The Floating Outfit 9

by J. T. Edson

  Slipping his gun from its holster, Spargo swung in an almost leisurely manner to face the desk. Shock and disbelief creased the sheriff’s face as he saw the Colt slanting in his direction. Already the hammer had clicked back under Spargo’s thumb. Even as the sheriff started to thrust back his chair and rise, hand fanning to the gun on his hip, lead drove into his chest. Jerking back, he overturned the chair and sprawled over it to the floor.

  Spargo cocked his gun at the height of its recoil. Although fury at his treatment had caused him to start shooting, a deeper reason lay behind his actions. Belonging to the State Police had not proved the rainbow’s end pot-of-gold promised on enlistment. Only the senior members of the organization gathered the real rich pickings. Already Spargo had tired of helping to drive some rancher off, then seeing the property pass into the hands of a more influential member of the administration. He wanted more of the spoils.

  A county sheriff received a regular salary, percentages on fines imposed upon minor offenders and numerous other side benefits not open to a member of the State Police. Waggets’ fair-minded handling of the Fannin County law did not suit a number of important people. Most likely they would reward the man who removed him from office. Especially if the removing be done in a manner likely to cause embarrassment to Ole Devil Hardin. If the story could be spread that one of Ole Devil’s kin had killed the sheriff, the Davis administration would be given valuable ammunition to use against him.

  So Spargo intended to cut down both the cowhands, blaming them for the sheriff’s murder. If he also killed his companion, the flames would be heaped even higher. With that thought in mind, Spargo started to swing his gun towards Wes.

  Sensing the danger, even though mentally staggered by the enormity of Spargo’s actions, Wes’ subconscious thoughts directed his movements. Like a flash his right hand flew across to and drew the left side Colt. Practice and his superb muscular co-ordination enabled him to produce and fire a gun with almost blinding speed.

  To Spargo’s amazement, the long-barreled Army colt came from Wes’ holster and pointed at him before his own weapon completed its turn towards the new target. So fast did it happen that the rasp of steel drawing over leather merged in with the sudden crash of exploding black powder. Wes’ bullet ripped into Spargo’s throat, slamming him into the wall. Still on his feet, spouting blood from the severed jugular vein, the stricken man tried to realign his gun.

  Any trained gunfighter or peace officer would have shot again, continuing to throw lead into Spargo until he fell or dropped the Colt. Wes just stood and stared, sick at the thought that he had once more been compelled to put lead into another human being.

  It might have gone badly for Wes but, before he could point the Colt, Spargo’s hand sagged. Slowly, as if the effort proved too great, Spargo started to slip down the wall. His fingers opened and the thumb released the drawn-back hammer. As the Colt fell, it crashed and buried a bullet into the floor. Then Spargo crumpled over and collapsed.

  On the heels of Wes’ shot, Flip jerked out his Colt. Seeing Spargo’s action, the lackadaisical pose left the Negro. All too well he realized the position his companion’s treacherous attack placed him in. No coward, the Negro was also no fool and did not aim to tangle against odds of two to one. More so when half of the opposition, had already displayed such extreme competence when handling a gun.

  Jerking open the door, the Negro dived through it and raced off towards the comparative safety of his own part of town. He and two more colored State Police officers had been acting as unwilling hosts to Spargo when Cleek brought word of the shooting. Yet he doubted if the three of them could arrest that tall cowhand. However, reinforcements were sufficiently close to hand for the Negro to feel certain that justice—State Police fashion—would soon be done.

  Three – Go North With A Trail Drive

  Everything happened so swiftly that Flip failed to keep up with the riptide pace of the events. While he drew his gun, it had been no more than an automatic gesture. Often he had wondered how he might react in such a situation. Tangled at last in the middle of a corpse-and-gunsmoke affair, he found himself unable to shoot at another human being. Before the youngster could make any move, the Negro darted out of the office.

  ‘I’ll fetch him back here!’ Flip offered, the departure jolting him out of his numbed state of mind.

  ‘Let him go,’ Wes replied, holstering his smoking Colt.

