The Floating Outift 33

by J. T. Edson

  ‘El Cuatro with me. Rest stay here.’

  It proved to be a very effective and time saving method of saying who he wanted along with him. Rifles in hand Mark, the Kid and Waco moved forward on Dusty’s heels. They stared in some surprise at the sight of Margarita de Plonchet standing ahead and being covered by a fat, gaudily-uniformed man who the Kid knew and the others guessed to be General Marcus, while Whang, Dooley and Clapper stood shaking the bars of a cell and raging curses in a variety of different languages at the man.

  Feeling ahead of them with their feet to make sure they did not kick into anything which might warn the others of their presence, the four Texans moved forward through the blackness towards the lights.

  Standing before the cocked, loaded gun of a man who seemed to have snapped all control of his senses would have tried the nerves of a brave man. Margarita de Plonchet had courage, but she could feel it running out of her. Her tiny hands clenched into lists as she fought down her desire to scream, to throw herself bodily at Marcus, grab at the hidden Double Derringer, claw it out and shoot in a desperate effort to save her life, anything at all to bring an end to the suspense.

  ‘I’ll kill you now!’ Marcus snarled, a trickle of froth running from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’ve got the same idea about you!’

  The words came from the blackness. In some strange manner Margarita heard only Marcus and this unknown speaker. The raging curses of the three Texans as they tried to turn the insane-looking Mexican from his course seemed like whispers in the background.

  Marcus swiveled around to face the speaker. He stared in amazement, then horror at the four forms which came from the blackness. Four unreal, unsubstantial black shapes which took on the appearance of a quartet of men—

  Texas cowhands—four—el Cuatro!

  As Whang predicted the Four had come. Had found their way to the very depths of his locked and high-walled stronghold. Marcus let out a cry of terror and staggered back against the door of the cell. His eyes went to the girl and his crazed mind sprang to a wild conclusion.

  ‘You!’ he screamed, lining the gun. ‘You brought them h—agh!’

  In the midst of his tirade, even as Dusty prepared to shoot him down, Marcus stiffened and screamed. His Colt roared but its bullet missed Margarita by inches. Agony twisted his face into hideous lines. Then his knees gave way and he crashed forward on to his face. The hilt of a knife rose up from his back, just over where his trousers’ waistband would be.

  ‘Marcus,’ Whang said quietly. ‘You’ve made one hawg-stupid mistake too many. You took our guns and left me with my old Arkansas toothpick down behind my neck.’

  The words seemed to shake Margarita from her state of shock. She tore her eyes away from the twitching, bleeding thing at her feet. Her brain began to function with its old speed. The Four had come, somehow, she could not think how, they were inside Casa Almonte.

  Turning, Margarita flung herself towards the stone steps meaning to run up, throw open the door and scream for help. The Kid sprang forward, caught her by the shoulder and thrust her back into Waco’s arms. She struggled, trying to tear free, lashing out with her slippered feet and banging her heels against the youngster’s shins. In the struggle the letter rose in her pocket and fell to the ground.

  ‘Let me go!’ she gasped, trying to reach the Derringer and fire it in the hope that the shot might sound upstairs, be heard and bring help.

  Bending down, Dusty took up the letter and opened it. The girl’s struggles became more desperate but to no avail. Then the reaction of all which had happened to her set in. The exhaustion of the long hours of riding, the stiff ache to her body, the stupidity of Marcus and her narrow escape from death proved too much of a load for her to carry. She went limp in Waco’s grasp and began to sob bitterly, almost hysterically in defeat.

  Dusty read the first lines of the letter. If it had proved to be no more than a message from Margarita to her lover he would have trespassed no further into its privacy. But this was no love note. He held a report from Margarita to her leader—her lover, too, but that no longer mattered. In his hands Dusty held enough to send Margarita de Plonchet, Captain Barrio, whoever he might be, and Roberto Moreno to the wall and facing a firing squad.

  ‘Watch her, boy,’ Dusty said, as Waco eased the sobbing girl into a sitting position at the foot of the steps. ‘Treat her easy.’

