The Floating Outfit 18

by J. T. Edson

  “I should live so long,” Libby said disdainfully but sotto voce. She was relieved that neither of the men had had sufficient intelligence to give any thought to how she would learn of the ransom money’s arrival. “Seeing as Boyd hadn’t got the plates with her, they must be in her bags on the coach,” she continued to herself. “So, if they’re left at Bent’s Ford like they were supposed to be, I might find a way to get them tonight.”

  “But what is there to ford?”

  The question had been asked on many occasions by people seeing Bent’s Ford for the first time. xxix

  Having made many visits, the Ysabel Kid was not surprised by what he saw shortly after nightfall. Finding there were no vacant stalls in the stable and being aware of how his big white stallion never took kindly to having strange members of its kind in close proximity, he attended to its needs and left it in a small unoccupied corral. There was sufficient light from the moon for anybody else who came along to see it, and he assumed they would have sufficient knowledge of equestrian matters to draw the necessary conclusions and not offer to place their own animals in with it. Satisfied that Thunder would have everything needed for a restful night, he toted his saddle and bedroll with him to the main building.

  On entering the barroom of the main building, the Kid found himself greeted with an extra warmth by the owner and told there was a serious problem at hand. Big, burly, jovial-looking, Duke Bent had more the appearance of a working cowhand than the very wealthy and successful businessman he had become since establishing his place. One of his chief pleasures in life was to sing as bass in a quartet, and, as there was nothing else of importance demanding his attention—the fact that the expected stagecoach had not yet arrived arousing no concern, as not even Pizen Joe Leatherhead could adhere to the timetable set out by the Wells Fargo supervisor for the region—he was hoping to indulge in it.

  “I’ve got Chris here, and now you, as tenors,” Bent declared with a note of asperity in his Texas drawl, after having one of his male employees take charge of the Kid’s belongings. “But damned if I can find me a baritone around. Could’ve used Mark, seeing’s how we can’t get a better’n. Where’s he at, Lon?”

  “Him ’n’ Dusty had to stay on to Mulrooney for a spell,” the Kid answered, trying not to look too discomfited by the reminder of how he had deserted his two amigos. Wanting to change the subject, he looked at the man by Bent’s side. “Howdy, Chris. Billy said you was out Muskogee way when we met up.”

  “Was,” United States Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen replied. Tall and lithe, he had brown hair, was moderately good-looking, and had a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore the clothing of a working cowhand, with his badge of office fastened to the left side of his calfskin vest, and had an ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker in the fast-draw holster of his gunbelt. “But good ole Bill Doolin wasn’t, so I reckoned I’d come to give Duke some trade afore I went hunting him someplace else. Damn it, Kid, I was looking forward to getting into a quartet myself.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” the black-dressed Texan exclaimed, glancing toward the front entrance as the batwing doors were pushed open. “Could be we’ve got ourselves the baritone we want.”

  “You reckon so, huh?” Madsen inquired, studying the newcomer with considerable if not over noticeable interest.

  Having halted when just across the threshold, as if wanting to let his eyes become accustomed to the increase in light, the subject of the comment and question was just over medium height, stocky, and had a tanned face with a cheerful expression. Pushed to the back of his head, his white Stetson brought crinkly black hair into view, and more of it could be seen under the open neck of his shirt. His clothing was in the same somewhat dandified and yet totally functional style for which Mark Counter was famous. However, while he looked like a Texan who was top hand with cattle, his well-designed and -crafted gunbelt and its rosewood-handled Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker were those of one very well versed in their use.

  “Howdy, Lon, how’re you?” the newcomer greeted, advancing with a broad grin on his face and his right hand outstretched. “Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Hey, though, I saw ole Thunder out to the corral all on his lonesome and’d’ve sneaked a stud from him was the time right. Where at’s Dusty ’n’ Mark?”

  “Feeling fit as a flea,” the Kid replied to the first question, shaking hands and wishing to hell that everybody would stop reminding him of what he had done to his two best friends in all the world. “You couldn’t’ve come at a better time—!”

