The Floating Outfit 9

by J. T. Edson

  While a number of cowhands had been in town the previous night, none were present apart from Wes and Flip. Not having homes where the State Police could easily find them, and being loyal to others of their kind, they would have backed up Wes’ story had any of them been on hand. In a way Wes felt relieved that no cowhands were in the crowd. He regretted having had to kill the Negro, but did not wish to involve his friends in his problems. Also he felt that he could rely upon Sheriff Waggets to see justice done without the need of backing from anybody.

  ‘What about him?’ Flip inquired, pointing to the body and looking a mite pallid at the gills. He had never seen a man killed at so close a distance before.

  ‘We’d best cover him with something and leave him lie until the sheriff’s seen him,’ Wes replied. ‘Go into the Pronghorn and ask them for a pool table cover or something.’

  ‘How about your shoulder?’

  ‘It’ll still be stuck on when you’re through.’

  Watching Flip enter the saloon and Wes awkwardly buckle on the gunbelt. Cleek scowled. However, he stood back, said nothing and waited until Flip returned carrying the cover from the pool table.

  ‘Let me do that,’ Cleek offered, stepping forward. ‘You get your pard to see a doctor.’

  Knowing the zealous way—over-zealous it sometimes struck the visiting cowhands—in which Waggets handled his work, Wes felt surprised that the sheriff had not made an appearance. He concluded that Waggets could not be at the small building which housed the sheriff’s office and jail, or within hearing distance. So he decided to visit the local doctor, have his wound treated and then see the sheriff.

  ‘Reckon we can trust that jasper?’ Flip asked as he walked away with Wes, glancing back to where Cleek knelt at the side of the body and covered it with the sheet.

  ‘Bill Waggets’ll talk to him,’ Wes replied. ‘And everything’s there to show what happened.’

  Kneeling at his grisly work, Cleek muttered curses under his breath as the cowhands walked away. The anger which filled him stemmed more from the loss of a useful business asset than out of the death of a friend. At best he and Sam had only tolerated each other. Friendship never existed between them; the Negro hated all white men and Cleek, despite being a Northerner, regarded colored people as his inferiors. They travelled together solely for the purpose of making a living without working over-hard for it. While Cleek sold his colored, vile-tasting liquid to the white audiences, Sam bilked the Negroes. All in all they made a good living. Also travelling on terms of apparent equality with a Negro proved a good way of satisfying carpetbagging local officials of his sterling liberal qualities.

  Flip’s questions had caused Cleek some concern, for they came close to the truth. Whiskey had caused the Negro’s explosive temper to flare up, but it did not come from the Voodoo Tonic. However, folks might remember the remarks made about the Tonic being responsible for Sam’s rage. Knowing how fast news could travel over the range country, Cleek had no wish for Flip’s statement to be made in public. It could easily ruin his business.

  Somehow the cowhand must be prevented from talking. Yet if he went on to a witness stand to testify, he would most likely raise the matter of the Tonic again. The obvious answer was to make sure the affair never went to trial. At which point Cleek discounted Waggets from his thoughts. Despite being appointed by the Davis Administration, Bill Waggets performed his duty in a fair and impartial manner. Such a man would not suit Cleek’s purpose.

  Under the pretence of making a final adjustment to the cover, Cleek picked up Sam’s razor. Darting a glance around to make sure nobody saw him, he folded the blade into its hilt and slipped it into his pocket then he rose and walked off in the direction of the Negro section of town.

  Two – A Clear-Cut Case of Murder

  At the doctor’s office Wes learned that the gash in his shoulder although fairly deep, would not prove dangerous. Finding that the blood had already begun to congeal, the doctor decided against applying stitches. He bandaged the injured area with deft skill, warned Wes to avoid as far as possible any strenuous activity, took his fee and watched the two cowhands leave the room.

  ‘Damned hot-headed young fool!’ he growled. ‘Not that I blame him for what he did. It was him or the other feller.’

  Standing on the street once more, Flip resumed his attempts to persuade Wes to leave town. However, they saw the sheriff’s horse standing at the hitching rail of the jail and Wes declined to go until he had spoken to Waggets. Like all cowhands, he and Flip never walked if they could ride. So they collected their waiting horses, swung into the saddles and rode along the street.