  ‘Say, howdy there, Whang, boys,’ drawled the Kid, walking to the door of the cell, leaning one-handed on the wall and beaming benevolently at the occupants. ‘What you-all doing inside there?’

  This proved to be too much for Dooley who tended to be a mite excitable. He glared at the Kid and his face started to turn red, increasing in color and tone as he drew in a long breath.

  ‘What’re we doing?’ he said. What are we doing?’ The face turned almost scarlet and he flung himself at the door, gripping the bars and shaking them wildly. ‘I’ll tell you what we’re doing! We’re driving this herd of longhorns up the Old Trail, that’s what we’re doing!’

  ‘Watch the Sioux don’t jump you in the Injun Nations as you go through,’ grinned the Kid.

  The words brought another burst from Dooley but it sounded more like the gobbling of an old tom turkey. The sound died away as Dooley stared at the dark shapes emerging from the blackness. At first he thought they might be Marcus men but the hope died without rising too high as he recognized the clothing of vaqueros.

  One glance told Dusty that Marcus would never rise from the floor. Whang might not be a real top knife fighting man, but he could handle a blade and knew right where to put its point so as to do most good, or harm, depending on how a man looked at it.

  ‘How come?’ he asked, looking at Whang.

  ‘We found out what they aimed to do with the guns. Figured to get out and let folks know north of the line, only he had the jump on us.’

  ‘He speaks the truth!’ Margarita said, lifting her head from her hands as she exercised all her will power to regain control. ‘None of these three men knew of what we planned to do until today. When they found out they would have left us.’

  Whatever fate befell them, the de Plonchet family always did their best for the people under their wing and orders. Whang and the other two had served her well, tried to save her life and she intended to do all she could for them in return.

  Looking up she saw the men coming into the light. One she recognized and a bitter smile twisted her lips as she discovered how so much information of their plans leaked out. She saw the hate in their eyes as they looked at her, the cold lack of pity that only Latin men could show.

  ‘Is she the one, Carlos?’ asked Pancho.

  ‘She is!’

  Like a flash Dusty lunged between Margarita and the men.

  ‘The man who lays a hand on her answers to me,’ he said and, quiet though he spoke, his words brought the advance to a halt. ‘I’ll see she is tried, but she is unharmed and she doesn’t get ley fuga.’

  ‘Let it be so!’ Almonte said as he limped from the blackness.

  His words set the seal of approval on Dusty’s action for none of his men would go against his orders.

  ‘Mark, you stay here and keep her quiet,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Rest of you come with me. Carlos, take a point.’

  Carlos had come to know what the range term Dusty used meant. He led the way up the steps and cautiously opened the door. The hall beyond lay silent and deserted but he saw a light under the dining-room door and heard low voices talking.

  ‘They are in the dining-room, Captain,’ he said. ‘Four out on guard, probably.’

  Moving fast, Dusty’s men burst into the dining-room, their guns covering Marcus’s guard, less the four on watch outside. Under the threat of the guns, the guard had no choice, or lacked the guts to do other than surrender.

  Now the main body of men had been secured—they lay on the floor, hands and feet bound by men who knew their work and gagged so none could make a sound—Dusty could arra
nge for the removal of the sentries. He nodded to the Kid who knew what he must do. There were four men on the walls. Carlos had said where they might most likely be found. To handle them the Kid, Sanchez and the two men Sanchez selected as being most skilled in the art of night movement and stalking stealth would go out. Dusty gave no orders beyond that. The sentries must be settled in silence, no outcry to alert the party sleeping beyond the walls. He could not risk laying down rules that the men must be clubbed insensible and taken prisoner.

  Cold-blooded? Possibly. This whole affair must be carried through no matter at what temperature the blood ran. Four men might die upon the walls, four living human beings have their most precious belonging taken away from them. Yet their dying might save the lives of many. It was on the balance of that Dusty sent his men out. He might have gone along instead of one of the others, bringing the moral issue of killing an unsuspecting human being upon his head. Fear did not hold him back, nor moral scruples either. Dusty admitted that the four men he sent could handle the job better than himself. So he let them go while he remained in the house and waited.

