The Floating Outfit 13

by J. T. Edson

  In appearance Goodnight might have been a typical Comanche by build; except that no Nemenuh ever sported a neatly trimmed full beard. He stood five foot nine, with broad shoulders and a barrel of a chest which hinted at the powerful, if chunky, body’s strength. A costly white, Texas-style Stetson sat on a close-cropped head of grizzled brown hair. What skin showed on his face had the color of old saddle-leather. Sun-squinted brown eyes held a hint of humor, alert in their keenness. Clad in good quality range clothes, instead of the usual calf-skin vest he wore one made from the rosette-marked hide of a jaguar which strayed up out of Old Mexico and made the mistake of allowing itself to cross his rifle sights. That vest had gone through a whole heap of Indian-fighting, being worn so that his enemies could identify him and know that the one they called ‘Dangerous Man’ rode against them. Matched rosewood butted Army Colts rode the two contoured holsters of his gunbelt and a Winchester rested in the saddle boot under his left leg. If trouble came, Goodnight reckoned he ought to be able to handle it.

  Rising, he swung into his big roan stallion’s saddle and started the horse moving at a fast walk. Without a doubt the following pair meant mischief and it would take some smart thinking to avoid becoming their victim.

  Silently, but bitterly, Goodnight cursed his decision not to bring his foreman or another member of the ranch crew along, If he had only done so, solving the problem would be simple; slip out of the saddle with rifle in hand, allowing the other man to ride away with both horses and talking as if Goodnight accompanied him. Then when the trailing pair came up, Goodnight could hand them the surprise of their lives.

  Unfortunately, being alone, he could not follow the plan. Well-trained his horse might be, but not sufficiently so to carry on walking without a rider for the time necessary to allow Goodnight’s pursuers to catch up. Some other means must be devised and, until that happened, all the rancher could do was keep moving.

  Holding his horse to a steady walk, Goodnight remained alert for any opportunity and ready to catch the slightest warning sound. Apparently the following men did not intend to close with him, while he moved, for their horses came no closer. In fact if they had not stopped each time he halted, he might have thought them to be no more than chance travelers.

  ‘Damn it all, hoss,’ he said to the stallion between his legs. ‘I don’t aim to keep on riding through the night.’

  Already the basis of an idea began to form. Riding on until he found a hollow which might serve as a camping spot, Goodnight drew rein. On dropping down and placing his ear to the ground, he found that the two men also stopped and estimated them to be almost half a mile behind, Apparently they sat their horses, waiting for him to make his next move. So he came to his feet and made it.

  Searching the hollow, he found sufficient fuel to light a small fire. He moved for a time, as a man would when setting up camp, certain that his pursuers could not see him. Then, taking a silk bandana from his pocket, he stretched out on the ground again. With the bandana spread out, he laid his ear upon it. Some quality in silk magnifies sounds transmitted through the ground and with the bandana’s aid Goodnight could form a better idea of the other men’s movements. Any lingering doubts as to their intentions died away as he found the men to be advancing cautiously on foot.

  Patient as any Indian, although not a little pleased at his shrewd assessment of the situation, Goodnight lay and listened. He figured the men would sneak in on foot rather than chance bringing their horses closer; and based his plan on that fact. Nearer they came, drawing further away from their horses all the time. In a few seconds they ought to be in sight of his camp. The time had come to act.

  Rising swiftly to his feet, Goodnight pocketed the bandana and stepped to his waiting horse. Up in the saddle, he set the roan running and over its drumming hooves heard the startled exclamations of the men. Beyond the fire’s flickering glow he need not fear any but a chance bullet should shots be fired after him, None came and he swung at an angle to his original line. Timing the period it would take his pursuers to run back to their horses and take up the chase, Goodnight slowed the roan and then brought it to a halt in the shelter of a clump of mesquite.

  On checking the ground-carried sounds, he found no cause for alarm, His two hunters appeared to have fallen for the trick and he heard their horses go by a long way off. As long as he made a dry camp, without a fire, he doubted if they would find him until daylight and then only had they retraced their tracks and took up his trail.