  Entering the sheriff’s office, they found him seated at his desk. A stocky, heavily moustached man in his late thirties. Waggets wore range clothes of plain and not expensive style. Working under the disadvantage of being appointed by Governor Davis, he had gained his county’s at first grudging admiration and finally complete support.

  ‘Howdy, young Hardin,’ he greeted, without rising. ‘I figured that you’d be coming in.’

  ‘You’ve heard what happened?’ asked Wes.

  ‘I heard some,’ Waggets admitted in a noncommittal tone.

  ‘What else could Wes’ve done?’ demanded Flip hotly.

  ‘There’s some’s’d say he should’ve stayed clear of that kind of fuss in the first place,’ Waggets said dryly. ‘Only I never yet saw a cowhand who had sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole.’

  ‘Shucks, sheriff, I thought it was all in fun,’ Wes protested. ‘And the ten simoleons sure jingled pleasant to the ears.’

  ‘Likely. Maybe you’d best tell me all about it. I only heard that you9d got into fuss with a Negro, he pulled a razor on you and you shot him.’

  ‘Have you seen the Negro?’ asked Flip before Wes could comply with the sheriff’s request for information. ‘We left him where he fell so’s you could.’

  ‘I’ve not long rid into town,’ Waggets admitted. ‘Maybe we’d best all go along and see the body. You can tell me what happened on the way.’

  Before any of them could make a move to carry out the sheriff’s suggestion, the front door opened to admit a white man and a Negro. Both wore dark blue ‘Jeff Davis’ campaign hats, although without following the Army fashion of looping one side—right for officers and cavalrymen, left for infantry—of the brim up and lacking the bugle badge on the front of the crown.

  They dressed well. The white man wore a broadcloth coat, frilly-fronted shirt, fancy vest, breeches tucked into shining riding boots. Around his waist hung a well-designed gunbelt and a Navy Colt rode in contoured holster at his right side. Big, heavily built, with a coarse, whiskey-reddened face, he managed to make his clothes look cheap and flashy. Nor did the Negro look much better, being clad in a check suit, salmon pink striped shirt and town shoes. He carried a Winchester carbine on the crook of his left arm.

  Prominently displayed on each man’s right jacket lapel was a large tinny-looking silver shield, with the words ‘STATE POLICE’ on top, a five pointed star in the center above ‘TEXAS’ and a number.

  Halting at the door while his fellow officer advanced on the sheriff’s desk, the Negro leaned against its jamb. Still cradling the carbine, he began to pick his teeth with savage concentration.

  ‘See you got him, sheriff,’ greeted the white man in a harsh New England accent. ‘Good. That saves us the trouble of going hunting for him.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Waggets asked mildly.

  ‘So’s we can do our job.’

  ‘What job’s that, Spargo?’

  ‘We got word that the tall feller there killed a … one of our black brothers. So we aim to take him to Fort Andrew to stand fair and legal trial for doing it. That’s our job, sheriff.’

  Hearing the words, Wes and Flip exchanged glances while their hands moved closer to the holstered Colts. Waggets twisted in his chair, growling a warning to the cowhands.

  ‘Easy there, both of you,’ he said and felt relieved when t
hey made no attempt to draw the weapons.

  For all that Waggets felt disturbed at the turn of events. Already something of Adam Spargo’s reputation had filtered into Bonham. Sufficient for the sheriff to wonder if Wes would stay alive long enough to reach Fort Andrew and stand his trial. Too many prisoners had been shot down ‘resisting arrest’, or killed ‘trying to escape’ since the State Police came into being. The Spargo brothers, two of them, figured frequently in accounts of such incidents.

  In addition to recalling the solemn oath taken on assuming office, Waggets remembered that Wes Hardin possessed influential kinfolks. Men with important friends in Washington and fully capable of causing a thorough investigation into how the youngster came to die. Waggets knew that in the event of such an inquiry all the blame would be conveniently shuffled into his lap. To give him credit, the latter considerations worried the sheriff far less than the knowledge that agreeing to Spargo’s demands would probably condemn Wes to death.

  ‘You know what happened?’ Waggets inquired, still sounding mild. A danger sign easily recognized by anybody who knew him.

