The Floating Outfit 47

by J. T. Edson

  On being told of the information, the heads of the Border Patrol and the United States’ Customs had said they would not be able to assist in making the arrest. All their men were committed to an operation against a gang of large scale dealers in narcotics and, as Tricky Al had always refused to handle such a commodity, they considered he rated a lower priority. Being equally aware of the Mexican’s record with regards to drugs, Sheriff Jack Tragg and McCall had agreed with the decision. Claiming they could all benefit from some good healthy exercise and night air to ‘blow away the cobwebs of city living’, the First Deputy had also asserted the matter could be handled by his own men without needing assistance from the other Watch or—apart from a courtesy offer to the one responsible for the area in which the operation would take place—any of the Sheriff’s Sub-Offices.

  Although Brad was relieved to know he would be working with the members of his own Watch, who were already showing signs of accepting him as one of their number because they considered he had proved his worth to their satisfaction, he had not been completely at ease. He was still too recently appointed and conscious of the unconventional means by which this had been achieved to want the onus of mounting the present operation placed upon him. Nevertheless, guided by Cord—who would nominally be in charge as the senior member of their investigative team—he had studied maps and, with the cooperation of the deputies from the local Sub-Office, selected the place at which they would confront Nevada. Cosset had known the night, but was unable to say at what time the crossing of the Rio Grande would take place. Lacking this knowledge, the blond giant had decided to commence the stake-out at ten o’clock.

  The party was comprised of those members of Brad’s Watch selected by McCall, the local deputies and, as an additional backup in case any of the smugglers should succeed in escaping from the others, two officers from the Gusher City Police Department’s Canine Patrol and their attack dogs. They had driven to a rendezvous in the vicinity of their ambush position. Then, leaving their vehicles far enough away to avoid detection, they had gone on foot to the chosen position and concealed themselves amongst the fairly dense bushes which grew along the bank of the river and flanked the only path between it and the nearest open country.

  Despite everybody having acted as they would if a more experienced member of their department was responsible for the operation, Brad had found the waiting irksome. What was more, as time dragged by without there being any sign of the smuggler, he had felt his anxiety growing.

  Nor had his feelings been soothed any by knowing stool-pigeons sometimes sold information of dubious quality to recently appointed peace officers who were eager to ‘score points’ by making arrests and who were willing to hand over their own money to bring this about. The only consolation he had been able to draw was remembering he had acted upon the advice received from his partner in refusing to pay for the information until after it was proved valid.

  ‘Could be he—!’ Deputy Sheriff Bradford ‘Brad’ Counter began, still worried in spite of his partner’s reassurance.

  The sentence was not completed!

  Before the blond giant could finish, the most welcome sound he had ever heard came to his ears. Although there might be a number of perfectly harmless and legal reasons for the clatter of approaching hooves and saddle leather creaking on the other side of the river, he took comfort from having been told this was the means most frequently employed by Alonzo ‘Tricky Al’ Nevada when bringing contraband into Texas.

  Regardless of the change in Brad’s attitude, he was not fully at ease until he saw the party which emerged from the bushes on the Mexican shore begin to come across the river!

  In the lead, dressed after the style of a Mexican vaquero and riding a horse with easy competence, was a short, stocky man who the blond giant had no difficulty in identifying as ‘Tricky Al’ Nevada. The suspected smuggler was followed by half a dozen mules, to each of which ran lead ropes for a string of five equally well loaded pack-horses tied tail to halter one behind another. A further five apiece were led by a burly and tough looking Mexican attired in a similar fashion to Nevada, and a tall, slim young white man. Having shoulder long hair and a pallid face which was not improved by a drooping ‘Zapata’ moustache, the latter was bareheaded. Clad in a loosely fitting caftan, embellished by ‘peace beads’ and a C.N.D. insignia on its chest, ragged Levi’s pants and sandals, he would have appeared more at home with some ‘liberal’ protest march than helping to run contraband into Texas. Looking ill at ease in the saddle, he clearly lacked the riding ability of the other two. Despite the number of animals involved, the trio comprised the whole party and none of them gave any indication of being armed. In the case of Nevada, this came as no surprise. According to all the reports Brad had seen, he never carried weapons.