  Dawn came and found Goodnight in his saddle. He travelled, as so often before when scouting for Indians, with caution and exercised all his skill at avoiding being seen. So well had Goodnight learned his work that he out-Indianned the pair of Waw’ai braves sent by the Death Bringer to kill him. By the time they found Goodnight’s trail, he had built up such a lead that they could not hope to catch him before he reached the safety of Fort Sorrel.

  ~*~

  It might appear strange that the son of one of Texas’ best-loved and most respected men—and a noted lawyer in his own right—should be sleeping in the barn of the Rock Fall relay station when Wells Fargo provided reasonable accommodation for its passengers. Yet Temple Houston did so while waiting for the stagecoach to continue its journey to Fort Sorrel.

  A man as tall as Mark Counter and almost as broad across the shoulders, Houston did not slim down so much at the middle, but still gave the impression of great strength. He wore a fringed buckskin jacket over a white, frilly bosomed shirt and necktie made from a rattlesnake’s hide; levis pants hanging cowhand style outside his riding boots. Flaxen hair framed a strong, intelligent face tanned by much out-door living. Hanging on the wall of the stall close by him were a costly white Stetson hat of Texas fashion, and a good quality gunbelt with an ivory handled Army Colt in the contoured cross-draw holster at the left side.

  While young, Temple Houston had the name for being a shrewd lawyer. He also possessed his father’s ability to rub shoulders with all classes of people and win their respect. Like Sam Houston, Temple knew the Comanche and aimed to do all he could to make the treaty-signing a success.

  Travelling to Fort Sorrel by stagecoach had seemed like a real good idea, especially as he aimed to take along his highly prized Plott hound. Officers on frontier posts eagerly sought diversions to relieve the boredom and were not averse to making bets in hard cash on a variety of things. So Houston brought along a dog speedy enough to run down a fleeing coyote; knowing he stood a good chance of meeting men who refused to believe it possible and willing to lay money on their belief.

  Unfortunately the coach already held passengers; two U.S. senators on their way to Fort Sorrel and one of the pair’s daughter. A remarkably pretty and shapely young woman, she brought to frontier Texas a touch of elegant city life—and a barbered, yapping French poodle complete with a pink bow in its top-knot. Any hope Houston might have held of a mild flirtation went out of the window as Lazy, the seventy-five pound Plott hound vii demonstrated a laudable desire to tear the noisy white bundle to ribbons. Miss Cornelia Waterhouse, only daughter of Senator Jubal V. Waterhouse from New Jersey, was not amused.

  Relations had become strained during the journey. At the relay station a further party of politicians awaited the stage’s arrival and Amelia found that she must share a room with the wives of two Democrat senators who stated their objection to having a Republican’s dog in with them. Not wishing to have Lazy in the same building with the poodle, Houston took the Plott into the barn. On hearing the beginning of the inter-party wrangling on his return, the Texan decided to join his dog in preference to listening to politicians squabble all night.

  Having seen Houston board the stage at his home on the edge of Austin and followed in the hope of finding a chance to carry out the Death Bringer’s orders, the two Waw’ai braves waited until after midnight and then slipped silently towards the barn.

  Silent they might move to human ears, but the big Plott heard them as he lay close to his sleeping master. Deep and lo
w a growl rumbled in the dog’s throat and Houston woke instantly. Seeing the door of the barn start to inch slowly open, he silenced the dog with a gesture and drew his Colt. A lantern glowed over the door, in case anybody arrived during the night and wished to put up a horse. Watching the patch of light, Houston saw first one and then the other Indian slide through it.

  One glance told Houston all he needed to know, although he put the visit down to a raiding mission on the stabled horses. So it came as something of a surprise when he saw the men, knives in hand, making straight for him. Lazy tugged at the restraining hand on his collar and the Indians saw the movement.

  ‘Kill!’ hissed the taller brave and lunged forward.

  With a roaring snarl, Lazy tore free from Houston’s grasp and hurled upwards at the Indian. Seventy-five pounds of hard-muscled fighting dog drove at the Waw’ai and took him by surprise. Only just in time did he throw up his arm to defend his throat and Lazy’s jaws gripped it with crushing power. Hurled backwards by the big hound’s weight, the Waw’ai tripped and crashed to the ground.