  The Kid found his man just where Carlos claimed he would. From all appearances this man took his responsibilities lightly. He sat on the top step to the parapet, at the right of the gate. His head rested on his arms, the sombrero drawn forward, gentle snores burbled from him. Nor, luckily for him, did he waken as the Kid crept up the stairs, a silent black shape with just a tiny glint of steel from the razor-edged bowie knife in his hand.

  Never had the Kid been faced with so easy a task. Even the man’s rifle, leaned on the wall and well clear of him, so it would not need to be caught and prevented from clattering down when the man fell.

  It almost seemed as if Ka-Dih, the Great Spirit of the Comanches, decided to make things a little easier for the grandson of Long Walker, in repayment for the earlier difficulties met by the raiding party.

  One gentle pull twitched the hat from the man’s head. So gentle that he had barely woken and not even thought of making a noise, when the butt of the great bowie knife smashed down on to his skull. The man went from sleep to partial awake and then to unconsciousness all in a single breath. This had been quicker, easier and even more silent than when the Kid felled the first man who guarded the Inn of the Cock.

  Catching the man even as he started to collapse forwards, the Kid gave a Comanche-deep grunt.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ he thought. ‘Dusty’ll be pleased.’

  The Kid knew well that Dusty did not want unnecessary killing and held, to the Kid’s Comanche way of thinking, too high a value on the sanctity of human life.

  Good management, skilled night work, silent movement, even the intervention of Ka-Dih, call it what you will, but the silencing of the other sentries met with just as much success. None of the three men had the slightest difficulty in locating their victim. Sanchez clubbed his as the man stepped sleepily from a stable to look for his relief. The other two men returned with blood on their knives.

  Once more Casa Almonte had changed hands.

  Standing on the parapet, Dusty looked towards the dark shape of the other patrol for a moment. He turned to Carlos who stayed at his side, ready to give any help he could.

  ‘Would any of that bunch out there know the patrol you rode with, Carlos?’ he asked.

  ‘None, Captain, or it is unlikely.’

  ‘Do you reckon they’d know you didn’t stay on here as part of Marcus’s guard, didn’t ride out?’

  ‘I think not. They are Esteban and his men and have been out for five days or more.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the house,’ said Dusty Fog, but his even voice did not fool Carlos for a moment.

  Esteban lay for a moment looking up at the soldier who stood at his side.

  ‘Has the fat pig changed his mind?’ he asked.

  ‘No, señor. But he is asleep and I thought you might be more comfortable in the house than out here,’ Carlos replied. ‘Perhaps a few pesos, señor?’

  No bandido would do a favor without requiring payment for it. With a snarl Esteban rose from his blankets and looked at his stirring men. They also rose and grabbed for the reins of their horses. He led his men through the open gates, by a pair of snoring guards who sat with their backs to the wall and rifles in their laps. Leaving their unfortunate horses standing saddled and uncared for, the ten men made for the house.

  ‘And when we get in,’ Esteban told the men, ‘somebody will get a bad surprise.’

  He spoke the truth.

  No sooner had his party entered the hall than doors opened and rifles lined out on them. They might have turned to run back into the night but four men stood blocking their way with raised rifles. Two were Texans, one Esteban knew all too well, the other two, although they wore Marcus uniforms and had posed as sleeping guards, rode for Don Francisco Almonte.

  ‘Surrender or die!’ offered the Ysabel Kid.

  Esteban showed his teeth in a grimace. He let his weapons fall.

  ‘So the fat pig sold us out,’ he said.

  ‘You sold yourselves out,’ Dusty Fog replied. ‘Hawg-tie them.’

  Not until the prisoners had been disarmed and secured, alert sentries posted on the walls and the gates locked, could Dusty send a man to the cellars and give Almonte permission to come up. The old man would have been a liability not an asset in the taking of the house and he agreed to remain, his feelings salved by pretending to help Mark guard the girl and the three Texans.

