The Floating Outfit 46

by J. T. Edson

  One saloon sign caught his eye among the others. To a son of the Lone Star State, it came like shade and water in the desert.

  “Texas House. That’s for me,” he said, and crossed the street. Behind him, the town marshal came from the hotel and watched him.

  The saloon was no different from many another in the range country, Waco thought as he pushed through the batwing doors. The big bar-room presented the same garish, glaring mass of color—for cowhands were not the quietest dressers in the world. The tables were crowded and, from the various games, could be heard shouts of encouragement, gambling terms and curses from the unlucky players. The bar was crowded with men, only a small gap having been left at one end. It was to this that Waco went. After some time he attracted the attention of one of the pair of leathery oldsters who now served behind it, after a long life of chasing Texas longhorns.

  “Beer, cold and long, colonel,” Waco greeted as one of the pair came along. “And a poker game.”

  “Get you the beer, but I ain’t toting a poker table here for you,” the bar-dog replied. “What game you got in mind?”

  Waco felt the money in his pockets hanging heavily, and wanted to try his luck. His room was paid for, and he was free for a week from all cares; besides, he’d taken the precaution of leaving ten dollars in the room—so, even if he was fool enough to lose all in his pockets, he still would not be too close to the blanket.

  “Not big, just friendly.”

  The bar-dog appraised him for a moment with shrewd eyes, then jerked his thumb to a small table in the side of the room; Four men were already playing at it, but there was an empty chair there.

  “That do you?”

  Waco took his beer and crossed the room, observing his future opponents as he came towards them. One he’d seen before—the well-dressed old-timer who’d mistaken him for Bad Bill Longley. Now he wore an older suit and his sun-bronzed face was wet with perspiration as he studied his cards. The man who sat next to him was a thin, small townsman, wearing a black vest and a white shirt with elbow protectors. The other two players could be nothing but travelling salesmen. Their loud check suits and derby hats told that. One was big, florid-faced and laughing loudly; the other silent, morose and moody.

  “Room for players?”

  Four pairs of eyes looked up, taking in every detail of the young man. It was the big drummer who replied for the others: “Chair’s there—pull and set. I’m Brandy O’Hearne, ’cause I sell it. This here’s Fred Jessop from the Telegraph office.” The thin man in the white shirt nodded. “Amos Claypole from the store.” The oldster winked at Waco. “And Ernie Copley.”

  “Folks call me Waco,” the young man sat down in between Jessop and Copley, watching the other men.

  The table was very small, in fact it would never have been used for a poker game unless the others were all full. The players were fairly close together and any one of them could reach clear across to the man facing him.

  O’Hearne took the cards. Waco, alert as always, noted the way he held the deck, three fingers firmly gripping the long edge and the index finger curled round the shorter edge towards the center of the table. That was a way of holding cards which few honest men practiced—very handy for extracting cards from the bottom, or just under the top card, of the deck.

  The cards flipped out fast, falling in front of the players while O’Hearne boomed out a continuation of his disreputable adventures. “Then her husband comes into the room,” he explained as the cards flipped from his hands. “And he says, ‘Now what steps are you taking?’ and I says: ‘Long ones’.”

  “You dealt me six cards.”

  Waco’s soft-spoken words cut across the table, bringing an end to the loud voice. Four pairs of eyes concentrated on him as he spread the cards. At first there only appeared to be five cards; but he took the third and squeezed it between thumb and forefinger. A second card slid from under it.

  “Sorry, stranger,” O’Hearne grunted.

  “Cards must be getting sticky,” Claypole remarked; “We’d best have us a new deck.”

  A passing waiter stopped and Jessop asked him for a new deck, then turned Waco’s hand over. The cards were a middle high straight. “Hard luck, Waco. You would have been set with them.”

  Waco did not reply; he knew that he was supposed to bet on that hand, not knowing there were six cards in it. Then, on the call O’Hearne would expose the hand as having a card too many and the pot would be forfeit. The Texan knew that O’Hearne was playing crooked and guessed that Copley was his partner. Proof of this came when the man lay his hand open on the table in a casual manner—which told anyone schooled in the signs of crooked gambling that there was one asking if there was another present.

