by J. T. Edson
Hell, he and his companions had made good their escape. But they had left behind men and women at the mercy of the Kweharehnuh Comanches. Bad men, who had committed almost every kind of crime, and women who were not much better, it is true. That did not stop Dusty feeling concerned for their safety.
So the Rio Hondo gun wizard decided that he must go back to Hell. Despite all the dangers which doing so entailed, the Ysabel Kid and Waco insisted upon accompanying him. Emma Nene and Giselle Lampart also returned, hoping to bring back a fortune in jewelry. The mysterious man called Break O’Day rode with them—but he intended to be the only one to come out of Hell alive.
THE FLOATING OUTFIT 36: GO BACK TO HELL
By J. T. Edson
First published by Corgi Books in 1972
Copyright © 1972, 2019 by J. T. Edson
First Digital Edition: June 2019
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.
For Mrs. Kate Elizabeth Hill of Westcliff-On-Sea, who has taught her family to say, ‘Thank you ’most to death.’
Publisher’s Note:
As with other books in this series, the author uses characters’ native dialect to bring that person to life. Whether they speak French, Irish, American English or English itself, he uses vernacular language to impart this.
Therefore when Scottish characters use words such as “richt” instead of “right”; “laird” for “lord”; “oopstairs” for “upstairs”; “haim” for “home”; “ain” for “own”; “gude sores” for “good sirs” and “wha” for “who” plus many other phrases, please bear in mind that these are not spelling/OCR mistakes.
Chapter One – You’re All Honest Men
‘There’s a bank down to Corsicana we could take,’ Dick Shalupka remarked, lounging at ease by the fire. ‘Ain’t but an itty-bitty one-hoss town. We could go in and wouldn’t have no trouble in coming out rich.’
‘You’re talking wild, Dick,’ protested Bernie Stoll. ‘There ain’t but the three of us left.’
‘So what’d you have us do, Bernie?’ demanded Henny Shalupka, indignant at the implied criticism of his elder brother. ‘Go back to working cattle at thirty a month and found?’
None of the trio had ever worked cattle, even at less than thirty dollars a month, or performed any other task that was demanding in terms of effort and sweat. Until adopting what had struck them as the easier and more genteel occupation of outlaw, they had worked—when driven by dire necessity and for as short a period as possible—at various menial tasks around the Kansas trail end towns.
However, even if it only deluded themselves, the pretence of having once been cowhands implied a higher social standing than any one of them had attained.
The fire’s light threw an eerie red glow across a clearing amongst a grove of post oaks on the banks of Lake Kemp in Baylor County, Texas. It illuminated a camp, set up in a slovenly, haphazard manner, for a night under the bright stars and quarter moon. Four horses, hobbled by the forelegs, grazed restlessly on the edge of the lake. Around the fire lay a quartet of saddles. Standing on their skirts, three of them would have told any west-wise observer that their owners were not connected with the cattle industry. No cowhand would ever risk causing damage to his most important item of equipment by setting it down in such a manner. A bedroll was spread by each saddle and a rifle rested on every seat.
There was an almost family likeness about the three young men, although Stoll was not related to the Shalupkas. All were tall and lean, their faces hinting at sly, dissipated natures. They wore clothes of the style favored by trail hands who had been paid off at the end of a cattle drive, just a shade too loud and ornate for everyday usage. The garments were dirty and showed traces of voluntary neglect. White handled Colt 1860 Army revolvers hung, in what were sold to the unwary or inexperienced as fast-draw holsters, at their sides.
‘Ain’t no call for talk like that, Henny,’ Dick grunted. ‘Hell, Bernie-boy, we know how to take a bank, or a stagecoach. Damn it, we’ve rid with Joey Pinter long enough to handle things without him.’
‘A three-way split licks sharing ’tween four or five any ole day,’ Henny chortled.
‘Hold your voice down!’ Dick ordered, darting a pointed glance to the southern edge of the clearing.