  ‘But he’ll—’ Flip began, pausing as he started to move forward.

  ‘Leave him go amigo,’ Wes repeated, knowing that pursuit might end in further shooting and wanting to avoid more bloodshed.

  A low groan of pain drew both cowhands’ attention to Waggets. What they saw took all thoughts of the Negro from their minds. Blood reddened the sheriff’s right hand as he held it pressed against his chest. Despite this he tried to rise. Pain twisted at his face, causing him to sink down as Wes and Flip sprang in his direction.

  ‘S-Spargo?’ Waggets gasped.

  ‘Cashed, I reckon,’ Wes replied, suddenly realizing that he had not troubled to make sure his enemy could no longer harm him. He looked across the room as he knelt at the sheriff’s side and went on. ‘I cut loose, hit him in the neck. He’s down, lying still and not holding his gun.’

  ‘He’s likely done then,’ the sheriff breathed.

  ‘Reckon you can stand it if Flip and me carry you into a cell? Then we’ll go fetch Doc James to look to you.’

  ‘W-Where’s the Negro?’ Waggets demanded, ignoring the question.

  ‘He took a greaser stand-off,’ Flip replied. ‘Lit out of here going like a Nueces steer.’

  Many Texans believed that any Mexican finding himself in a tight corner would take a ‘greaser stand-off’, run away from it if possible. Steers from down Nueces way bore a reputation for being remarkably fleet of foot. However the sheriff paid no attention to the literal meaning of Flip’s answer, being more concerned with how the Negro’s departure would affect Wes.

  ‘Then you leave me lie here, young Hardin,’ he gritted. ‘There’ll be folks around fast enough to see me right. That Negro’ll’ve gone for help. You’d best get the hell away from here afore he finds it.’

  ‘Why should I run?’ Wes demanded. ‘That bastard gunned you and likely aimed to drop Flip ’n’ me next.’

  ‘Which won’t matter a whoop-and-a-holler to the State Police when they get here,’ the sheriff warned. ‘They’ll shoot you down first and then start in to asking what happened. So you get out of here pronto and I’ll see that folks get to know the truth.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You do it, Wes!’ urged Flip, having a typical cowhand mistrust of most types of peace officers. ‘I’ll stay on with the sheriff and make sure he’s all right. It’ll be you they want.’

  True enough—up to a point. Yet Wes doubted if the State Police would regard Flip as no more than an innocent bystander. Before he could state his objections to leaving, or demand that if he went his amigo came along, the sheriff slowly rose up on one elbow and glared at him. Already feet thudded on the sidewalk and startled faces peered through the windows.

  ‘Go to it, damn you!’ Waggets gritted. ‘If you haven’t enough good sense to worry about yourself, think about your Uncle Devil.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Wes asked, puzzled by this further reference to Ole Devil Hardin.

  If the point arose, Wes could only remember meeting his illustrious uncle on three occasions. He thought back to the meetings, recalling to mind a tall, ramrod straight man with a lean fighting soldier’s face and commanding voice. In those days Ole Devil had been a power in the State, rich, important, one of Texas’ leading figures. On his return from the war, he had taken a toss riding a bad horse i and had been tied to a wheelchair ever since. Sure he had his almost legendary floating outfit to act as extensions of his will, but he had never used them to oppose the Davis administration. So Wes failed to see how his uncle might be affected by this fuss with the State Police. It would
be different if Cousins Dusty and Red, Mark Counter or the Ysabel Kid were involved.

  ‘I always reckoned cowhands never thought beyond booze, gals and food, but I figured you’d know the time of day, young Hardin!’ Waggets growled. ‘Ole Devil’s doing all he can to get rid of this carpetbagger scum who’re running the State. So don’t you make his work any harder.’

  ‘I’ve never reckoned much on taking a greaser stand-off,’ Wes answered.

  ‘You’ve never been in a tight corner like this afore, either,’ Waggets pointed out. ‘Don’t take my word for it. At least go out and ask your pappy what he reckon’s best for you to do.’

