The Floating Outfit 18

by J. T. Edson

  “Yes and damned thoroughly at that,” Caithness confirmed. “But, so far as I know, they didn’t find anything.” Then he studied Libby in a thoughtful fashion and went on, “You came up on the train with them, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” the reddish-brunette confirmed coldly, and eased back the hammer of the revolver despite its double-action mechanism removing the need to do so. “What’s wrong, Cosmo? Do you think we robbed the train?”

  “I never think,” Caithness stated, having heard the clicking from inside the bag and knowing how it was caused. “They asked me where you was and I said you’d left word there was the chance of picking up an act for us further up track, so you’d gone to look it over for me like you’d done before.”

  “That was good of you,” Libby said dryly. She knew the information had not been supplied because of the long tradition among circus people never to divulge any information about one another to people outside their own circle, but because the bulky man was expecting to receive payment for his silence. However, she also felt sure that none of the others—not even the blond “flasher”—would have been more forthcoming because of the same unwritten code of silence. “What happened then?”

  “The chief of police told me for us to move on as soon as we could, and they all left,” Caithness replied. “But I saw a couple of the Treasury men keeping what they thought was secret watch across the way.”

  “Why did you have the place lit up?” the reddish-brunette inquired, having no illusions about the proprietor’s disinclination to spend money if doing so could be avoided. “You surely didn’t aim to put on a show tonight?”

  “I could hardly do that,” Caithness growled bitterly. “Even if the local bumpkins would come when word spread about what had happened, they wouldn’t have put up for what I could put on. I hoped at least a few of them would come in so the boys in the sides could get at them, but none have so far.”

  “When are you pulling out?” Libby queried, studying the man’s face with a coldly knowing expression that did not escape his notice any more than the emphasis placed on the third word had.

  “I’m going to have the tear-down tomorrow and take to the road when it’s over.”

  “Where are we headed next?”

  “To the first town where we can pull in customers.”

  “Aren’t we traveling by rail anymore?”

  “Not until I can get more padding for the show,” Caithness replied. “We haven’t a whole heap to offer with those four gone, have we?”

  “Not enough for it to be worth our while heading for the trail end towns,” the reddish-brunette admitted, although she felt sure that the proprietor had no more intention of staying with the circus than she had. “Well, there’s nothing any of us can do tonight, so I’m going to turn in.”

  “You couldn’t make me a small loan, could you, Lib?” Caithness inquired, trying to look amiable and reducing the name in a way he had never done before. “I’ve had some heavy expenses, as you can well imagine.”

  “How small?” Libby asked coldly.

  “Could you go as high as two thousand five hundred?”

  “Where would I get that kind of money?”

  “You’ve been on top wages all the time you’ve been with me and got ’em even though there’s some who haven’t, and you don’t throw your cash around any too much.”

  “I haven’t got that much,” the reddish-brunette lied, there being a far greater sum in her bag and more hidden away.

  “How much can you make it?” the proprietor asked, with just a suggestion of menace in his voice. “I’ve a lot more overheads than you do now, you know.”

  “Two thousand’s top dollar,” Libby stated, realizing what was implied by the stress put on the “now.”

  “I’ll take it,” Caithness accepted, being too wise to push his multi star performer any further.

  “I’ll give it to you in the morning,” the reddish-brunette promised, employing apparent sincerity although she had no intention of being around to do so.

  “You know the old circus tradition, Lib,” the proprietor said archly. “It’s always cash on the barrelhead.”

  “So it is,” Libby accepted with a shrug. Then, taking from the bag what she estimated would be sufficient of the money to cover the payment without allowing the sizable remainder to come into view, she went on, “Here, count it out of this.”

  “This’s real generous of you, Lib,” Caithness declared with blatantly false gratitude. “And you’ll get it back as soon as things are running smoothly again.”

  “I’m sure I will,” the reddish-brunette countered, exuding an equally false sincerity and feeling satisfaction over the means she had already decided to employ as an aid to making her escape.

