The Floating Outfit 17

by J. T. Edson

  Thirty seconds crawled by!

  Then a minute!

  There was no disturbance!

  Only the normal night time noises of a town unaware that danger was in the air!

  A minute and a half passed into oblivion at a snail’s pace!

  Having seen nothing to alarm him through the period of very careful scrutiny, which seemed to have extended for a greatly longer time than was actually the case, the renegade gave a sigh of relief as it appeared that he might not be hunted by the killer of his companions. Now his original panic had eased, if not completely departed, he began to give more thought to what had taken place rather than devoting his attention solely to saving his life by flight.

  Why had such primitive weapons as the bow and arrows been used on Slats Scanlan and Bury-’Em Milton when the Kid had, as was proved by the way in which the ‘warrior’ who had tried to stop him leaving Holbrock had been killed, the Winchester rifle he could handle with such deadly accuracy and speed?

  Obviously, having seen and guessed why so many of the Standing DMS ranch’s hired guns were lurking on the outskirts of the town, Cuchilo had had no wish to warn them things were not going as expected!

  In which case, employing the more silent means of killing would lessen the chances of the alarm being raised!

  Still there was no sign of movement!

  For all the evidence to the contrary, Corovan might be the only living being in the immediate vicinity!

  Wondering if the Kid might have gone to the jailhouse to warn its occupants of the situation, instead of pursuing him, the renegade thought of firing shots into the air thereby causing the attack by the waiting ‘warriors’ to be launched!

  The idea was dismissed almost as quickly as it had come!

  There was a chance, Corovan told himself, that he had only temporarily eluded the Kid who was now searching for him!

  Or, being an acknowledged master of stalking in the darkness, Cuchilo might want to establish the exact position of his intended prey before starting to move across the potentially dangerous open ground!

  In either case, the renegade told himself, the diversion he hoped to cause would take place too late to serve his purpose. Not only would he have betrayed his location, but the charge of the hired guns would still be too far away to prevent the Kid from reaching him before they arrived. What was more, even if his first assumption should have been correct and he was not being followed, he might meet and be shot down by some of the ‘warriors’ who would have converged to deal with the occupants of the jailhouse.

  Being disinclined to chance either of these very risky eventualities, Corovan did not cock and discharge his Colt. Instead, he turned and moved through the blackness thrown by the shadow of the building. As he went, he was grateful for his decision which had made him don moccasins and clothing more suitable for what he was doing than the attire of a professional gambler, which he usually wore when in a town to reduce the possibility of his mixed blood being suspected. The footwear, plain dark gray shirt and brown trousers he had on permitted him to walk silently and merge into the surrounding darkness far more effectively than would have his more fancy, if never kept any cleaner, ‘go to town’ clothes.

  Alert for the slightest sound warning that the Kid might be closing in upon him, or any other indication, the renegade had some difficulty in finding his way back to where the horses were waiting. Such had been the haste of his flight, added to his being a comparative stranger to the town, that he had need to think hard and select a route after he had got what he hoped was his bearings. However, at last he found himself passing the alley from which he had been ordered to kill Mort Lewis. Glancing along it, although he could not see Milton, he was just able to make out the bulky and unmoving mound which was the lifeless body of Slats Scanlan.

  Despite the lights still glowing through the windows, Corovan was unable to see into the sheriff’s office from his present position. However, while he realized he .could satisfy his curiosity with regards to the activities of the Kid if he could look into the sheriff’s room, he did not attempt to return to the position from which he had been offered a clear view of the interior.

  ‘Half-breed am I, you stinking son-of-a-bitch!’ the renegade hissed viciously at the corpse, having a deep hatred of his mixed blood despite being willing to exploit it when doing so would prove advantageous. ‘I wish you’d got that arrow through your god-damned guts!’