‘Who cares if he hears us?’ Henny asked; but apparently he did, for he had pitched his tones to a much lower level. ‘I ain’t sure’s I wants him to go on bossing the gang.’
‘You reckon we can take that old bank in Corsicana?’ Stoll inquired, wishing to avoid being brought into a discussion on the leadership of their gang.
‘It’ll be easier’n falling off a log,’ Dick promised. ‘All we have to do is go in—’
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’
The voice, polite in its inflexion, came from the shadows beyond the northern fringe of the firelight. At the first word, the trio let out mutually startled gasps and tried to rise hurriedly with hands grabbing towards the butts of guns. They stared at the shape, looming up darker than the surrounding blackness, which came towards them.
Holding out his hands at shoulder height, to show their empty palms, a tall man approached the fire. All in all, he made a somewhat unusual and almost theatrical figure to be emerging out of a Texas post oak grove. A black stovepipe hat tilted at a jaunty angle on a thatch of long, flaming red hair. With almost V-shaped rufus brows over deep-set eyes, a hook nose and tight lips above a sharp chin, he had a Mephistophelian cast of features. A black opera cloak with a red satin lining was draped over his shoulders. He wore a black broadcloth coat and matching vest. His dress shirt had one of those new-fangled celluloid collars, with a black silk cravat knotted bow-tie fashion, and wide, hard-starched detachable cuffs. More suited to Western travelling conditions, his yellowish-brown nankeen trousers were tucked into low-heeled black Wellington-leg boots. Looking out of place against his other attire, a wide brown leather gunbelt, with a large, ornate brass buckle, slanted down to his right thigh. In a contoured holster reposed an ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Model Peacemaker.
‘I hope that my coming up just now did not startle you,’ the newcomer said, in a friendly voice that belied his sardonic expression.
‘Wha—Who—?’ Dick spluttered, first of his party to regain even a semblance of speech.
‘I saw your fire and came over to ask if I might share it for the night,’ the man announced calmly.
‘Huh?’ croaked Dick, too surprised by the stranger’s arrival to make any more useful contribution to the conversation.
‘I’ve never been much for bedding down alone,’ the man continued, coming to a halt alongside the unoccupied bedroll and looking across the fire at the trio. ‘Maybe I’d best introduce myself. The name’s O’Day. My friends call me “Break”.’
Lowering his hands to his sides, but keeping them outside the cloak, the newcomer had the attitude of one who had cracked a joke and was waiting for a response to it.
‘“Break”?’ Dick repeated, while his companions looked equally uncomprehending. Then he cut loose with a guffaw of understanding. ‘Break O’Day. Hey! Do you fellers cotton on to it?’
‘Oh sure,’ Henny
agreed and squatted on his heels.
Clearly sharing the younger brother’s opinion that the newcomer was harmless, Dick and Stoll also settled down on their bedrolls.
‘Help yourself to the coffee, happen you’re so minded,’ Dick offered, indicating the pot which bubbled and steamed on the edge of the fire. ‘We don’t have any food.’
‘The coffee’ll be all I need,’ the man assured him, but made no move to help himself. ‘And I’ve always found that it helps to know who I’m addressing.’
Coldly avaricious eyes studied the man, taking note of his expensive clothing, the gold cufflinks and well-tooled gunbelt. That was one of the new, metallic cartridge Colt revolvers and looked to be of the Best Citizen’s blued finish. Undoubtedly he would have money on him, while his horse, saddle and rigging—wherever they might be—would offer even more loot. To three young outlaws in serious financial straits, he had the appearance of manna from heaven.
If the man felt any anxiety over the trio’s scrutiny, he gave no sign of it. Standing by the fire, he might have been safe in the bar of an exclusive dude sporting club for all the concern he showed. In fact, he displayed an air of calm superiority as if satisfied that he had inadvertently blundered into the society of his social inferiors.
‘I’m Tom Smith and this’s my brother, Bill,’ Dick introduced, wanting to learn more about their visitor before deciding upon a line of action. ‘This here’s Jack Brown.’
