The Floating Outfit 46

by J. T. Edson

  The face mocked Pauline from the mirror. She picked up a hair-brush and smashed it into the glass. Then she staggered back to bed and fell across it, with sobs shaking her.

  Mark Counter went back to his room; he found his boots cleaned and shining, waiting for him, and pulled them on.: Then he slung the gunbelt round his waist and fastened the thongs about his legs. His face was hard and cold as he went down the stairs and entered the bar-room.

  Jere Fryer sat at a table separate from his friends. He looked up at Mark, his face suddenly old and drawn. “How is she?” he asked.

  “Do you care?” Mark’s voice was low and vibrant. To men who knew him, this was a sign that he was starting a temper that would explode into sudden and violent action.

  “I care.” There was no doubting Fryer’s obvious grief. “I surely care more for her than for anything. But I’ve done bad by her, Mark. Worse than you can ever guess.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know I made that bet with Dud Fellowes. I never thought anyone could beat the Major; that was why I bet. Well, I can’t get the money for a couple of days, and Fellowes won’t wait. I gave him the only thing I’ve got.”

  “What was that?” Mark’s voice was little more than a whisper now.

  “The deeds to the Hotel.”

  Mark’s hand gripped the top of the table until the knuckles showed white. “You lost her hotel? After seeing her beaten out there, you gave this place away. You damned no-good hand-shaker! It’ll just about kill her when she finds out.”

  “I know, Mark. I know, But I never thought she could lose and—!”

  Mark’s hands shot out across the top of the table, gripping Fryer’s lapels and pulling him back over towards Mark. Fryer gave a startled yell and then Mark hit him, smashing home a blow which flung the man across the room and into the wall.

  Fryer’s friends came to their feet, but stopped as they read murder in the Texan’s blue eyes. He stood there, hands hanging near the butts of his matched guns, tense and ready.

  “I’m riled, gents. Real riled, The next man who crosses me’s going to get hurt bad.”

  The men watched Mark turn and walk from the bar and out on to the street. “Wonder where he’s going?” one asked.

  “I don’t know,” another replied, “But I surely wouldn’t want to cross him.”

  Mark went along the nearly deserted street towards the .45 Saloon. The few people who were about were talking excitedly, discussing the fight, and none took any notice of the tall young Texas man.

  The saloon was filling up. At the bar were the workers of the place; dealers, bar-tenders, bouncers and girls. Fellowes grinned a greeting as Mark came through the door.

  “Come on up and take something on the house, friend. Nobody pays today. I’ve just won me a hotel.”

  “Pauline Cushman’s place?” Mark asked.

  At another time, Fellowes would have recognized the tone and been wary; but, at this moment, he was too full of himself to take notice of anything. “Sure. It’s just about time that old hag got her come-uppance. She made me close this place on Sundays, and at midnight on every other night. Well, now I’ve got her hotel.” He roared with laughter. “I knew old Jere couldn’t raise five thousand. So I took a chance and, when she got licked, that was all he could give me.”

  “It wasn’t his place to give,” Mark replied. “She bought it—changed it from a bug-infested hole to a decent place. You know that?”

  “I knew it. But, under Territorial law, a wife’s property diverts to her husband. He’s the owner under law, not her.”

  “Mister, I’ll make you a bank draft for the five thousand, The name’s Mark Counter. It’ll be good.”

  “No go, cowhand. I want that hotel.”

  “How about Pauline Cushman?”

  Fellowes howled with laughter again, not recognizing the deadly savage tone of the Texan’s even drawl. “I’ll be real good to her. I’ll let her be scrub-woman.”

  Mark’s hands shot out, bunching Fellowes’ lapels up, swinging the man clear from his feet and shaking him. Then, with a heave of the great, wide shoulders, Mark hurled the gambler into the bar. Fellowes yelled in pain and dropped to the floor, holding his ribs. He ducked as Mark picked up a chair and hurled it through the bar-mirror.

  “Going to take the bank draft now?”

  Fellowes glared up at the giant Texan and screamed: “Get him!”