  “Why, sure,” the man drawled. “I figured to drop by for a game of poker. Yes sir, sure as my name’s Eph Tenor, I feel lucky tonight.”

  “Can’t oblige you with poker, Eph,” Bent apologized, laying a similar emphasis on the name. “But we’re looking for a baritone to sing some quartet with us. You want in on it?”

  “Why, sure,” agreed the man who introduced himself as Eph Tenor, his voice and expression indicating that he, too, was a keen advocate of such a diversion. “Who-all’s singing the other tenor?”

  “Allow you two’s never met afore,” Bent drawled. “This here’s Chris Madsen, Eph. Chris, get acquainted with Eph Tenor from Texas.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Chris,” Tenor declared, his grin never wavering as he held out his right hand.

  “Likewise,” Madsen responded in just as amiable a fashion. “You up this way on business, Eph?”

  “Me?” Tenor said, sounding shocked in an amused way. “Nope. I’ve got me a li’l Denton mare out there’s can run a quarter of a mile faster’n most hosses, even Lon’s Thunder, can cover a hundred yards.”

  “Any particular town in mind for running her?” the deputy marshal inquired in the same seemingly uninterested fashion.

  “Nope,” Tenor replied. “Just looking around for any place where I can find suckers’s reckon they’ve got something to beat li’l ole Denton.”

  “Well, you won’t get any in here tonight,” Bent declared. “So take something to wash the dust out of your throat and let’s get us to doing some quarteting.”

  There were only a few customers in the barroom, the horses occupying the stalls having been put there by a man taking them for sale in one of the larger Indian Nation towns and wanting to ensure that they arrived in the best possible condition. However, as the quartet singing sessions at the Ford had acquired a reputation for excellence, they and the half-dozen saloon girls who were present formed an attentive and enthusiastic audience. Nor, while it was not up to professional standards, was the singing unworthy of the reception it was accorded, even though only the Kid and Bent had previously performed together.

  At the request of the other three, Madsen opened the concert with his rendering of “Little Joe the Wrangler,” As U.S. Deputy Marshal Billy Tilghman had claimed, he had a good, if untrained, tenor and received quite adequate support from the other three. The same applied when the Kid took the lead with the sad story of “My Darling Clementine.” Then, regardless of the name he had given, Tenor demonstrated that he was a better-than-fair baritone and produced a few sniffles from a couple of sentimental girls with his rendition of “Oh Bury Me Not On the Lone Prairie.” Each entry was greeted with applause from the audience, and after a pause for liquid refreshment Bent’s thunderous bass gave out with “The Cowman’s Prayer” and evoked more tears from the same source.

  The owner of the Ford was just concluding with “But I’ve had my say, and now amen!” when the batwing doors were thrust open and all thoughts of music came to an abrupt end.

  As he had not heard any indications of the stagecoach’s arrival, Bent realized that something was seriously amiss when he saw who was about to enter the barroom.

  Arriving at the same conclusion, the other members of the quartet accompanied their bass singer as he started to walk forward.

  “Sorry to come a-busting in on your quarteterizing, Duke, young ladies ’n’ gents,” Pizen Joe Leatherhead apologized, leading the other men into the buildin
g. “Only, we run into a smidgen of fuss back a ways.”

  “A smidgen!” Russel Prouty almost howled, limping by the elderly driver and showing far more signs of dishevelment as a result of the exercise he had been compelled to take in walking from the scene of the holdup. “We’ve been waylaid and robbed, damn it!”

  “Don’t end it there,” Leatherhead suggested, looking at the approaching black-dressed Texan in something close to trepidation and not relishing the information he must give. “They took Miss Hardin with ’em, Kid.”

  “She’s Ole Devil Hardin’s granddaughter!” Harold Goodgold announced, lacking the driver’s knowledge and wanting to show off his own. “All hell’s going to break over what’s happened.”