  Leaving the proprietor, Libby went straight to the small caravan that—driven by Padoubny when traveling by road and often shared with Jinks, who had possessed surprisingly satisfying sexual qualities despite his small size—she made her home. Although she remained alert for further trouble with the “flashers,” there was none and, once inside, she began to make her preparations for departure. With all she considered necessary for her travels packed, she waited until certain everybody else would be asleep or away from the grounds on private business—probably to do with acquiring money from the locals by various means to cover the losses caused by the circus being closed.

  Although much of the illumination had either been put out or died from lack of fuel, Libby knew her way around the never-changing layout well enough to be able to do with the light that remained and to have no need for the small bull’s-eye lantern she was carrying with its front covered. First going to where the balloon was tethered, she checked as well as she could that it was ready for use and felt certain it was sufficiently prepared for her needs. Feeling the breeze that was blowing on her cheeks, she knew it would serve her purpose adequately and was even blowing in the direction best suited for her purposes.

  Having placed her belongings in the basket, the reddish-brunette retained the lantern and the means to carry out her next intentions. These were pieces of meat she had been keeping in her caravan to be used in such an eventuality when setting off for the robbery at the Grand Republic Hotel and had meant to change in the morning as they were starting to make their presence felt to the nostrils. Next, she made her way to the small traveling cage that held the tiger used in the wild animal act. Without needing any more illumination than was available, she opened the lock with the pick she had known would do the trick. Already aroused by the pungent smell of the beef, the big cat was on its feet and left the cage to follow when she tossed them into the darkness.

  “You bastard, Caithness!” Libby spat out furiously, having entered the cage and used the beam from the lantern cautiously so she could open the secret compartment in the seemingly solid floor to find it empty. Aware that neither the trainer nor his assistants knew of the hiding place, she knew there could only be one culprit responsible for taking the money received for the loot from the robbery at the hotel. “I hope you go up with the rest of your stinking show.”

  Leaving the cage in a fury, which she nevertheless refused to cause her to become careless, the reddish-brunette went swiftly from place to place around the grounds. At each one, she started a fire and watched with satisfaction on returning to the balloon as each began to grow with the speed allowed by the inflammable material and surrounding. There was only one more thing that needed to be done for her plan to succeed. Aroused by her yells of “Fire!” people came rushing from their quarters. Much to her relief, although she anticipated it would be the case, Caithness’s first concern was for the big top. That, she decided, was all to the good and simplified what she meant to do next.

  “Hey, fellers!” Libby called to a trio of burly roustabouts who were heading at a run for the nearest conflagration. Climbing into the basket of the balloon while speaking, she went on with a suitable urgency, “Turn her loose and I’ll take care of her until she lands and the
Big Man can have her fetched back.”

  Being aware of just how big an attraction the balloon always was, the men showed no hesitation before complying. With a feeling of joy and not a little satisfaction over the way in which she had avenged herself upon Caithness for what had been blackmail regardless of how it was worded, Libby was carried into the air and sent westward at a reasonable pace that would put miles behind her before she was compelled to land.

  The reddish-brunette was satisfied that the way was clear for her to locate and kill Belle Boyd so she could get the genuine currency-printing plates.

  Eleven – You’re All on Your Lonesome

  “It’s all right, ole Thunder hoss. I hear ’em real good ’n’ have for more’n a spell already, you no-account half-deaf goat!”

  While speaking, slouching on his low-horned and double-girthed saddle—which would have informed anybody with knowledge of the cattle business west of the Mississippi River that he was almost certainly a Texan, albeit probably one of mixed blood—although only about halfway through Oklahoma Territory, the Ysabel Kid gave the impression of being a natural part of the landscape.