  Houston’s Colt roared, sending a bullet into the head of the second Waw’ai as the Indian started to leap forward in his direction. Knowing what the Waw’ai’s state of undress and grease-coated body meant, the big Texan took no chances and shot for an instant kill. Unlike the unfortunate Colonel Huckfield, Houston held a revolver adequate to his needs and rolled aside to avoid a dead Indian falling on to him. Not quite sure how many enemies might be on hand, Houston rose, dived over the side of the stall and into the welcome shadows beyond. He heard voices raised at the main building and came cautiously to his feet. A change in the sound of the Waw’ai’s screams told Houston that Lazy did good work.

  Moving forward, Houston approached where the dog and Indian struggled on the floor. After paralyzing the man’s right arm, Lazy chopped at the left and caused it to be jerked away, Every Plott was a vicious fighter, born with a killer instinct invaluable in a hunting dog. So Lazy drove for the man’s throat and powerful jaws sank the long canine teeth home savagely into flesh. Although Houston sprang forward as soon as he knew he could do so without winding up taking yet another Waw’ai’s knife in his back, he arrived and dragged Lazy away too late to save the Plott’s victim, Blood spurted from a hideous wound in the Waw’ai’s throat, pulsing forth in a manner which told of a severed large artery or vein,

  ‘You sure made a mess of him, Lazy,’ Houston told the Plott as men came running towards the barn, ‘It’s a pity, I’d sure like to have asked him what brings Waw’ais down this way hunting scalps. Know one thing, though. This isn’t going to make that pretty lil Eastern gal feel one bit happier to know me, way she talked about Indians.’

  Chapter Five – The Death Bringer’s Vision

  Erected close to the Kicking Horse Creek about three miles above where it flowed into the Brazos River, the Waw’ai camp appeared on the surface to be little different to any other Comanche band’s village. Some fifty tipis, built on the four-pole foundation and tilted slightly backwards in the Nemenuh fashion, formed a rough circle around the dwelling of the chief. Close to each tipi stood tethered the owner’s favorite horse so as to be instantly available if needed.

  It might have been a normal scene but for the absence of old peoples Usually there would have been tsukup, old men, supervising Mexican prisoner-apprentices who built saddles, or making bows, shields and arrows to be sold to brave-heart warriors who had no time to waste producing their own. Pu’ste, old women, ought to be instructing the tuepet girls approaching adolescence, in those things a female Comanche needed to know, but none appeared to be doing so.

  Instead the camp held only tuivitsi, young unmarried braves, and grown men still capable of riding the war path, unmarried maidens and younger wives; brought along to erect tents, repair clothes and cook food, work beneath the dignity of a Comanche man unless forced by the more dire of circumstances.

  All of which would have presented a sinister significance to Billy Salmon, half-breed scout for the U.S. Army, had he been performing his official duties in a loyal manner.

  Riding towards the village, Salmon read the signs. He also exhibited a complete lack of caution which either implied great trust in the current peaceful condition existing between the white folks and the majority of Comanches, or some knowledge that ensured his safety.

  Engaged in the serious business of sitting before his tipi and awaiting the arrival of his next meal, a tuivitsi studied the approaching half-breed with cold eyes. Restraining a desire to try out the effect of a recently acquired Spencer carbine on the newcomer, the tuivitsi rose and walked to the central tipi. On entering, he looked at the man and woman who occupied it.

  ‘The half-breed from the Fort is coming,’ he announced.

  ‘Then let him come,’ ordered the woman, although her companion was war chief of the village. ‘We still need him.’

  Despite the fact that a woman usually stood lower than a good horse, though higher than a pack mule, on the Comanche scale of usefulness, the tuivitsi did not argue. People who crossed the Death Bringer rarely lived long enough to boast of doing it.

  In her youth, the woman known as the Death Bringer had been a mighty pretty Mexican girl. Taller and more slender than the Comanche women, her grace and light feet gave her the name of Fire Dancer among the Pehnane. Only occasionally did the Comanche mistreat children prisoners, preferring to keep them alive and healthy as slaves. Eventually the slaves could become accepted as members of the band and enjoyed all the rights of a Comanche by birth.