‘You took a big chance coming up on us like that, mister,’ Henny went on, annoyed by the man’s attitude and wanting to throw a scare into him. ‘We might’ve been owlhoots.’
‘Anybody can see you’re all honest men,’ the stranger protested. ‘You’re not the sort to go robbing stagecoaches, nor even a bank in some one-horse town like Corsicana. Now if you’d been somebody like Joey Pinter—’
None of the trio could have been termed quick-witted, so the inference behind the man’s words did not strike them straight away. Slowly the feeling crept into their skulls that he had just mentioned a subject which they had been discussing before his arrival. Yet he claimed to have come directly through the grove and to the fire. He should not have known about their professional interest in stagecoaches and the bank at Corsicana. There had also been his reference to Joey Pinter. That had hardly been inspired by coincidence, not when he was addressing leading members of the selfsame outlaw’s gang. Several unpleasant reasons for his eavesdropping upon what should have been a strictly private conversation sprang—or crawled slowly—into their minds.
For all his outlandish dude clothing, Break O’Day must be a peace officer of some kind. Or, even worse, a bounty hunter who tracked down and killed wanted men for the price on their heads. Neither the Shalupka brothers nor Stoll paused to consider that their activities had failed to bring down such a penalty as having a reward offered for their capture. To their way of thinking, O’Day had located them for his own financial gain.
Well, the trio figured there was a right smart answer to that.
‘Now there’s some’s’d say you know a heap too much,’ Dick warned, starting to straighten his knees and lift himself erect.
‘A hell of a lot too much!’ Dick’s brother confirmed, also beginning to rise and grabbing for his holstered Colt.
‘I fail to see what you mean, gentlemen,’ O’Day replied mildly, resting his elbows lightly against the sides of the cloak and holding his upturned, open hands towards the brothers.
Stoll made their meaning even plainer as he came to his feet with a lurching thrust and joined his companions in reaching hipwards for guns.
‘Kill the son-of-a-bitch!’ was his contribution.
Through all the signs of consternation and aggression, O’Day continued to stand like a statue. Although his gunbelt and holster had really been designed to facilitate a rapid withdrawal of the seven-and-a-half inch barreled Colt—not as a cheaply made imitation for purchase by would-be pistoleros who knew no better than entrust their lives to shoddy workmanship—he seemed to be badly positioned to make the most of his advantages. The broadcloth coat was unbuttoned, but it and the cloak would both be in the way as his right hand tried to reach the Colt’s butt. Nor were his hands held anything like ready for making a draw.
Having observed the extended, empty, upturned palms, the three young men were confident that they could give O’Day an unforgettable, permanent lesson in manners. By the time they were through, that blasted dude would know better than to sneak up on experienced desperadoes and listen to their private conversations; although it was unlikely that the lesson would do him any good.
All those thoughts rolled ponderously through the heads of the Shalupka brothers and Bernie Stoll during the brief time they were rising with the intention of killing the tall, menacing, yet empty-handed stranger.
Suddenly, miraculously it seemed to the trio, O’Day’s hands were no longer empty. His elbows made pressing motions against his sides. Almost instantly two stubby Remington Double Derringers flashed from inside his shirtsleeves. Gripped in the jaws of a slender metal rod, which pushed it into exactly the right position, each weapon came to a halt where his fingers could enfold its butt. Without taking even the split-second which would have been required to turn the weapons from horizontal to vertical, O’Day thumbed back the hammers.
Flame spurted from the muzzle of the right hand weapons’ upper superposed barrel. Its .41 caliber bullet drove a hole into Dick Shalupka’s head. An instant later, the lower tube of the left hand Remington hurled its load into the center of Bernie Stoll’s chest. Both of the young men pitched backwards with their guns not clear of leather.