  Slowly the old don’s eyes went around the shambled mess of his once fine home. Margarita stepped forward and laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘My apologies, señor,’ she said. ‘I tried to prevent it, but you have seen the kind of rabble I had with me.’

  ‘Hard work will soon put things right, señorita,’ he replied.

  ‘Is there any place we can lock the prisoners safely, sir?’ Dusty asked, being more concerned with present safety of the house than its possible cleaning and repair in the future. ‘I’ve thirty now and maybe more to come.’

  ‘In the cellars. There are four good sized storage rooms with stout doors. I looked around, the doors are still firm as ever and the locks work, the keys are in them. It will be uncomfortable and with little air though.’

  ‘They’d maybe prefer it to being shot,’ Dusty answered.

  The others might grab some rest when they could, but Dusty could have none until all had been done. His small force was strained to the limit. Four men on guard outside. Two men, Almonte one of them, saying he could at least serve one useful purpose, to watch the doors behind which the prisoners had been left. Dusty did not think the prisoners could smash down those thick, stout iron-supported timber doors, but he did not dare to take that chance. To add to his worries Margarita de Plonchet refused to give her word neither to escape nor make trouble. He finally left her in her room with Mark for a guard and gave orders that she must be locked in the cupboard the moment Mark heard approaching horses or she made any attempt to create a disturbance. His men must be fed, that proved easy enough, Margarita’s maid being brought down and told to make a meal.

  After he caught an hour’s sleep Waco relieved Mark. Despite her desire to stay awake and add to Dusty’s worries, the girl’s exhaustion dragged her into a deep sleep which seemed almost like a coma.

  Just as Dusty managed for the first time to try and snatch a few moment’s rest, one of the wall sentries came running in with word of a fast approaching rider. Shaking the tiredness from his head, Dusty rose to his feet and followed the man out. Mark came after Dusty and stood at the doors.

  ‘Open, you fools!’ the rider yelled as he came nearer. ‘I have a message for Señorita de Plonchet.’

  ‘Let him in,’ Dusty said.

  The man tore through the gates, making towards the house. He did not even look at the guards in passing. Leaping from his horse, he drew an envelope from his pocket and bounded up to the front door with it in his hands. The door opened, two big hands emerged, gripped t
he man by his shoulders and jerked him inside like a woodchuck going into his hole.

  A terrified messenger stared at the men who stood in the hall. He knew they were not part of the Marcus army. Nor did he make any attempt to draw a weapon. Not when faced by a handsome blond giant who lifted him with no more effort than had he been a baby.

  Opening the envelope, Dusty drew out a sheet of paper, spread it and gave a low whistle as he read the opening lines.

  ‘It’s from Barrio,’ he said when he finished. ‘Tells Miss de Plonchet he’ll be here around noon tomorrow. That he’s got President Lerdo with him, along with a small escort of Ranchero Lancers. He says R. is with them and to make ready to give an appropriate reception.’

  ‘What’ll we do?’ asked Mark, thrusting the messenger into Sanchez’s arms.

  ‘Like the man says. Get ready to give them an appropriate reception. Get the boys, all we can spare. It’s going to be a long night.’

  Fifteen – The Love and Loyalty of an Intellectual

  Captain Barrio’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he rode alongside the President’s big coach through the gates of Casa Almonte. Like the late, though not lamented, Chavez, he often felt it to be a pity that such a fine, substantial old house should be in the hands of a fat, gross border thief with neither culture nor appreciation. Of course, the situation would soon be over. Marcus’s use had almost come to an end. Since his killing of the objectors a few days back Barrio’s moral ascendancy over the other men had been complete. Now he knew he could turn the others against Marcus, or so many of them that the few remaining loyal must either change sides or be wiped out.

  Casting a glance at the few men in sight, the sentries seated on the parapet and the pair at the door of the house, Barrio grunted. He did not recognize any of them. A man of his exalted blood paid little or no attention to the underlings who served him. Men came and went, new faces appeared and Barrio never took the trouble to try and keep track of all the rabble Marcus gathered.