  While Spargo knew something of the sheriff, he gathered his information at second hand and it did not include that important point. So he waved a hand in Wes’ direction.

  ‘He killed a man.’

  ‘Who was fixing to use a razor on him and not to give him a shave. There’s no call to waste time by taking him to Fort Andrew, we’ll tend to it here.’

  ‘You saying it was self-defense?’

  ‘What else is it when a feller comes at you with an open razor in his fist?’ demanded Flip, ignoring the sheriff’s cold stare.

  ‘There was no razor any place on or near the body,’ Spargo announced.

  ‘No raz—!’ Wes began.

  ‘That’s a 1—!’ yelled Flip at the same moment.

  ‘Choke off, both of you!’ interrupted the sheriff, cutting in on their angry protests. ‘You looked around, Spargo?’

  ‘I looked real good,’ the man agreed. ‘Nary a sign of any razor. Just a dead Negro and no witnesses to say how it happened.’

  ‘I can tell you h—’ Flip started.

  ‘That lippy kid’s starting to stick in my craw, Waggets,’ Spargo warned.

  ‘It’s my winning ways that does it,’ Flip answered.

  ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll toss you in the pokey and lose the key!’ Waggets snapped at the youngster. ‘If there was no razor how did young Hardin get his shoulder cut open?’

  Something in Wes’ eyes warned Spargo not to make the obvious suggestion that the wound be self-inflicted. Contrary to his statement, Spargo had questioned one witness. The fact that he learned that the affair was far from a clear-cut case of murder did not interest him. A natural bully, he enjoyed being in a position to abuse and ill-use people. That reason, rather than any interest in seeing justice done, had brought him to the sheriff’s office. One thing he did know; the cowhand, according to the witness, could handle a gun well enough to be dangerous. Spargo did not believe in taking chances.

  ‘I dunno,’ he replied. ‘It could’ve been done a whole heap of ways. The feller who told us about the killing didn’t say nothing about no razor.’

  ‘Then why’d you know to look for one?’ Wes asked.

  ‘I looked at the body,’ Spargo answered after a brief pauses ‘Any peace officer’d do that.’

  While accepting the excuse, Waggets felt that it might have been more reasonable if Spargo had not needed to think of it before speaking.

  ‘Who did tell you about it?’ the sheriff inquired.

  ‘Gent called Cleek.’

  ‘Gent!’ Flip spat out. ‘He’s the bastard who started the whole fuss. I just knowed he was a lying, four-flushing Yankee snake from the first time I saw him.’

  ‘You’re not helping anybody,’ Waggets growled, heavily emphasizing the last word as he turned cold eyes to the young cowhand.

  They were all alike, the young men who worked in Texas’ major—and at that time almost only—industry. Loyal to their friends, they spoke without thinking of the consequences. To most cowhands, a peace officer represented trouble, restrictions to their fun when in town. While the sheriff understood Flip’s attitude, and could sympathize with it most times, he knew the youngster’s interruptions and comments did nothing to improve the situation.

  ‘Why not get him out of here then?’ demanded Spargo.

  ‘Because he was on hand and saw what happened,’ Waggets replied. ‘You say there’re no other witnesses.’

  ‘Nary a one that I could see.’

  ‘Then it’s just that Cleek jasper’s word against Flip’s.’

  Wes landed a kick across Flip’s shin just in time to end another outburst. Realizing that the sheriff was trying to straighten out a difficult affair, he did not want his impetuous young amigo to spoil things.

  ‘Just one against one,’ admitted Spargo, knowing whose word would be taken in any but a purely local investigation or trial.

  ‘Then I’m keeping Wes here until I’ve had time to ask around and learn what did happen,’ the sheriff stated.

  ‘That’s your word on it?’ asked Spargo.

  ‘That’s the way I see it as county sheriff.’

  ‘General Smethurst’s not going to like this,’ warned the State Policeman. ‘He says you local John Laws should ought to back us fellers all you can.’

  ‘Which same I’m doing,’ Waggets answered, not sounding over impressed by the name of the local military commander. ‘I’m offering to investigate this whole business and likely saving you making a long ride for nothing.’