  One of the bouncers lunged forward, hands reaching out. Mark gripped a poker table and hefted it as easily as if it’d been made of paper instead of heavy timber. The table swung up and smashed down on to the bouncer’s lowered head, dropping him as if he’d been pole-axed.

  The other two bouncers came in fast. Mark back-handed one of them hard enough to send him sprawling into the bar, then ducked, caught the other round the knees, straightened and the man went right over. His head smashed into the floor hard enough to put him out of action for a long time.

  Mark crossed the room fast. The crowd scattered in front of him—for all knew that any man who stood in the Texan’s way was going to get hurt. He halted by the roulette table—Fellowes’ pride and joy since its installation by a company which specialized in deliveries after nightfall and offered certain additional fittings not found on more legitimate layouts.

  Gripping the edge of the table, Mark’s huge muscles bulged up. A man came forward, smashing a bottle and holding the jagged-edged weapon as he lunged across the table. Then Mark heaved. The roulette table was lifted up and thrown over to knock the bottle-wielder backwards. The wheel came loose from its fitting and fell to the floor. Then the table went flying over with a crash that jarred loose certain well-concealed mechanisms.

  The one bouncer who could still make his feet was up, but wished he wasn’t; for the big Texan fought like a tiger, and with the strength of ten men. The bouncer was picked up. He yelled as his feet left the floor. Then he was sent sprawling into a bunch of saloon employees who showed signs of aggression. The man landed hard, rolling painfully to his knees.

  Across the room, Fellowes sat up and his hand went under his coat towards his gun. Mark’s right-hand Colt came out, the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel lining as the hammer eared back. Two blue eyes which glowed murder met Fellowes’ scared stare, and a deep drawled voice hissed: “Go on, pull it. Just pull it. I never wanted to kill a man so much before!” Fellowes licked his lips as he watched the Texan advancing on him. He jerked his hand away from the gun-butt and yelled: “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!”

  Mark holstered the gun and dragged Fellowes to his feet. He reached into the man’s coat and tore the Merwin & Hulbert revolver from its shoulder clip. A man behind the bar dropped his hand underneath for a shotgun—and caught two and a quarter pounds of Merwin gun, thrown with all the strength of a powerful man. He reeled back with blood gushing from his smashed mouth and crashed into the bar, bringing down a couple of bottles from the shelves above him.

  Fellowes croaked as the grip changed to his throat and tightened. He was no weakling; but, against such strength as this, he was helpless. The world was roaring round in front of the gambler’s eyes. Then he was smashed into the bar again,

  “I want that bill-of-sale and I want the deeds for the hotel,” Mark said softly.

  The gambler clung to the bar and hung there, trying to recover his breath. He saw Mark pick up a chair and throw it across the room, through one of the windows. Then, as the Texan took up a second chair, he gasped: “All right, all right, Take it. Tell Jere Fryer I’ll get him for this.”

  “Mister, I’m not doing this for Jere Fryer, I’m doing it for a woman who’s better than this whole stinking town.” Mark looked at the townsmen who were there. “You’re all full of pride, because Pauline Cushman got whipped out there. Just you remember one thing: this town is what it is because of that woman. Before a week’s gone by, you’re going to wish she’d half-killed Iris Pendleton.”

  Taking the thick envelope from Fellowes, Mark exa
mined the contents. Then he reached into the front of his shirt. The gambler shook his head. “I don’t want your money. Tell Jere I’ll collect in a week.”

  Mark weighed the heavy envelope, then slapped it hard across the gambler’s face. “You’ll get paid. I’ll see to that. But stay clear of Pauline Cushman. She’s not done yet.” He surveyed the sullen bunch of saloon-workers and the scared, awe-filled faces of the townspeople. “I’m going out of here and none of you’d better do anything hasty.”

  Turning, Mark walked towards the door, watching the faces of the men ahead. He saw the sudden play of expression and whirled, dropping to the floor with hands fanning down. A bar-tender was lifting a shotgun over the bar, his move fast and showing signs of practice; but the shotgun was never made that could lick a Colt Peacemaker for speed of delivery. The long-barreled gun in Mark’s right hand gave out a spurt of flame and smoke laid whirling eddies round him. The bar« tender rocked backwards, a hole in his shoulder and his shot-: gun falling to the bar-top. No other man made an attempt to touch a weapon. Everyone of them knew that the Texan had called his shot for the shoulder. Such lenient treatment would not be afforded to the next man he drew on.