  Waco saw and understood the sign, but his face gave no sign of it. He’d started his training while helping Dusty Fog bring law to Mulrooney, Kansas. His teacher was an honest gambler who naturally needed to know such things to protect himself. The youngster showed his usual aptitude for learning and, on returning to the OD Connected, received further instruction from one of Ole Devil’s friends—who made his living by gambling all over the West.

  He watched everything, knowing that the two crooks were still not sure if he’d spotted them. Copley was the smoother manipulator of the cards and O’Hearne’s loud talk and bluster served to act as a cover for him. Copley’s casual picking up of the discards gave Waco a warning. The man moved fast and collected the cards, but he slid four kings together. Breaking the deck he gave them a riffle together, the cards flipping through his fingers fast, then slowing as he came to the place where the kings were grouped. Twice more he riffled and, while O’Hearne boomed out one of the stories of his illicit love affairs, Copley crimped the pack, making an almost imperceptible bend where he wanted the deck split in the cut. He lay the cards in front of O’Hearne.

  Waco’s hand slapped down hard, full on top of the deck at the end of the story, and before the drummer could cut. “Waal, I swan!” the young Texan whooped. “If that just don’t beat all, Brandy. You’re the lovingest man I ever saw.”

  O’Hearne’s face lost its smile as he cut the deck. The vital crimp which was to help him had been flattened by the slap. The smile was even less in evidence when Waco took the hand with three of the Icings.

  The game went on. Jessop and Claypole could tell the different atmosphere now; there was a brittle tension and, although O’Hearne still made his jokes, his booming laughter was no longer rich and full. Copley was getting more and more angry all the time, as the pile of chips in front of the three would-be suckers grew, while his own and O’Hearne’s shrank accordingly.

  Hand followed hand. Waco played carefully, never betting—no matter how good his cards—when Copley dealt. He knew the two men were suspicious of him—but they were still unable to decide if he was on to them, or just plain lucky. He watched them signal to each other, reading the code and knowing when one wanted the other to hike up the betting, or signaled for a special card. In some way, Claypole and Jessop caught on to what he was doing and followed his lead like hound-dogs running a hot scent; so, all in all, the two card-sharps caught a very lean time of it.

  Then Waco saw what he was waiting for, the riffle stock again laid the four kings in position and, this time Copley gave Waco no chance of knocking his crimp out of the deck. The young Texan picked up his cards, fanning them out; and he grinned inside as he saw that he held an ace among the other cards. In the last few hands, there had been a lack of aces showing—which was not surprising, for Waco held three of them tucked in the bend of his knee, extracted for just such a moment.

  The betting round went on, Copley and O’Hearne pushing it up as high as they could. The deck lay in the center of the table and Waco hitched his chair nearer, at the same time extracting the three aces. Then he knocked over a pile of chips and reached to pick them up, shoving the pack aside.

  The three aces now lay on top of the pack—all ready, eager and in place to be drawn by him.
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  “Cards?” Copley growled.

  “Take three,” Waco replied, tossing all but the ace and one other card on to the table.

  Copley dealt, the three cards dropped in front of Waco and he scooped them up, fanning them carefully. Four fat, lovely aces now met his gaze, a far, far better hand than the four kings O’Hearne drew one card to.

  The betting rose. At last, only O’Hearne and Waco were left, and the big drummer laughed. “I’ll make it easy on you. See them.”

  He beamed round and tossed the four kings down singly in front of him. The grin faded as Waco replied: “This bullet kills him,” and tossed an ace on to the first king. “And him and him and poor lil ole him.”

  Copley stared at the cards, knowing that he would have noticed the three aces being together in his casual check through of the deck when he was waiting to deal. Then he snarled: “What’s the game?”

  “Poker, they tell me,” Waco replied.

  “Don’t get flip with me,” Copley hissed. “There’s something funny about the way you play.”