  “Mister,” the Kid growled, his voice and demeanor becoming like that of a Pehnane Comanche Dog Soldier about to swear his lodge oath of vengeance. “Said hell’s going to break loose a damned sight sooner’s you reckon. What happened?”

  “It was the James gang!” Prouty asserted, and despite the claims he had made regarding their close acquaintance, he did not appear to recognize Madsen or even notice the badge of office. “Damn it, I consid—!”

  “The James gang?” the deputy marshal asked, having been looking at Tenor in a speculative fashion. “Are you sure of that?”

  “I am, sir,” the pompous businessman declared. “Oh, you’re a—!”

  “The leader was a real big man,” Goodgold interrupted eagerly, not wanting to be left out of the limelight. “Six foot three or four at least, and mean-looking.”

  “Weren’t they masked?” Madsen queried, and, noticing Tenor was starting to put his hat on, said in a quiet yet authoritative tone, “Don’t go just yet, Eph. We’ve some more quartet singing to do when I’ve ‘tended to this.”

  “Of course they were masked!” Prouty snapped, determined to remain as the center of attention. “You should have seen him, it couldn’t have been anybody except Jesse James. Big, at least six foot four, and his black eyes were the coldest I’ve ever seen. They seemed to look clear through you.”

  “And you’re both sure it was Jesse James?” the deputy marshal asked after another speculative glance in Tenor’s direction.

  “One of them even called him Jesse,” the salesman declared. “There were at least ten in the gang, and we daren’t make a fight, having Miss Hardin along.”

  “That was real good of you,” the Kid said dryly, considering that Betty would have been better able to hold up her end in a fight than either of the men.

  “You gents’d best come on over to the bar and take something,” Bent offered, knowing Madsen—who was growing increasingly exasperated, although only a person who knew him well would have known—wanted to deal with Leatherhead and Flint Major rather than with either of the pair who had been doing the talking. “Leave the driver and guard to handle things, it being their chore.”

  Giving the pair no chance to debate the matter, the owner of the Ford deftly ushered them and Gilbert Griffin away from the rest of the party. With them gone, Madsen was told what had happened and obtained a more accurate description of the leading perpetrator. He was also supplied with a correct assessment of the gang’s ability, and he drew some consolation from suspecting the pose of the leader being that of a noble and gallant outlaw would keep Betty safe from molestation until at least after the attempt at arranging a ransom was made. The trouble was, he had said, nothing could be done about trying to hunt them down until daybreak, as not even the Kid was able to follow tracks under the prevailing conditions regardless of the moonlight.

  Returning from the backhouse after having gone to “answer the call of nature,” the Ysabel Kid needed to keep calling upon all the stoical nature he had acquired during his upbringing as a Pehnane to curb his desire for setting out to locate and rescue Betty Hardin. While he realized he could not accomplish anything before daylight, it was hard to just wait around for the time to come. He appreciated that Duke Bent’s insistence in continuing with the quartet singing had helped in that direction.

  However, having fulfilled the need to relieve himself of the beer drunk with which all the quartet were supplied by members of their enthusiastic audience to help keep the vocal cords operating smoothly, the Kid was ready to do more singing. As he glanced instinctively toward the corral in which his big white stallion was standing, something in its demeanor attracted his attention. Turning his gaze in the direction it was looking in the alert fashion he knew so well, he saw a flicker of light inside the small and stoutly constructed wooden building he knew had a sign reading, “WELLS FARGO. PRIVATE.” Being aware that it was used to store baggage or other property that was being held for some reason by Bent in the capacity of station agent, he knew that it should not be open at that hour of the night.

  Taken with the behavior of the horse, which he had trained to perform the kind of sentry duties a Pehnane tehnep expected to be carried out by a favorite war pony, the Kid concluded that the matter required investigation. xxx Drawing and cocking his Colt Dragoon without the need for conscious thought, knowing instinctively it might serve his purposes better than the bowie knife under the circumstances, he advanced with the stealth of a stalking cougar.