  Crossing the river without difficulty, the water being reasonably shallow at that point, the three men led the pack animals ashore. Studying them as they came over the wide and gently sloping bare bank and then along the narrow trail, Brad was not impressed by what he saw. In comparison with the paint mare ridden by Nevada and the mules, the rest of the horses were a pretty sorry lot. However, it was obvious they were considered adequate for the task of carrying the bulky panniers attached to their saddles. Wondering what these contained, he decided the time had come to close the trap he had set and which now seemed likely to prove fruitful.

  ‘Peace officers here!’ Brad shouted. Although he had been told Nevada spoke fluent English, he was employing the challenge—which Sheriff Jack Tragg had selected as being the most suitable way of avoiding confusion when a peace officer’s presence was announced under such conditions—in his native tongue, mainly for the benefit of the lanky white man. ‘Stop and raise your hands above your heads!’

  As if in echo to the blond giant’s words, they were repeated in Spanish by a Hispanic deputy who could claim truthfully—should the need arise during a trial—this was his ‘native tongue’. Such a precaution was necessary to prevent a defense attorney trying to assert his client had failed to understand an order given in English as he did not have a sufficient command of that language.

  While the orders were being given, Brad and the rest of the ambush party advanced swiftly from their places of concealment. However, except for the two shouted commands, they moved silently to avoid frightening and possibly stampeding the horses. Although the movement was intended to cut off any attempt at escape by the trio, none was made. Instead, the burly Mexican and the white man released the first of the horses they were leading and rode forward until they were one on either side of Nevada. Only then did they duplicate the action he had already made by starting to raise their hands.

  ‘No, hombre,’ Brad snapped, also speaking the Spanish of the Texas and Mexico border country, as the larger of the Mexicans made a gesture as if intending to reach beneath the left side of his bolero jacket. ‘Keep that right hand going up!’

  ‘Stop trying to scratch that flea, Tomas!’ Nevada ordered over his shoulder, speaking English with an almost theatrically sing-song Mexican accent, as the order was accompanied by a warning gesture from the Winchester trench gun in the blond giant’s hands. He had already raised his hands and went on, ‘You have to excuse my Cousin Tomas, Señor el Policia. He doesn’t wash too often and gets fleas which bite him bad.’

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ demanded the white man, his voice having a high pitched and whining timbre common to some sections of San Francisco.

  ‘Now that’s strange,’ Deputy Sheriff Tom Cord drawled. ‘We were just going to ask you the self-same thing.’

  ‘I demand to—!’ the white man spat out.

  ‘Now, Señor Purser,’ Nevada put in soothingly. ‘There’s nothing to be worried about. The Señores el Policia are just doing their duty by stopping us, although I can’t think why they’re doing it.’

  ‘We’re sort of nosy, Al,’ Cord explained. ‘So, seeing you coming over here at this time of the night, we’re wondering what you’ve
got on those horses.’

  ‘That’s none of your god-damned business,’ Phillip Purser claimed, having the typical middle class-middle management “liberal’s” hatred of all forms of law enforcement officer unless his own interests were being protected by them. ‘We’re not living in some Right Wing Fasci—!’

  ‘Way all those scum-rades talk,’ a deputy from the Sheriff’s Office commented in an Irish brogue just loud enough to reach the ears of the scowling “liberal”, thereby bringing the heated words to an end. ‘You’d think they didn’t have police in any of the Commo countries.’

  ‘There’s no need to talk that way!’ Nevada asserted coldly and his English momentarily improved as his tone hardened, but his words were clearly directed at his white companion and not the Irish peace officer. Reverting to his previous accent, he continued, ‘I can see how us coming over this way might look just a little bit suspicious to them, so they are only doing their duty by being here and they have the right to ask us our business.’