  Six feet in height, with a lean physique that nevertheless offered more than just a suggestion of possessing whipcord strength and practically tireless energy, what could be seen of the Kid’s hair from beneath his low-crowned and wide-brimmed J. B. Stetson hat was so black it seemed to shine darkest blue in some lights. Unless one took notice of his red-hazel eyes, which gave a strong hint that the impression was almost certainly erroneous, there was an almost babyish innocent cast to his handsome, Indian-dark features. With the exception of the walnut handle of his clearly aged Colt Model of 1848 First Model Dragoon revolver, which was turned forward for a low cavalry twist-hand draw at the right side of his gunbelt, and the ivory hilt of the massive bowie knife in its sheath on the left, everything he wore from headdress to boots—with lower heels than was mandatory for a cowhand, as his duties as a long-standing member of the floating outfit for General Jackson Baines “Ole Devil” Hardin’s OD Connected ranch often entailed working for considerable periods on foot—was black. In addition to the weapons visible on his person, there was a magnificent-looking Winchester Model of 1873 rifle riding with its butt pointed ahead in the boot on the left side of his saddle.

  The white stallion upon which the Kid was riding would have aroused interest and not a little envy no matter how many of its kind were nearby. Despite being a good seventeen hands, there was no suggestion of it being slow or clumsy for all its size. Rather, it conveyed the impression of being as agile and maneuverable as a cutting horse, combined with the speed and stamina of a pronghorn antelope. In fact, despite the saddle and bridle, which were indications of its domestic status, it carried itself with the authority and sense of power frequently seen when it was a manadero leading a herd of free-living mustangs under observation. Its appearance gave a guide to the ability of its rider. Unless he was a rider of the first water, no man could stay on its back for very long, much less sit so seemingly at complete ease, without winding up lying on the ground and, in all probability, being stamped into a bloody ruin as soon as this happened.

  Although the Kid conveyed an impression of being totally relaxed, it would have been obvious to anybody who knew him well that he was as alert as his upbringing since early childhood had taught him to be and not entirely at ease. xiv On the other hand, despite the gist of the comment he made, he gave no indication of being aware of the three riders who had been following him since he left the town of Stillwater shortly after sunup. Instead, he continued to lounge on the big stallion’s back with the casual grace and ease of one long experienced in all matters equestrian, as if he was so deeply engrossed in thought that he was completely uninterested in everything going on around him. Nothing could be further from the truth. Making the journey back to Rio Hondo County to resume whatever duties might be awaiting him as one of the OD Connected’s floating outfit, circumstances having been such that he was doing so alone, the Kid had welcomed the diversion that came his way while he was staying overnight in Pawnee. A friend of long standing, United States Deputy Marshal William M. Tilghman—one of the so-called Three Guardsmen who were already making a good start in their efforts to reduce the lawlessness that was rife throughout the Indian Nation—had greeted him warmly when he entered the bar of the hotel where he had elected to spend the night rather than in a solitary state with the sky for a ceiling and ground as a mattress, so had no escape from the misgivings that were plaguing him.

  Without any doubt, the Kid had never been so deeply perturbed by his behavior in all his life. Nor was he trying to tell himself in exculpation that the event that caused him to have the feelings and was responsible for a hitherto enjoyable time spent in Mulrooney, Kansas, deteriorating to such an extent that his hurried—even furtive—departure was justifiable. He was even unable to derive any satisfaction from telling himself that there was a very good reason why at least one of the floating outfit had to arrive at Bent’s Ford as soon as possible if an unpleasant situation was to be avoided. All the time he was aware that he had deserted two men, both of whom were closer to him than brothers and with whom he had shared many dangers, to face something in which he could not bring himself to participate.