  Certainly Fire Dancer showed no signs of her slave beginnings. Still slender although her hair had turned grey, she wore a buff colored buckskin dress with luxuriously fringed sleeves and colorful bead designs and spirit patterns. Beaded moccasins graced her feet, but the warm weather did away with the need for the highly ornamented leggings she wore in the winter. Her face still retained traces of its beauty, but bore also a hint of the savage nature underneath.

  Although in camp on an ordinary day Sidewinder wore his ornamented elk-skin shirt which extended to below the level of his leggings’ tops and covered his traditional breechclout. He had rattlesnake skin instead of the usual polecat or other fur fringe on his moccasins. Typical Comanche, he was stocky, medium size and his war bonnet framed a face that bore the stamp of real cruelty on it. Around his waist hung a gunbelt with a Green River knife sheathed at the left and a Freeman Army revolver rode holstered at the right. If he objected to his mother giving orders, he hid his feelings admirably.

  While not a man sensitive to atmosphere, Salmon never felt entirely easy when in the presence of Sidewinder and the Death Bringer. Yet he knew that his usefulness to them gave him immunity as long as it lasted. When it ended, he would go the way of any other Anny scout should he fail to learn the fact in time.

  A tall man, Indian-dark with surly features framed by lank black hair, he dressed in a fringed buckskin shirt, cavalry campaign hat and trousers, and knee-long moccasins. He did not fail to notice the avaricious way in which Sidewinder eyed the Army Colt holstered cavalry-fashion on his belt and wondered how long it would be before the chief decided to take possession of it.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Fire Dancer.

  ‘It’s been a long, hard ride,’ Salmon hinted.

  ‘I’ll have food brought to you,’ she promised. ‘What is the news from the Fort?’

  ‘Have any of the ones come for the council?’ Sidewinder asked.

  ‘Goodnight is there,’ Salmon told him uneasily. ‘Also Houston’s son.’

  ‘I never thought we would have success on all of them,’ commented Fire Dancer philosophically.

  ‘Diablo Viejo could not come,’ Salmon went on and continued before he raised false hopes, ‘but he sent the one called Magic Hands to speak for him, Also the son of “Big” Counter came.’

  An almost animal-sounding snarl left Sidewinder’s lips and his mother hissed, ‘These stupid Waw’ai dogs. If only they were Kweharehnuh or Pehnane
—’

  ‘The God-man died and so did Colonel Huckfield.’ Salmon put in, feeling that he had better give his host and hostess some good news.

  Both Fire Dancer and her son were aware that one name, the one which interested them both, had not been mentioned.

  ‘And what of Cuchilo?’ snarled the chief, his hand going in an involuntary move to touch his injured legs

  Sucking in a deep breath, Salmon avoided his questioner’s eyes and paused as long as he dared before giving an answer he knew would be even more unpopular than the previous news.

  ‘Cuchilo lives.’

  ‘So he still lives!’ Fire Dancer ejaculated in a voice throbbing with hate. ‘And he the one I wanted most to die!’

  An even greater uneasiness crept over Salmon as he listened to the woman and wondered at her response to the news that Ysabel Kid had not been murdered. He put the reaction down to Fire Dancer realizing the Kid’s influence on the thinking of the tribal leaders; little knowing that the hatred went much further back than the organization of the treaty council.

  For a prisoner, Fire Dancer had done well. She became adopted into the Pehnane and married, as fourth wife, a name-warrior called Bitter Root. Defying convention, she worked herself into the position of pairaivo, easing the original first wife from their husband’s favor. Everything had been going in keeping with Fire Dancer’s ideas of the fitness of life when her husband provoked a fatal quarrel with Sam Ysabel.

  After that Fire Dancer’s numerous sins bounced rapidly back on to her heads The other wives moved fast, repaying her for slights and indignities heaped on them by the young pairaivo, Having fathers and brothers to back their claims, the three wives saw that the division of their departed husband’s property satisfied them. From being the rich, spoiled pairaivo, Fire Dancer found herself turned into a widow dependant on the charity of the tribe, She blamed her misfortune on Sam Ysabel, although he did not start the fatal fight, and swore revenge against the white man,