  ‘But—But—’

  ‘Take my advice, boy!’ Waggets ordered as the door opened and men entered. ‘Likely it’ll be the same as your paw gives you. Light out. Go north with a trail drive. Do anything that’ll keep you out of Texas for a spell.’

  Looking at the sheriff’s pain-wracked face, Wes realized that every word came straight from the heart. A peace officer of Waggets’ type would never advise flight unless he felt certain that any other course could prove disastrous. So Wes decided to do as the sheriff suggested; at least he would go as far as heading for home and asking his father’s opinion.

  ‘You know best, sheriff,’ he said and started to rise.

  ‘I reckon I do, boy,’ breathed Waggets. ‘And don’t look so all-fired worried. It won’t be forever. As soon as Ole Devil and his pards can force Congress to give us Texans back the right to vote, you’ll soon see Davis and his whole stinking pack run out of office. Then—and not before then—it’ll be safe for you to come back here.’

  ‘What happened, Bill?’ demanded one of the men who entered.

  ‘Spargo there shot me, tried to gun Wes who stopped him,’ Waggets replied.

  ‘Spargo—’ repeated the man, owner of the town’s most prosperous store. Then shock twisted his features. ‘You mean Spargo of the State Police?’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed the sheriff flatly.

  Immediately the questions all the newcomers wished to ask were, forgotten, just as Waggets had figured they would be. None of the crowd wanted to become too closely involved in an affair of that nature.

  ‘Get going, Wes,’ Waggets ordered, having achieved his aim.

  At that moment Doctor James’ lean angular frame appeared at the office door. He elbowed through the crowd with a complete disregard for social standing or civic position, Stopping for a moment, he looked at Spargo’s body and knew it did not require his attention. Only for a brief instant did his eyes rest on the blood-smeared shield of office, then he continued his way to the sheriff’s side.

  ‘All right!’ he growled, swinging round. ‘There’re too many people in here. Let’s have some of you leave.’

  Given such an opportunity, every townsman present turned to go. Each of them regarded James’ demand as a heaven sent chance to leave without the stigma of turning his back on the sheriff. The situation ran parallel to when Wes shot the Negro, with nobody wishing to be in a position where they might have to give evidence contrary to the interests of the State Police.

  ‘Thanks, Doc,’ Waggets said weakly, watching the last of the townspeople leave. ‘Now—’

  ‘You lay there and stop talking!’ James ordered and darted a glance at the two cowhands who still stood close at hand.

  ‘Get riding, Wes!’ ordered the sheriff.

  ‘I could use somebody to do the fetching and carrying.’ James commented.

  ‘I’ll stay on,’ Flip promised. ‘Go to it, Wes. I’ll come out and tell you as soon as there’s any news.’

  Slowly Wes turned and walked from the room. James hardly spared him a look, being already involved in a preliminary inspection of the sheriff’s wound. As Wes left the office, the gathered people fell back. Twice in a day he had been forced to shoot a man. Yet each time the killing had been justified in that doing so saved his own life. That aspect did not cause the crowd’s retreat. They feared what the State Police might do to any man who appeared to condone Wes’ actions.

  Unhindered and unquestioned by the crowd, Wes collected his horse. The bay gelding had speed, looks and stamina. While it did not possess the qualities needed for a working cow-horse, it made a fine go-to-town mount. Unfastening the reins, he swung into the saddle and rode out of Bonham along the trail leading to his home.

  ‘The sheriff’s taking a hell of a chance letting him go,’ a man commented.

  ‘Yeah,’ another replied. ‘The State Police aren’t going to like what’s happened in there.’

  ‘Now me,’ a third put in. ‘I don’t know what’s happened—and sure as hell don’t want to.’

  That being the general opinion, the people started to depart about their business. In the office, Flip watched Wes leave and the breaking up of the crowd. Then he turned and looked to where James was taking instruments from the black bag he brought along.

  ‘Wes’ gone and the folks aren’t sticking around,’ the youngster said.

  ‘I didn’t expect they would,’ James answered dryly. ‘Come here and lend a hand. This’s worse than I expected.’