  After having delivered a warning that no smuggling would be tolerated in the Indian Nations, a jocular reference to the way in which the Kid had made a living before the death of his father during the War Between the States, xv Billy Tilghman had turned the conversation to more general matters. Much to the Kid’s relief, the deputy, knowing that members of Ole Devil’s floating outfit sometimes went on assignments alone, did not ask why he was doing so. Instead, adhering to the code of the land, where dealing with the personal matters of law-abiding citizens—as the Kid now justifiably could claim to be—were concerned, he merely restricted himself to inquiring whether Dusty Fog and Mark Counter were in the best of health. Doing all he could to suppress the qualms of conscience stirred even more by the mention of his two closest amigos—whom he had deserted to face what he regarded as being the most dire of circumstances—the black-dressed Texan had just said they were both fine and dandy when he last saw them. Seeking to change the subject in what would appear to be a natural manner, as he had not seen either around, the Kid had asked after the other two Guardsmen. Knowing him to be completely trustworthy in spite of being acquainted with some of the better kind of outlaws, some of whom he had met while smuggling along the Rio Grande before and during the War, Tilghman had not hesitated before explaining that Deputy U.S. Marshal Heck Thomas was somewhere in the Panhandle country searching for renegades peddling whiskey to the Indians and Deputy U.S. Marshal Chris Madsen was up around Muskogee trying to get a line on Bad Bill Doolin’s gang.

  Saying he would naturally be calling in at Bent’s Ford and explaining the particular need he had to do so on this occasion, the Kid had remarked about the way its owner liked to engage in a session of quartet singing and how he had heard Madsen possessed a fine tenor voice, so would like the opportunity to hear it put to use in such a combination. Tilghman had admitted that his fellow peace officer was as good at singing as at enforcing the law, also was always willing to participate when there was no urgent duty needing to be done. Then he said he was aware of the Kid also being a better-than-average tenor and hoped he might one day be fortunate enough to hear them join together and, as his own voice was closer to the braying of a thirsty burro, render some of his favorite ballads.

  It had not been until the two chance-met friends had finished with what they considered the social amenities and were sharing a meal in the hotel’s dining room that Tilghman had mentioned anything about his own law-enforcement duties to the Kid. He said, looking at the Indian-dark Texan in a pointed fashion, that there was one problem to which he would have liked to devote his personal attention if he did not have a more pressing assignment along the short border between the Indian Nation and Missouri that he could not delay commencin
g under the prevailing circumstances.

  A series of robberies were being committed south of Stillwater, with trail hands, returning to Texas after having completed cattle drives to the railroad towns in Kansas, as the victims. It was claimed by the victims that three men were the perpetrators. However, as they appeared to select their prey carefully, the only descriptions were that all were tall, dressed as cowhands, and had bandannas masking their faces. Such was the skill shown so far in choosing whom to rob, none of those who had lost money and property to them could even say with certainty what kind of weapons they carried other than that each restricted himself to a single revolver of some unidentified kind.

  While Tilghman did not ask outright, he had hinted that any assistance the Kid might be able to render would be most welcome. As an experienced lawman, he was aware that there were those in Texas who would claim that the reason no positive action was being taken by the U.S. deputy marshals—specially appointed for enforcing the law outside the cities and towns of the Indian Nation—was that all the victims had their origins in the Lone Star State. Although he had admitted such might be the case with some of them, the Three Guardsmen and the majority of their contemporaries would never be so neglectful of their duties on such grounds. In fact, several had also been born and raised between the Rio Grande and the border with Oklahoma. Then he had pointed out that so far the gang had restricted themselves to pistol-whipping the victim after delivering a warning for him not to try to put the law on their tail.

  Having been assured that the Kid did not subscribe to such a negative point of view, which he had already been certain would prove to be the case, the deputy said he considered it was only a matter of time before the trio went too far and killed the man they were robbing. Knowing the suggestion was a distinct possibility, the Kid had promised to do what he could. He had added the proviso that he could not stay around Stillwater more than a couple of days at the outside, as he had an urgent reason for reaching Bent’s Ford with the least possible delay. On hearing why this was so, the deputy had agreed that life would be a whole lot easier for him if he made the rendezvous at the appointed time.