  Unintentionally Waggets’ mention of the saving of a long ride struck at a sore spot for Spargo. Ridicule had become a major weapon among the people fighting to free themselves from the hated yoke of the State Police. Recently an article of that nature had appeared in the Texas State Gazette, one which Spargo, among others, would never forget. While the comments about the State Police officers’ armament and appearances had been infuriating, the latter part of the article proved even more so. Spargo could remember it almost word for word.

  ‘And they were of the cavalry-breed, mounted outside the ribs of sway-backed, double-barreled mustangs of an exceedingly fine stock—so fine that they did hardly cast a shadow; whose hip-bones did protrude mightily, whereon these valiant warriors were wont to hang their massive felt helmets when they sought their pillows at night—’

  In Texas, where a horse offered not only a means of transport but was almost a way of life, such words could be relied upon to strike home. Certainly many of the State Police, particularly the Negroes and white men from east of the Mississippi could not compete with the native Texans in matters equestrian. Even Spargo, who had served in a Union cavalry regiment during the War, felt conscious that the average boy in Texas could out-ride him and knew more about the care or management of horses. Since the article had appeared, to be quoted, discussed and repeated many times, much derision had been heaped upon every member of the State Police’s head. So the sheriff’s innocent words increased the rage Spargo already felt at not receiving blind, unquestioning compliance to his demands.

  ‘You ain’t doubting my word about there not being a razor?’ he snarled.

  ‘Nope,’ the sheriff replied. ‘I reckon it wasn’t there when you looked. Only I’ve knowed Wes here for a fair spell now—’

  ‘And you likely know that he’s kin to Ole Devil Hardin,’ Spargo interrupted.

  ‘I know that,’ admitted the sheriff in a low voice. ‘So what?’

  ‘Hardin’s getting mighty well known in Texas—’

  ‘Uncle Devil was mighty well known long before you swam the Big Muddy, hombre,’ Wes put in.

  ‘And he made you Yankees sing real low in Arkansas,’ Flip went on.

  Once again the sheriff could have cursed. No ex-member of the U.S. Army cared to remember, or be reminded, that during the War Ole Devil Hardin, commanding general of the Confederate Army of Arkansas, had
held up superior Yankee forces and continued the chain of Southern victories which signified the beginning of the conflict. Tacticians and historians claimed that Ole Devil’s command in Arkansas had enabled the South to hold on for at least another nine months before being forced to stop fighting; also that if the Confederate Government could have supplied him with more men and material, he might have altered the entire course of the war.

  Cold anger glared in Spargo’s eyes and he opened his mouth. Before he could say anything that might precipitate real trouble, Waggets spoke. ‘What’re you getting at, Spargo?’

  ‘Like I said. Hardin’s getting some influence in Texas again, Maybe you—’

  ‘If you’re fixing to say what I figure,’ Waggets cut in. ‘Don’t say it.’

  ‘Yeah’? Spargo snarled. ‘Well you—’

  ‘Get the hell out of here, Spargo, while you can still walk!’ Waggets barked.

  For a moment the two men’s eyes locked. Although the sheriff did not offer to rise from behind the desk or make any hostile moves, Spargo looked away first. Fury filled him, but he held it in check. Maybe the affair would have ended there. At least Spargo swung on his heel and stalked towards the door. Then he saw the mocking grin on the Negro’s face and knew the story of his actions would be relayed to the other members of the State Police.

  ‘All right, Wally,’ Spargo said to the Negro, halting with his left side facing the men at the desk. ‘We’ll let the sheriff here handle it. It’ll be for the adjutant general, or maybe the Governor, to say who’s right or wrong.’

  While speaking, he curled his fingers about the butt of the Navy Colt.

  In later years Wes Hardin would have been suspicious of the man’s actions and would have read a dangerous significance in the way he turned his gun-hung side out of sight. On that day, still young and with no desire to become known as one of the top-guns, Wes never even suspected what Spargo planned.

  Nor did Waggets for that matter. While their conversation had been acrimonious, he never thought that another peace officer would take it along the lines Spargo contemplated. At the worst Waggets expected a complaint to be lodged with the adjutant general, but doubted if much would come of that. The Davis administration had enough on their plates without adding to their troubles and were unlikely to replace a sheriff whom they could point out as being one of their appointees and popular in his county.