  Mark rose, smoke curling lazily from the barrel of his Colt. He looked at Fellowes with contempt and said: “I should kill you right now. But I’ll leave you to dirtier hands than mine.” The batwing door swung closed behind Mark Counter and, for a moment, the saloon was silent. Then the townsmen started to walk out, for the first time realizing how actions looked. Fellowes watched them go, then looked around the wreck of his saloon, at the broken windows, the smashed bar-mirror, the broken bottles and the ruined roulette table. That Texan was going to pay for what he’d done. So were Pauline Cushman and Jere Fryer.

  “Take care of the place,” he snarled to one of the watching men, “I’m going to try and find Big Blue.”

  Mark Counter felt the anger ebbing from him as he walked back towards the Casa Grande Hotel. He rubbed his hands where they felt sore from slamming into the hard jaw of the bouncer. All-in-all, it had been very satisfactory; the hotel was still in Pauline’s hands. Mark knew that he’d made a dangerous enemy in Fellowes, but it gave him little cause for worry. In his life, he’d made a few enemies before, and they never worried him unduly. One more-or-less wouldn’t make any difference.

  Strangely, he felt less animosity towards Fellowes than to the people of the town. Those smug self-righteous women who posed as ladies, yet stood by and screamed for Iris Pendleton to smash Pauline into the ground. The women whose jealousy for a better woman turned them into hate-filled harridans. Well, they would soon know just what it meant not to have Pauline Cushman running their town, and their lives, for them. It would not be pleasant.

  The bar was deserted, except for Jere Fryer, when Mark returned. The man sat at a table with his head in his hands. It was a strained, white face showing a dull bruise where Mark’s fist had landed, that looked up. Fryer was shocked and shaken to his core by the magnitude of what he’d done to his wife. Mark studied the face and read the deep misery in it. The man genuinely loved and cared for his wife; and the bet he had taken was but a simple tribute to her prowess.

  “Have you seen her?” Mark asked.

  “She’s still in her room, sobbing something awful. I can’t go in there and tell her what I’ve done, Mark. It’d kill her. I’d rather kill myself.”

  Mark took the envelope from inside his shirt front, holding it out. Fryer stared down at it for a long moment, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then he looked at the reddened knuckles of Mark’s left hand and finally up at the handsome face.

  “Wh—Where did you get that?” Fryer asked.

  “Fellowes. He got to thinking that he’d rather have the money than your place after all.: See you pay him when he wants the money.”

  “Sure. Mark sure. I don’t know how I can ever thank you. The Major’ll never need to know about this now.”

  “Don’t be loco—you know someone will tell her. They’ll tell her the same way they told her about you and that blonde gal. Just to stir up trouble between Pauline and you,” Mark snapped back. “And, Fryer, this town’s going to see some bad trouble. Every two-bit trouble-causer Pauline ever made act decent around here’ll be headed back here, looking for evens.”

  “To hell with them—and this whole stinking town!” Fryer replied. “We’re going to sell this place and get out.”

  “Running won’t get Pauline’s self-respect back,” Mark put in. “If she leaves here now she’s done for. This town took away her self-respect, and she’s got to get it back here.”

  “The lousy scum! Pauline’s tamed this town and made it fit to live in. Then out there they screamed for Iris Pendleton to thrash her. There were women in that crowd who wouldn’t even speak to Iris, and they were hanging round her and trying to lick her feet.”

  “Sure; that’s the way people are. Pauline Cushman wasn’t one of the ordinary herd. She stood taller than them. And she did things they might have liked to, but couldn’t. Maybe, she tried to run their lives a mite too much for them, too. So, when she gets into a fight, or something, they want to see her beaten. That means she’s the same size as the others.” Mark stopped for a moment, then went on: “All her life Pauline’s been different from the rest. She was a big name in the theatre, a Union Army spy, and she was the law in this town. She was the best at everything she did. Now she’s been beaten and she doesn’t know what to do. She needs you, Fryer. For the first time in her life, she needs you. Get up to her room and tell her the full story. Don’t lie to her. It’ll be best.”