  Having delivered the comment sotto voce, albeit with great feeling, Corovan turned to make his way to where the three horses were standing tied to the hitching rail of an animal foodstuffs store which was closed and unoccupied for the night like the majority of premises in the vicinity. He decided to take all of them with him. Not only would they allow him to travel faster in his flight from an area which had suddenly become most dangerous for him, but he derived a malicious satisfaction from the thought of to whom two of them belonged. His escape would be given an added relish because David Masefield Stewart had provided the means by which he carried it out. What was more, selling the pair and their saddles would—as he had not been paid by the rancher—help recompense him for what had otherwise proved a profitless affair.

  Scanning his surroundings without seeing anything to disturb or alarm him the renegade again breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed either the Kid had been unable to locate him, or had gone to the jailhouse. In the latter case, having been told of the danger awaiting them should they come out, the men he had warned would be staying inside and letting the hired guns come in search of them.

  Satisfied he had nothing more to fear, Corovan returned the Colt to his sash. Having done so, he walked forward confidently. While he still would need to make his escape from the town, he was feeling less qualms over this than he had a short while earlier. Compared with the Ysabel Kid, the hired guns from the Standing DMS ranch struck him as being as dangerous as the downtrodden squaw of a very strict Comanche warrior.

  Such was the sense of elation relief was creating, as he was approaching the horses, the renegade looked at the store and wondered whether he should break in to see if anything was worth stealing before leaving Holbrock. Like most properties of its kind, its floor was raised a couple of feet from the ground in an attempt to deny entry to rodents wishing to feed upon its contents. Gaining admittance, therefore, would not be too difficult. However, as he had almost reached the elevated front veranda, he concluded the idea was not worth putting into effect. Wondering why no shots were fired, Leftie Scanlan might come, or send some of the ‘warriors’ to investigate and they would make for .the store.

  Giving a shrug of resignation, Corovan went to the horses. As he reached for the reins of his mount, he was made aware that he was not alone at the building.

  Fifteen

  A:he; ‘I Claim It’

  ‘Namae’enuh!’

  Even as the word came to his ears, although there had been not the slightest sound to explain how and from where the speaker had arrived, Dennis ‘Waxie’ Corovan started to spin around. The employment of the far from flattering name given to the band of the Comanche nation to which his mother had belonged warned him that whoever had spoken must be well versed in Nemenuh lore. However, such was the state of alarm engendered by the voice, he did not give a thought to the insult. There was, he believed, only one person with the requisite knowledge and ability to approach him undetected in Holbrock.

  The Ysabel Kid!

  While turning rapidly, the renegade twisted his right hand around the walnut grips of his Colt 1860 Army revolver. Before it was clear of the sash, he saw somebody lunging his way who had—he suspected—been concealed beneath the veranda. With a sensation of horror so severe it caused him to freeze into immobility, he realized he had walked into a trap. One, moreover, which he ought to have anticipated when in contention against Cuchilo. Instead of having followed him, that god-damned Pehnane Dog Soldier had gambled upon him returning to collect his horse and had laid in ambush for him.

  Even
as his mind was drawing conclusions, when it would have been much better employed in directing motion to his limbs, the renegade saw a brief flicker which he knew to originate from the blade of a knife. Then he felt a sudden, yet not immediately painful sensation across the inside of his left thigh. An instant later, horror flooded through him as he guessed what had happened. Both the femoralis artery and the great saphenous vein had been severed, which meant he had only a very short time left to live.

  Just as the realization struck home, another thought assailed Corovan. Vague though the figure of his assailant was in the darkness, he could make out certain physical features. They suggested he could be wrong in his assumption with regard to whom he was in contention against.

  Firstly, although standing erect, the attacker was several inches shorter and lacked the whipcord slenderness of the Kid!

  Secondly, the hair was much longer and held in a fashion which no Texas cowhand would have worn!

  Thirdly, such a short and stocky build was typical of the Comanche nation!

  All of which aroused, or rather clarified something which had been nagging at Corovan ever since he had fled from the alley. Although the Kid had undoubtedly been taught archery like every other potential brave-heart of the Nemenuh and might have kept in practice despite living so many years as a white man, 38 it was too great a coincidence that he would have anticipated the need and borrowed a bow and arrows from the Kweharehnuh.