  After parting company with Simcock Wilbran and Jack Cunningham, Libby Craddock had decided upon what she should do next. Because it had not been mentioned when Jesse Wilbran was telling her how he was intending to carry out the holdup of the stagecoach, nor while she was talking to the pair who brought her portion of the loot, she was unaware of the team’s having been turned loose. Therefore, she assumed the baggage she believed belonged to Belle Boyd would have been delivered to Bent’s Ford along with the news of what had taken place.

  Wondering what would happen next, the reddish-brunette had reassumed the rest of her masculine disguise—having donned only the clothing for the interview, as she considered nothing more was required since she was still believed to be Belle Starr—and returned to Big Win’s place. Being fortunate enough to find the bartender alone, she had told him that she was going to come into possession of some valuable stolen paintings and wanted to keep them somewhere safe while she went to make a deal for their disposal to a wealthy local businessman. Her expression when he had suggested she leave them with Big Win had drawn a wry and knowing grin before he suggested she deposit them in Wells Fargo’s storehouse at Bent’s Ford, where they would be kept under lock and key. Learning all she could about the place, she had felt certain she could achieve her purpose of obtaining the currency-printing plates by going there.

  Arriving after having left her horse in concealment some distance away, wanting to avoid any chance of arousing unwanted attention by riding up and then not entering the main building, she advanced on foot. Going by the small corral, she had heard its solitary occupant giving a snort. Although the magnificent white horse was staring at her and tossing its head, it made no attempt to approach from where it stood in the center of the enclosure. Without noticing its sex, she saw it was an animal of excellent quality and decided she would help herself to it on having carried out the search and, she hoped, found what she was looking for.

  Having had much experience at riding in one of her acts with the Circus Maximus, Libby was confident she could handle it with sufficient ease to carry out the theft. Nor, she was equally sure, would she find any difficulty in finding a buyer for such a fine beast, and the money it brought in would make a welcome addition to the sum already in her possession. Unless anything unexpected should happen, she would have enough to let her look around for someone willing to pay more than Lachlan Lachlan of the McLachlans for the plates.

  Reaching the building without anything suggesting she had been detected as a result of the horse’s behavior, the reddish-brunette did not need to open the front of the small bull’s-eye lantern she was carrying lit in her left hand to pick the massive padlock. However, once inside, she illuminated the contents of the room with its light. After examining each in turn, she realized with a growing an
ger that the baggage she was seeking was not present. Snapping the front of the lamp closed, she returned to the door.

  On emerging, Libby found herself confronted by a tall and slender young man clad all in black and holding a big revolver in his right hand. While taken aback for a moment, she was pleased she had followed the habit acquired when carrying out robberies unaided by male companions in the East. After leaving Big Win’s, she had taken off the masculine aids other than the clothing. Leaving her Stetson and loose-fitting jacket with her horse, she had drawn the shirt as tightly as she could and opened its front to a level that, as she wore nothing underneath, left no doubt that she was a woman. On previous occasions when she had been caught in the act, doing so had given her an element of surprise that enabled her to deal with the man who did so.

  For once in his life, the Ysabel Kid was taken by surprise. Instead of the man he had anticipated, he found the intruder he was looking at to be a woman. Although it had been said the gang made it appear they were working with Belle Starr, neither he nor any of the others had believed this was true. Not only would she refuse to participate in the kidnapping of Betty Hardin, she would never have become involved with the kind of outlaws the driver and guard of the stagecoach had assessed them to be. Therefore, it had never occurred to him that a woman might be involved with them, much less be making an attempt to rob the Wells Fargo storehouse. What was more, while armed, she was not holding a weapon.

  Letting the lantern fall, Libby made ready to take advantage of the hesitancy being shown by the Texan. Realizing her waistbelt was drawn tight to hold the shirt in the desired position, she did not attempt to reach for the Smith & Wesson revolver tucked into it. Instead, she darted forward and sent her right foot into the air with the kind of precision she had demonstrated when kicking open the French windows of Countess Olga Simonouski’s suite at the Grand Republic Hotel in Washington, D.C. What was more, her aim was good enough to achieve her purpose.