  Fryer pushed back his chair. His hands were shaking as he put the deeds into his coat-pocket. He turned and walked from the bar-room and up the stairs. Mark watched him go and heard him open the door of his wife’s room. The big Texan went out and looked along Casa Grande’s main street A quiet, peaceful town lay there before him. All the same, he knew that the quiet and peacefulness would not last much longer. Casa Grande was going to boom into a real, wild, woolly and uncurried frontier town. Maybe, the good citizens weren’t going to like it at all.

  For two days after the fight, all was quiet in town. Pauline Cushman was in bed all the first day; and, on the second, came out of her room only to check in the wash brought back by the big German girl. She looked over the half-washed sheets with a dull, uninterested stare. Then, dragging her stiff and aching body to the Hotel washhouse, she set to work to rewash the entire bundle.

  The Madame of the local cat-house bawled out one of her girls, doing it with one eye on the rear of the Casa Grande Hotel and the other on a nice safe retreat, if Pauline Cushman came. However, there was no sign of the black-haired woman who’d been so forceful in her previous objections; and, by nightfall, the good ladies of the town were listening to the madame’s strident, bawling curses, and blushing. If Pauline Cushman heard, the only sign she gave was to shut the windows of her room and endure the heat of the day, rather than to accept that she was no longer the ruler of Casa Grande.

  On the evening of the second day, a cowhand let off a shot or two into the air, preparing to light out of town at a dead run. Then, seeing that there was no one to object, he rode the length of main street, firing his revolver and whooping. In a final burst of bravado, he stopped his horse in front of the Casa Grande Hotel and sent three bullets through the sign. He whooped delightedly when no reprisals were taken on him, whirled his horse and headed out of town.

  By the end of the week, Casa Grande, as Mark Counter had predicted, was a wild, wide open town. The saloons—once closed at midnight at the risk of having Pauline Cushman shoot up the fittings if they stayed open longer—stayed open all night. The erstwhile peace of Sunday found the hymn-singing at the church battling for supremacy, and failing to drown out the tinny pianos and screeching violins of the saloons and dance-halls.

  Cowhands from the local ranches swaggered the streets in bunches, hoorawing the local citizens. Muleskinners came in from the rail
road construction camps and the burly railroad men arrived to add their wild cursing and hell-raising to the never-closed, always-going sounds of the once peaceful town of Casa Grande.

  Through all of this Pauline Cushman stayed in her room as much as possible, appearing only when forced to do so. The marks of the fight left her face, but there were other, deeper scars that did not heal. She heard, second-hand, that the ladies of the town—in a desperate attempt to prove that their town was still the same quiet and peaceable place it had been under Pauline Cushman’s strong rule—were going to organize a dance. This was a direct snub for her, and she knew it. In the past, she not only organized the dances, but attended to every detail of them with her usual care and attention; she selected the band, arranged for the callers, fixed up the food and selected the dances which were to be played. This time, the town aimed to show that they could do without Pauline Cushman; and the more catty members wanted to ask Iris Pendleton to run the affair.

  This latter was objected to by the more sedate and wiser heads—for her rise to fame appeared to have gone to Iris’ blonde head. Her hotel, a small, not-too-clean place, was filled with travelling men, who would otherwise have stayed at the Casa Grande. She was thinking of arranging to have her portrait painted, standing victorious over Pauline Cushman. This would look good behind the bar in her place, and would give added color to the forlorn looking bundle of black hair hanging there now.

  Yet more than just her fortune changed with the fight. She took on a fresh glow and bought a Colt revolver and gunbelt, wearing them openly and amusing the guests at her hotel by what she fondly imagined was a fast draw. Her manner grew imperious; and she attended a meeting of the ladies sewing circle, there to give unwanted advice to the other ladies.