once more. After his initial shock, Vincent appeared to have recovered some of his spirit and stepped forward a pace, trying to show righteous indignation.

  ‘You’ve got nothing on me,’ he began. ‘No matter what happ—’

  Dusty seemed to spring forward. His right fist lashed up with all his power behind it, landing with a solid thud under Vincent’s thrust out jaw. The man’s head snapped back and he went into the door jamb again which was all that saved him from going down. Through the pain and rage which popped in his head, Vincent forced thought and grabbed down at his left side, towards the gun under his coat. Then he froze for death looked him in the face.

  ‘Go on, pull it!’ Dusty snapped, the Colt in his left hand a scant inch from Vincent’s face, its hammer drawn back ready.

  Once more Dusty felt the awareness of the lethal capability of his new guns, the deadly way their weight, hang and balance fitted in and augmented his already fast reactions. Dusty knew he must watch himself, keep his control all the time he wore the new model guns, they made the art of fast draw and instinctive shooting too easy in a master’s hands.

  ‘Easy, Cap’n Fog!’ Buckley spoke quietly. ‘I’ll tend to his needings. Reckon there’s some law around that he’s bust and you’ve got work to do.’

  Slowly Dusty’s thumb lowered the Colt’s hammer to its safety position. Then he holstered the gun, never once taking his eyes from the scared white face before him.

  ‘Mister,’ he said. ‘If those guns you sold are used for the reason she bought them I’ll come back, find you and kill you by inches.’

  Saying that Dusty turned on his heels and walked away with Fisher on his heels. Vincent levered himself upright from the half crouch he had sunk into. The twin barrels of the old ten-gauge came to a halt just before his face and he met Buckley’s cold, unfriendly eyes.

  ‘You’re going to jail.’

  ‘You can’t arrest me for selling ar—!’ Vincent began, then stopped as the gun’s twin barrels came closer.

  ‘Charge’s assaulting Cap’n Fog with intent to injure him,’ Buckley replied calmly. ‘That jaw of your’n might have bust his hand, way you hit him with it—and afore you start fussing, don’t. I’m judge of this here town as well as constable. So if you blink your eyes twice I’ll throw in a resisting arrest charge and if you do it more I’ll give you ley fuga. I don’t like gun-sellers, especially your kind.’

  ‘Now how’s about telling me what happened, Dusty?’ said King Fisher as he followed Dusty towards the livery barn. ‘Way you and that gal acted when I first came in I figured she was maybe real friendly with you. Eating together and all.’

  ‘She’s a gal I met down in Mexico,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Chavez’s gal? I saw her come in with him.’

  ‘Likely his gal. There’s a lot to this I can’t tell you, King. Can you spread the story that it was over the gal that Chavez come after me?’

  ‘Ole Blabbermouth Fisher they call me, Dusty. I’ll spread so much gossip that nobody’ll think twice about it, except maybe to thank you for blowing his lamp out. There’s some bad trouble going, isn’t there?’

  ‘Bad enough, King,’ Dusty agreed.

  ‘I’ll come lend you a hand if you need it.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer. I’ve got Mark and Waco down in Mexico and this’s a four-hand chore at best. Sure admire to have you along, but you’ve got that herd waiting to head north out to your place, it’ll not move without its trail boss.’

  The offer, even though it might have cost Fisher a lot of money to leave his shipping herd while he rode south, did not surprise Dusty. It fitted with the gunfighter’s way of standing by his friends. That way would one day lead King Fisher to accompany Ben Thompson, another of the top guns, into the Vaudeville Saloon in San Antone to die in a murderous and cowardly gun-trap.

  Dusty and the Kid rode along the border trail, holding their horses in to a steady lope. They doubted if they could catch up with Margarita before morning and when they caught up she would be in company. It paid them to keep their horses fresh and follow with care for there would be a good sized escort waiting the arms most likely. In that case horses which could turn on some speed might be necessary.

  ‘Let’s get off this trail, Dusty,’ the Kid suggested. ‘This’s not my ole Thunder hoss I’m riding and it won’t let us know if there’s folks laid up waiting for us.’

  ‘Be best,’ Dusty agreed.

  While the Kid’s white had been trained to stay alert for possible ambush and give warning—although this had originally been a trick to help foil the border customs men—he could not expect his less talented, borrowed horse to show the same intelligence. So the Kid did not wish to stay on the trail even though the wind blew almost straight towards them. Knowing Whang, the Kid quite expected him to have left a couple of the boys behind to discourage pursuit.

  Swinging their horses from the trail, Dusty and the Kid rode on once more. They did not speak, neither needed any warning about how far a voice’s sound carried in the still hours of the night. If Whang had men out there was no point in making unnecessary noise and simplifying their task for them.

  Finally, and without any sound or sight of either the wagon or attempted ambush, they came towards the river. Only they did not come to it by the trail that led to that same ford through which Margarita and Whang splashed some fifteen minutes before. Instead, using his smuggler’s knowledge of the river, the Kid brought them to i
t through the bushes, following an old animal track.

  ‘They’re across, Dusty,’ he said as they stood among the bushes and let the horses blow.

  ‘Figured they would be. Don’t get no customs men this far north, or not often enough to worry about. Or so you told me.’

  Neither of them spoke in more than a whisper even though the sound of the river would cover normal speech noise.

  ‘Trail goes on down to join el Camino Real,’ the Kid went on. ‘Reckon they’ll stick to the trail below the border?’

  ‘Sure. With a heavily loaded wagon, they wouldn’t want to cross open range, or have need to once they’re below the line. Could likely pick up a good big escort as they roll, too big for us to handle, even happen we’d got Mark and the boy along.’

  ‘Won’t be no taking them while they’re drunk at the Inn of the Cock neither,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Not now Chavez’s put under and that gal’s with them.’

  He tensed slightly, standing with his head cocked slightly. Dusty had been about to mount but the Kid shook his head. Then Dusty heard it also, noise which came over the sound of the river. Men riding through the bushes at the other side of the river. Quickly Dusty and the Kid grabbed their horses’ nostrils, preventing any chance of a noise. They stood silent and watched a ragged file of men wending along the other bank. A yell from the deeper darkness brought the party to a halt and a second group appeared. For a few moments they sat talking amongst themselves, laughing, but not making audible conversation above the river’s noise. At last the two groups parted, going their separate ways.

  Not until five minutes passed did the two Texans relax or release their horses. Then they looked at each other and the Kid said:

  ‘See that, they’re sure busy over there.’

  ‘Thicker than flies on molasses,’ Dusty replied.

  A grin split the Kid’s face, his teeth showing white against the dark tanned skin. His hand dropped to the gun at his side.

  ‘Let’s get over there and swat us some flies.’

  Eleven – The Advantages of the Model P