Although Henny Shalupka had been granted the opportunity to draw his Colt, the fate of his brother and Stoll caused him to freeze into immobility. That did not save him. Back clicked the two Derringers’ hammers, the firing pins automatically rising or moving downwards so as to reach the edges of the unfired rimless cartridges when released to carry out their functions. O’Day turned his weapons to vertical. With his face looking even more devilish in the flickering red glow of the fire, he squeezed both triggers. The bullets took Henny in the left breast, ending unsaid the plea he had been about to make for his life.
Even as Henny followed his brother and Stoll to the ground, O’Day detected sounds which implied that he might have further need for weapons. A voice let out a startled yelp and then there was a crashing amongst the bushes to the south of the clearing as the speaker ran towards it.
Swiftly the man reached a decision. There would be no time to reload the little hide-out pistols. Nor, if the person making the noisy approach was who O’Day suspected, did he fancy using such short-ranged weapons. Throwing a disgusted glance at the three shapes that lay jerking spasmodically in death throes, O’Day swung on his heel. That was the worst of the Derringers, ideal as they might be as concealment armament. A man could not do fancy shooting with them. So O’Day had been compelled to shoot to kill instead of trying to wing one of the trio, keeping him alive and able to answer questions. However, if the sounds from the south meant anything, O’Day would soon have another—and probably better—source of information.
Dropping the left hand Derringer into his jacket pocket while striding across the clearing in the direction from which he had come, O’Day used his free palm to shove the other weapon into the shirt’s cuff. Pressing it until the catch of the spring-holdout device attached to his forearm held it in place, he drew the Peacemaker. Taking cover behind the trunk of a tree, he raised the long barreled revolver in both hands and squinted experimentally along the sights.
A stocky young man appeared in the other side of the clearing. He wore the same style of clothing and armament as O’Day’s victims. Nor did the newcomer appear to exceed their intellect. Bounding in what should have been an agile manner on to the moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree, he slipped. With a yell of surprise, which turned to pain an instant later, he landed awkwardly. There was a dull crack and his left leg buckled under him. Go
ing down, he lost his hold of the Army Colt he had drawn while running to investigate. Then he tried to reach and pick it up.
‘Leave it be, young feller!’ O’Day ordered, sighting the revolver without revealing himself. ‘Then I’ll come out and tend your hurts.’
Forgetting his desire to be armed, the newcomer clutched at his left leg.
‘I don’t know who you be, mister,’ the man groaned. ‘But I’m hurting bad and need help.’
‘And I’ll give it,’ O’Day promised, walking forward with the Peacemaker dangling almost negligently in his right fist. ‘Try to ease ’round and sit with your back to that deadfall.’
‘Lord!’ the injured man moaned as he obeyed. ‘It hurts!’
‘I’d say that’s likely,’ O’Day admitted. ‘That was a nasty fall you took. Possibly I can do something to ease you, though. What do I call you?’
‘Dipper Dixon,’ the man answered.
‘Then you just rest as easy as you can, Dipper,’ O’Day instructed. ‘I’m going to have to ruin your pants, but it’s for your own good.’
‘Wha—What happened to them?’ Dixon inquired, indicating his companions.
‘I don’t know. Heard shooting as I was coming through the trees towards the fire. When I arrived, they were all down. Then I heard you coming and thought I’d better stay hidden until I could see who you might be. As soon as I saw your face, I knew I didn’t need to worry. Anybody can see that you’re a better class of man than those three.’
There were several inconsistencies about the story, but Dixon was in no condition to notice them. He had not cared greatly about his companions’ fate. The only bond between himself, the Shalupka brothers and Stoll had died a week ago. It had only been a matter of time before they had separated for good.
Having satisfied the man’s curiosity, O’Day took a Russell Barlow knife from his jacket’s right pocket and opened its blade. Gently as if handling something fragile and priceless, he slit the seam of Dixon’s trousers’ left leg. After examining the injured limb, he collected two of the rifles from by the fire. Cutting strips from a blanket, he used it to hold the rifles as splints after he had drawn the leg back to its normal shape. Dixon fainted before he had finished working.