  Copley and O’Hearne pushed back their chairs. The big man held a pile of chips in his left hand. Claypole looked up at them both, then softly said: “This-here’s Bad Bill Longley.”

  The name stiffened both men. Then Copley looked at the pile of chips, almost all their stakes, in the center of the table. He nodded. O’Hearne sent the stack of chips across the table and, at the same moment, Copley’s hand went under his coat. The two moves were well-planned and should have warranted more success than they gained. Instead of glancing down at the chips, Waco ignored them, his matched guns coming out an instant before Copley’s Remington double derringer slid clear. The left-hand gun threw a bullet into Copley’s shoulder, knocking him backwards from his feet. O’Hearne snarled a curse and started his draw. The left-hand gun came round and up, its barrel smashing full into the fat throat.

  The crowd were up on their feet and several men made motions towards their guns; but Waco came round in a smooth turn, his Colts making an arc of the room. “Now all hold it!” he ordered.

  A well-dressed man stepped forward, hands held shoulder high and a placating look on his face. “Like to say that, as the owner of this place, I never saw these two before.”

  The staghorn-handled guns went back into leather again, dropping into their niches with the casual flip which told that here was a master hand with a gun. Waco then nodded and informed the crowd that they might resume their interrupted games. Then he saw the young marshal crossing the room.

  “What happened, Fred?” the Marshal asked. He looked at Copley, who was on his knees, holding his bloody shoulder; and at O’Hearne, who was desperately trying to work his throat and get air flowing properly again.

  “These two are a pair of sharps, Duke. I knew it soon as I started playing. Meant to cut out, but Longley here called them,” Jessop replied. “For a cowhand, he handles a mean deck of cards.”

  “Cowhand!” Copley snarled out through his pain-wracked lips. “He’s a professional tinhorn.”

  Duke Tavener ignored the remark. He snapped; “You pair be out of town on the stage tomorrow. Until then, keep in your room. If I see you out I’ll throw you in jail.”

  The two drummers left, O’Hearne supporting his friend, heading for the doctor. Tavener watched them go, then turned and looked Waco upon and down. “Are you Bill Longley?”

  “He surely is,” Claypole put in, before Waco could speak. “Knowed him last time he was in this area.”

  “There’s no warrant out for him in New Mexico.”

  “Nor likely to be,” Waco replied, watching the young lawman.

  “You’re right. I want you out of this town before dawn.”

  “I paid a week at the hotel.” Waco saw something in the lawman’s eyes. It wasn’t fear or anything he could tie down.

  Tavener moved back, hand lifting slightly, the look still in his eyes. “What I said still goes.”

  There was once a time in Waco’s young life when he would have welcomed this chance to draw and shoot, Now he thought, and acted, differently.

  “Hold hard, Marshal. You don’t know for sure that I’m Longley.”

  “I don’t care—just be out of town or I’ll jail you.”

  The crowd in the saloon watched, moving back out of the possible line of fire. Every eye was on the small group in the center of the room. They were all wondering if this man they thought to be the Mill Creek terror would draw; and if Duke Tavener could beat him to the shot.

  Waco knew these thoughts. He also knew that, if he even wounded the young lawman, Tavener was done for as a marshal. So Waco made a decision which would have amazed any man who’d known him in the days when he rode for Clay Allison.

  “I don’t want any trouble with you, Marshal. I’ll go along to the jail with you and talk it out.”

  Tavener stared at the tall young Texan for a long moment. Then he nodded in agreement. “Let’s go.”

  Waco led the way from the saloon and, behind him, Claypole shouted: “There you are, boys. Who said Duke Tavener was scared? Even Bad Bill Longley wouldn’t face up to him.” Out on the street, Waco jerked a thumb towards two men coming from a saloon further along. He unbuckled the heavy gunbelt and swung it back to Tavener. “Here, make like you’re taking me to jail.”

  Tavener took the belt, hardly knowing what to make of this action. He followed the Texan, walking in the position a lawman would when escorting a prisoner. The two gunmen glanced at Tavener and Waco as they passed, then stared again. The short man dropped his smoke and the other’s eyes bugged out. They stared after the pair, until they entered the jail.