  ‘Why I’m right pleasured to hear you say that, Al,’ Cord declared in what seemed to be a warm-hearted tone, having assumed control of the situation by virtue of his seniority and in accordance with departmental policy. ‘So how’s about you telling us why-for you’re coming over here at this hour and what those pack-hosses are toting.’

  ‘Certainly, señor,’ the suspected smuggler obliged, just as amiably. ‘It is easier and cooler travelling at night, especially with such poor horses as are all I, being an honest man, can afford.’

  ‘I’ll buy that, about the horses anyways,’ Cord drawled sardonically. ‘I’ve never seen such a sorry bunch of crowbait, so what’re you carrying on ’em?’

  ‘Mexican and India artifacts such as your Americana del Norte tourists like to buy,’ Nevada replied. ‘Nothing expensive, or really old, señor. I mean, they’re not valuable antiques, or some of our national treasures.’

  ‘You mean they’re fakes?’ Brad suggested, paving the way in case he should be required to play the hard-nosed one if he and Cord were to employ the “good cop-bad cop” ploy to gain information.

  ‘They are not!’ Purser denied indignantly, resenting the blond giant for having been so much better favored in looks and physique as much as for his being one of the “Fascist police”. ‘Every one is made by a Mexican or an Indian using the methods employed by their ancestors for centuries.’

  ‘They’re what I’ve heard called “recent antiques”, señor,’ Nevada elaborated, with a glare which implied he wished his white associate would leave the talking to him. ‘Although I think there are some who would call them junk. But what do I care. I get paid to fetch them over to Gusher City is all I’m interested in.’

  ‘Then you won’t mind happen we look them over?’ Cord suggested.

  ‘I do!’ the “liberal” snapped, reaching beneath his caftan. ‘We’ve permits to import them!’

  ‘I’m not gainsaying it,’ Cord drawled and waved his left hand towards the pack horses. ‘Only I reckon the sheriff and the good old boys of the U.S. Customs’d like to know why you’re fetching them over this way.’

  ‘That was my idea,’ Purser claimed, overlooking how the suggestion had come from Nevada originally. ‘I’m a member of the Society For Encouraging The Use Of Energy-Conserving Transport. Bringing them this way saves using gas and, in addition to this being a shorter route, leading so many horses along the freeway in the traffic would be too dangerous to contemplate.’

  ‘I can see how it would,’ Cord admitted. Although he had never heard of the organization, he did not doubt it existed. What was more, he could envisage how its purposes could be utilized for Nevada’s ends. ‘But we’re still going to have to look over everything in the packs.’

  Watching the “liberal”, Brad could see that he intended to continue the protest. However, at that moment, his mount snorted and began to void itself in no uncertain fashion. Giving it more attention than he had devoted to it earlier, the blond giant could not remember ever having come across such a miserable looking creature. Roman-nosed, prick-eared, cow-hocked and sway-backed, it showed signs of being nervous and high strung. To add to its ill-favored appearance, blotched by grayish white patches, its coat was a washed-out yellow color such as he had never seen before. Glancing at the pile of dung behind it and noticing the pungent aroma being given off, an idea came to him.

  ‘Hell!’ Brad ejaculated, reaching into his right breast pocket to produce a whistle which he twisted between his fingers in an apparently pensive fashion. ‘I’ve forgotten to signal for the backup boys to come in.’

  Feeling sure Nevada would have envisaged the possibility of there being other peace officers in the vicinity to cut off attempts at escape, so he was not giving away any secret law enforcement procedures, the blond giant raised the whistle to his lips. On blowing through the mouthpiece, there was only a slight sibilant hissing sound and not a full-throated blast.

  However, the effect upon the ugly looking horse was far in excess of what might have been expected from the sound being emitted. Letting out a frightened snort, it reared surprisingly high on its hind legs. A howl of alarm burst from Purser as he was shot backwards over the cantle of the Mexican style saddle and slid backwards to land rump first in the steaming, evil-smelling mound. Letting the trench gun slip from his left hand and allowing the whistle to drop and dangle by the chain securing it to his pocket, Brad sprang forward to catch the animal by its headstall.