  Added together, the discoveries and final conclusion spelled one thing!

  The mortal wound had not been delivered by the Ysabel Kid!

  While Corovan had made the right revision where his assailant was concerned, he was not entirely correct with regards to the kind of person who had attacked him!

  The wielder of the deadly knife was not of pure Comanche birthright!

  The injury was caused by one who the sycophant might have described as being another ‘white Indian’!

  Acting as requested by the Kid, Annie Singing Bear had allowed Jose Salar and his five companions to pass unimpeded and without knowing of her presence. Then she had set off in search of the renegade responsible for the death of her favorite half brother, along with other of the Pahuraix tuivitsi he had led on a disastrous war trail. Having no liking for the towns of her maternal people, she had not gone into Holbrock to search for Corovan. Instead, after having kept watch from a nearby rim until she was convinced he was not there, she had made use of the information supplied by Cuchilo and had followed a couple of the hired guns to the Standing DMS ranch house. Taking even greater care than she had around the town, she had soon satisfied herself that the man she sought was on the premises. However, even aided by the skills she had acquired to become a tehnap, she had been unable to approach close enough to carry out her lodge oath. Employing the patience which had been instilled in her by her upbringing, amongst other things living on pemmican and what small animals she could silently catch, she had remained in the vicinity to await an opportunity.

  Seeing Salar return with one member of his party missing, then set off again accompanied by six extra men, the girl had surmised that the attempt to catch up with and kill the Kid had failed. Satisfied she would be able to reach them and learn their intentions if she allowed them to get a moderate lead on her, she had decided to continue to keep the ranch house under observation for a short while longer. Watching the much larger party leave, including Corovan, she had changed her mind and followed them instead of the group with the Mexican.

  It had proved a fortunate decision!

  Guessing what was planned on seeing the renegade carrying his Remington rifle and going with obvious reluctance into the town accompanied by two men, who looked more like guards than protectors, Annie had concluded she was being offered the opportunity she required. Arming herself with weapons that would allow her to kill more silently than was possible if she used her Winchester Model of 1866 carbine, she had left her two well trained horses hidden and followed on foot. Passing unseen by the ‘warriors’ Wilson “Leftie’ Scanlan had positioned ready to close in and attack the occupants of the jailhouse, she had watched the intended ambush prepared.

  Despite having used her bow and arrows to kill the men with the renegade, the girl had had no intention of dealing with him in such a fashion. Instead, allowing him to take flight unharmed, she had gambled upon him returning to collect his horse once the first flood of panic had died away. Going to where it and the other two had been left, she had hidden beneath the veranda to await his arrival. When he had come, she launched her attack as her training as a Comanche warrior suggested would be best suited to her needs.

  Spitting out a profanity as the understanding of the situation came to him, if not entirely correct on all points, Corovan tried to complete the drawing of the Colt and sucked in his breath to try and shout to Leftie Scanlan for help. Aware that he was dying and could not be saved, even by far greater medical skill and facilities than were available in the vicinity, he wanted to bring the segundo and hired guns into the town. By doing so, he hoped he would cause the death of at least some of the men he held responsible for his own forthcoming demise.

  Drawing an accurate conclusion with regards to the motives of the mortally wounded renegade, Annie reacted with the deadly speed of a Pahuraix tehnap. Up and across lashed the J. Russell & Co. Green River hunting knife. This time, the razor sharp blade tore open his throat to sever his windpipe and vocal cords. An instant later, her other hand went to his chest and gave him a push which toppled him over backwards. On touching him with her palm she behaved as she had been taught was proper when tackling an enemy.

  ‘A:he!’ the word burst from the girl without the need for conscious thought. 39

  Unable to either cry out or fire the shot which could have started the gun battle he required, Corovan stared upwards at his assailant. He had already lost so much blood that movement was impossible. Despite his eyesight fading, he suddenly realized who it was standing over him. As was the case with the Kid, he had heard of Annie Singing Bear and her unconventional choice of life-style. As death claimed him, remembering the Pahuraix tuivitsi he had deserted to their fate when they had blundered into an ambush by soldiers of the United States’ Cavalry, he knew why she had hunted him down and that she had fulfilled the lodge oath she had taken to avenge her half brother.