  ~*~

  About a mile out of Bonham, along the westbound stage trail, a wide, well-used track cut off through an area grown over by white oak, chestnut and flowering dogwood trees. Turning down the track, Wes soon entered a large clearing and looked at his home. Surrounded by a white picket fence and truck garden, the Hardin house was built from local timber. A well-designed barn, a small cabin and a couple more wooden structures completed the property. All showed signs of care and attention, being neat and clean. In addition to his duties as parson, Wes’ father repaired or made various kinds of leather equipment. He had built the house originally in the belief that the location would be selected as a site for the proposed town of Bonham. Even on learning that the other settlers preferred to build in more open country, Parson Hardin declined to change his home. However, the excellence of his work caused people to accept the slight inconvenience of coming out to the house when wishing to do business.

  At first Wes felt puzzled at the lack of life around the place. While he expected his father to be indoors and working, he could see no sign of either of the family servants, an elderly Negro couple who refused to worry about such foolishness as ‘freedom’. Nor did Bucky, the big black-and-tan hound, come bounding down the path to the fence gate, bawling out a bugle-voiced greeting.

  Then Wes remembered. The incidents of the day had caused him to forget how his father had left on a visit the previous day. Combining business with pleasure, Parson Hardin had taken along his servants and the hound.

  Opening the fence’s gate, Wes led his bay to the barn. While off saddling and attending to the horse’s needs, he wondered what he ought to do. He expected that his father would return that evening, so put off any thoughts of riding after the old man. With the bay settled, he walked to the house and entered.

  Restlessly Wes prowled the sitting room, unable to settle down or relax even in the familiar surroundings of his home. He wanted badly to talk with his father, to ask for advice and ensure that Parson Hardin knew the true facts of what had happened in town that afternoon. For a time he considered changing his mind and setting off in search of his father. However, by that time the horse would be well into its food and could not be ridden on a full stomach without the chance of injury. So he flung himself into the comfortable old rocking-chair before the fireplace and set it into motion.

  No cowhand worth his salt ever spent his valuable leisure time in town sleeping, so Wes felt tired. Although he doubted if such a thing would be possible, he dozed off. Just how long he slept, he did not know for sure. On waking, he found night had fallen and the room was in darkness.

  For a moment he sat in the rocking chair, trying to decide what had woken him. Then he realized it had been the sound of approaching hooves. Not his father, or he would have heard buggy wheels too. Rising, he crossed the room. In passing he drew one of his Colts from the gunbel
t he had left on the sitting room table. At the window he looked out and saw two men leaving their horses fastened to the picket fence while they came through the gate. Recognizing Flip and Doctor James, he holstered the Colt and opened the front door.

  ‘Hey there,’ he greeted as they came up across the porch, ‘Anything wrong?’

  The last came as he saw the expressions of the visitors’ faces.

  ‘We’ve got bad trouble, Wes,’ Flip replied

  ‘Let’s go inside and talk,’ James went on.

  Leading the way into the sitting room, Wes lit the lamp and looked from one to the other of his guests.

  ‘What’s up?’ he demanded.

  ‘The sheriff died,’ Flip answered.

  ‘He was hit bad, real bad,’ Jamers continued. ‘I tried—’

  ‘Sure, Doc,’ Wes said quietly.

  ‘That’s not the worst of it,’ Flip put in before Wes could say more. ‘That Negro found a bunch of State Police. They’re in town right now, asking questions.’

  ‘That figures,’ Wes growled, too shocked by the news of the sheriff’s death to think much about his friend’s words.

  ‘It’s bad, boy,’ James said gently. ‘They’re making it clear that they’re fixing to blame you for killing Bill Waggets—’

  ‘You know that’s a damned lie, Doc!’ Wes shouted, jolted out of his shock.

  ‘I’ve Bill’s dying word for it,’ agreed the doctor. ‘Flip saw what happened and so did the Negro with Spargo. Only it don’t make one bit of difference; No carpetbagger judge and jury would listen to Flip, or me, and the Negro for sure’s not going to tell the truth.’