  ‘Blast the whistle!’ the blond giant growled, having no difficulty in bringing the horse under control. ‘It must’ve got plugged up.’

  Satisfied it was safe to do so, Brad released the animal. Then he raised the whistle once more. This time, although he did not employ as much air pressure, his blow elicited a deeper blast. Nor was he surprised by the result. A present from his Uncle Ranse the whistle, in addition to looking and sounding like an ordinary police whistle when so required, changed its function when the mouthpiece was turned as he had done while taking it from his pocket. He had turned it again before the second blow so that it no longer produced a tone pitched too high for the human ear to detect, but audible to dogs and other animals. To ensure only the “liberal’s” horse would take alarm, he had directed the blast straight at its prick ears and his estimation of its reaction had proved correct.

  ‘Search all you wish, señor,’ Nevada offered, having joined in the laughter which greeted the mishap to Purser.

  ‘Why thank you ’most to death,’ Cord accepted. ‘Only we’ll not do it here! There’ll be light and we can see to do it better at the Sheriff’s Sub-Office in Shipman.’

  ‘There wasn’t a thing,’ Deputy Tom Cord reported in a disappointed tone. It was shortly before noon on the day after the stakeout and he and his partner were reporting to their superiors in the Watch Commander’s Office. ‘We looked in every one of the vases and pots they were carrying, but they were all empty. Customs sent along a couple of their boys with a fluoroscope and other gear, but got zilch. Nothing but adobe showed up when the do-dads were put in front of the ’scope and they checked out right for weight, so there wasn’t any gold or jewels put in when they were being made. All the permits for bringing them into the U.S.A. were in order and the reason we was given for coming over the river with them on horseback makes sense. Al claims they meant to let Customs know where to find them as soon as he got to a telephone and that scum-rade Purser, confirms it.’

  ‘So we still don’t have anything on good old Tricky Al?’ Sheriff Jack Tragg stated rather than inquired.

  ‘Nothing that we could try to make stick in court without some knee-jerk “liberal” legal eagle claiming we’re just being vindictive against his client,’ Cord agreed. ‘In my opinion, it’d be wasting our time taking them before a judge with what we’ve got.’

  ‘I’ll go along with that,’ First Deputy Angus ‘Mac’ McCall seconded dourly. 4 As always, even though in his office, he was wearing his hat. Rumor claimed that, because he slept with it
on, not even his wife had ever seen him without it. However, as a concession to his superior being present, he had surrendered the only chair in the room and was standing behind the desk. He claimed restricting the seating prevented people from dallying unnecessarily and wasting his time. Far from being a source of annoyance in the Sheriff’s Office, both habits were regarded by the deputies as the harmless idiosyncrasy of a hard pressed and competent administrator. ‘He’s slipped through our hands again, blast it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir—!’ Deputy Sheriff Brad Counter began, having tried without any noticeable success to see from the faces of his superiors how they regarded the abortive efforts he had been responsible for setting in motion.

  ‘Like John Wayne says, “Never apologize, it’s a sign of weakness”,’ Jack Tragg drawled. ‘You’ve just joined a large and exclusive club, Brad. Let me welcome you in behalf of the other members who are present.’

  ‘I still don’t know how he took me,’ McCall admitted. ‘How about you, Tom?’

  ‘I wish I could figure out where I went wrong,’ Cord declared. ‘And last night wasn’t a total loss. I do declare the scum-rade smelled better after Brad caused the accident that dumped him butt first in his horse’s droppings.’

  ‘I’ve a letter from him complaining about what happened, Brad,’ the Sheriff remarked, showing amusement rather than disapproval. ‘It will get a suitably apologetic reply. There’s one thing comes to mind, though. Al could have been running a straight consignment through, so’s to throw us off guard for when he fetches some real stuff over later.’

  ‘Shall I tell Willie to—?’ the blond giant began, wondering whether he should pay for the information even though it had failed to produce the required end result.

  ‘Brad!’ the sheriff interrupted. ‘Don’t ever again mention the real name of a snitch to anybody except your partner. And that anybody even includes Mac and me.’