  ‘May you go and rot in hell, you stinking Wormy “mother-something”!’ Annie hissed, as she gazed with mingled loathing and satisfaction at the man she had just killed, employing English as it offered a greater breadth of vocabulary with which to express her emotions. Reverting to Comanche, as she invariably thought in that language, she concluded just as quietly, ‘Now I’d better take a look at those other two, then let Magic Hands and Proud-Son-Of-Two-People know what’s happening. After that, I’ll go and help Cuchilo.’

  ~*~

  ‘Town’s quiet enough for a Sunday,’ Sheriff Dickson remarked, closing and bolting the front door of the jailhouse. He had just stepped outside to look and listen to what was happening in Holbrock, and heard nothing to disturb him. Walking across to the desk, he continued, ‘I know it’s a touch early in the evening for anything to break loose, but I can’t say I care much for the notion of you sitting in a room lit up like this after dark, Mort. Should they be so minded, it’d be real easy for somebody to sneak up and throw lead into you through one of the windows.’

  ‘Not happen you and Dusty’ve called it right and so long’s I keep using this chair,’ Morton Lewis contradicted amiably, the peace officer having expressed similar misgivings on other occasions. Waving his left hand to where his big dog was lying close to the front entrance of the office, he went on, ‘Least-wise, not ’less they come sneaking along the sidewalk out there and figure on busting in on us. Which ole Pete’s not about to let happen. ’Cording to you two officers ’n’ gentlemen, sat right here, there’s only the one place anywhere near’s they can draw a bead on me from and either you or Dusty’ll be headed off to keep watch on it now
we’ve finished eating ’n’ until I get bedded down for the night. ’Sides which, Stewart might want my spread and’ve counted on getting me hung so it’d come up for sale. But I don’t reckon he’d be loco enough to have me gunned down cold-blooded in the jailhouse, even though those yahoos of his’n missed out on lynching me and trying to shoot me down “legal-like” in here the day you brought me in.’

  ‘Stewart’s not here,’ reminded Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog. ‘Sure I know we reckon Leftie Scanlan’s only doing what he is to keep the good taxpaying folks of Holbrock spooked and figuring maybe the scales of justice should ought to be tilted a mite the way his boss wants comes your trial. But some of those other guns Stewart hires might get ambitious and reckon on speeding things up a mite instead of waiting for the court to sit on you.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Dickson admitted. ‘Especially as they know the Kid’s gone to see Chief Wolf Runner and can fetch back proof that will clear you.’

  Regardless of the comment he had just made, the sheriff was aware that allowing the rancher to be seen in the front office of the jailhouse was—while not without a certain amount of risk—far from being as foolhardy as might appear on the surface.

  When deciding how best to safeguard Mort during the period of his protective custody, Dusty, Dickson and he had considered it unlikely any attempt upon his life would be made in the daytime, if at all. Despite the warnings passed by Leftie Scanlan, or rather at his instigation as he had not been into town since taking his injured cousin and Milton back to the DMS ranch house, there would be too many potential witnesses for him to chance anything illegal which could be seen and traced to him.

  Regardless of their assumptions, the trio had next debated the merits of closing up the jailhouse completely—with the sturdy wooden shutters across the windows and both doors locked—from sundown to daybreak. After the small Texan and the sheriff had conducted a careful examination of the building and its surroundings, they had concluded that to take such measures offered more disadvantages than benefits. For one thing, despite there being observation slits with hinged covers on the inside in the doors and windows, viewing was restricted and closing the shutters would present a greater chance of men arriving outside without being detected. While of such sturdy construction the walls could only be breached by use of explosives, which would leave too much evidence of illicit activity for Scanlan to employ it, entry and exit by the occupants could be prevented.