  “You’re not Bill Longley,” Tavener stated as he handed Waco back the gunbelt.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m not doubting you any. I don’t know what Claypole was doing. He knew Bad Bill five years back and described him just as you look.”

  “’Cepting Bad Bill’d be five years older,” Waco pointed out. “I know him—he’s kin to the Ysabel Kid.”

  The jail door was thrown open and three prosperous-looking men came in, led by a big, hearty-looking man with a sun-reddened face, but soft white hands. He was the spokesman for the others:

  “So it’s true you brought Longley in.”

  “Sure, Banker Darcy. Didn’t you think I could?” Tavener replied.

  “Why Duke?” Darcy looked at Waco, who sat at the desk. “He won’t forget this, and you’ve got enough on your hands with Pete Walls coming back here.”

  “The thing is, Duke,” Darcy put in. “We think that it would be best for the town if you took a vacation until Walls has gone.”

  “Run, you mean. Like my deputy ran?”

  “He showed good sense,” another man snapped. “Walls will start hoorawing the town again, when he comes back. But he might go easier, if you aren’t here.”

  Tavener scowled, his eyes on the other three. “With or without a badge, I’m staying on.”

  “It’ll be with a badge, as long as I have any say,” Darcy barked.

  “No one suggested we took Duke’s badge,” the second man objected—in a tone which showed that it had been suggested. “But folks don’t like the idea of Walls coming here and hunting Duke.”

  “Get me a deputy, and I might be able to stop him,” Tavener said softly. “Even if he does have Matt Chandler riding with him.”

  The three men looked at each other. Darcy spoke again for them: “I’ve tried, Duke; I’ve tried. No one will take on after what happened to your deputy. The town is scared of Walls.”

  The three men turned and walked out. As they did so, a plump, pretty young woman pushed by them and into the jail office. Waco looked her over; her hair was blonde, short and curly, her face that innocent, warm and babyish kind a plump woman often had. It was a face made for smiling, not for the raw, aching fear it showed right then.

  “It was true then, Duke,” she said, “Why do you do it?”

  “Do what, honey?”
/>   “Face down men like this”—she waved a hand to the impassive young Texan. “This whole town isn’t worth it.”

  Tavener took the young woman’s hands and Waco saw the wedding ring on the left. “This isn’t Longley.”

  “I know he isn’t,” she replied. “But he’s one of the good guns. Don’t tell me, Duke. I’ve seen them. He’s one.” She turned to Waco. “Did you know that my husband can’t use his thumb well enough to cock a Colt?”

  “Lindy!” Tavener snapped. “You shouldn’t have said that—”

  “Why not?” she replied, her blue eyes near to tears. “It’s the truth. You got frost-bitten in the blue norther and you can’t work your thumb.”

  Waco strapped his guns on, rising to his feet. “I’ll be going. Hope I helped you a mite.”

  The woman looked up at Waco, then at her husband. Tavener nodded. “Yes. He came because he wanted to, not because I scared him. Gave me his guns when he saw Krag and Hellem in the street. I don’t know why.”

  “Dusty Fog always told me to help the law when I could. Thought it might give you a boost, if folks thought you’d brought Longley in,” Waco explained.

  “Will you be Duke’s deputy?”

  “Listen, Lindy!” Tavener barked. “You can’t ask a man to fight my battles for me. I—”

  “Only for three days, unless this young man wants to stay on. The folks in town are scared of Pete Walls. They may get their guts back, if they think Bill Longley is backing you.”

  “We can’t ask a man to fight for us,” Tavener objected. “I’ve got my pride.”

  “Happen they’ll put it on your tombstone,” Waco put in. “I don’t know what’s coming off in this town, but I surely need a riding chore.”

  “Krag and Hellem beat up my last man,” Tavener warned. Then he remembered the two drummers at the saloon. “I reckon you can take care of yourself. You mentioned Dusty Fog?”