The Floating Outfit 20 Read online

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 20: THE BAD BUNCH

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1968

  Copyright © 1968, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2018

  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.

  The pattern was always the same when the Bad Bunch made their raids. They chose their time when there was a county fair, or some such diversion, to take folks minds off the protection of their property. Then they’d start a fire in another part of town, so that all the local lawmen and officials would have their hands full with that. Then they’d move in on their chosen target.

  To catch them seemed easy enough for Dusty Fog, Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid. All they had to do was wait for a county fair, watch out for a fire, and then make sure they were at the bank in time to stop the planned robbery.

  But even the floating outfit found the Bad Bunch a mite trickier than expected!

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  Series Page

  About the Author

  About Piccadilly Publishing

  One – The Ravaged Village

  Two – Hannah’s Hideout

  Three – Free Passage for the Women

  Four – The Attack

  Five – The Death of a Retired Major

  Six – A Mighty Unconventional Lady

  Seven – A Face From the Past

  Eight – The Kid Acquires Negative Information

  Nine – The Power of Ole Devil’s Name

  Ten – Familiar Faces in Fort Worth

  Eleven – A Fresh Suspect

  Twelve – The Bad Bunch Makes a Raid

  Thirteen – The Woman’s Touch

  Fourteen – Too Many Belle Starrs

  Fifteen – Miss Boyd Arranges A Crime

  Sixteen – As Bad As A Woman Could Get

  One – The Ravaged Village

  The last time they saw the small village it had been a peaceful haven on the banks of the Ouachita River’s Oak Creek, passed over by the tide of war which swept across much of Arkansas. From all appearances, the peace had ended in no uncertain manner. Although fires no longer burned and the previous night’s rains had even wiped away the smoke, blackened timbers rose stark and grim among the wreckage of the houses. Bodies lay scattered around. Men, women and children sprawled in death; made more hideous, if possible, by the clear blue sky and warm sun of a glorious late May’s day.

  Halting their horses on top of a rim overlooking the village, the two riders stared down in disbelief, then horror, although neither was exactly unused to violent death. Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog bit down an exclamation as he studied the scene. At his side, the lean, Indian-dark sergeant gave a low grunt.

  ‘We’re on the right trail, Cap’n Dusty,’ he said.

  ‘It looks that way, Kiowa,’ agreed the man rated by many as one of the Confederate States’ Army’s three top fighting commanders and the best on the Arkansas battle front.

  At first glance Dusty Fog did not appear to fit in with his reputation. His height would not exceed five foot six inches, although his shoulders had a width which hinted at considerable strength. Dusty blond hair showed from under the brim of his white Jeff Davis campaign hat and its brim threw a shadow on a tanned, strong, good-looking face. Though the face had strength, it looked even younger than its eighteen years when in repose. At that moment, grey eyes slitted and lips drawn tight, it showed something of the man tempered by war and command over others. His tunic had been well-tailored, but bore signs of much use. Double-breasted in the formal manner, it ended at waist level, without the skirt ‘extending half-way between hip and knee’ as required by Dress Regulations. Like the tunic, his breeches had seen long service, but his boots showed they had been kept in good repair. Around his waist hung a Western-style gunbelt, matched ivory-handled 1860 Army Colts riding butt forward in the contoured fast-draw holsters. He rode a big black stallion, astride a low-horned, double-girthed range saddle. Under his left leg lay a Spencer carbine in a saddleboot, while a Haiman Bros. saber rode on the right side, secured to the horn.

  The man at Dusty’s side had a face which told of Indian blood, and wore a worn uniform with three chevrons on the sleeves. Like his officer, he possessed good leather work and carried well cared-for arms.

  While Dusty and Kiowa sat staring at the ravaged village, the remainder of Company ‘C’ approached under the command of 1st Lieutenant Red Blaze. Any student of cavalry tactics as practiced by Dusty Fog would have deduced that the Company did not ride on an ordinary mission. Normally those hard-bitten veterans relied upon their Colts, such rifles as they might possess and sabers when in action. In addition to their normal weapons, they had along a sharpshooter armed with a heavy, powerful rifle that bore a barrel-long telescopic sight, while at the rear of the column came four mules carrying a dismantled mountain howitzer and its ammunition.

  At that time, with the fortunes of the war more and more favoring the Union, the Texas Light Cavalry were probably the best equipped, armed and mounted regiment in the Confederate Army. Commanded by leaders skilled in horseback fighting, they followed the Napoleonic tradition of making war support war. Although backed by rich Texans and with the resources of the Lone Star State at their disposal, they also relied on raiding their Yankee opponents to supply their more specialized needs. Always out-numbered, Ole Devil Hardin held Arkansas for the Confederacy and forced the Yankees to expend much effort which might have been used on other battle-fronts. Had the Southern States been able to supply him with more men, arms and equipment, he might have made an even greater contribution, even turned the course of the war.

  Dusty thought of none of that as he looked down on the village. All he knew was that his present mission suddenly assumed a grim and deadly importance.

  ‘We’ll move down ready for trouble,’ he told Kiowa. ‘Likely they’ll’ve gone, but we’ll not chance it.’

  ‘Sure,’ grunted the sergeant.

  Ideally a company consisted of eighty men, five sergeants, four corporals, a farrier, two wagonners, two musicians and a saddler. Action’s casualties, illness and other causes reduced Dusty’s company to fifty men, not counting the sharpshooter and five artillery men who served and handled the howitzer. Not too large a force for the assignment on hand. Nor had Dusty ever been one for recklessly risking the lives of the men under his command.

  Galloping ahead of the Company, Red Blaze joined his cousin on the rim. Tall, tanned and freckled, Red was Dusty’s age and wore a similar uniform, though with the badges of a 1st lieutenant as against his cousin’s triple bar captain’s insignia. Normally Red’s face held a look of pugnacious cheer and good spirits, but not as he looked down on the village.

  ‘God damn it, Dusty—’ he burst out.

  ‘First three fours with me as skirmishers, Red,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘Hold the rest to cover us.’

  ‘Yo!’ Red answered, giving the accepted cavalry assent to an order.

  On command, the leading twelve men joined Dusty and fanned out into a single line. With their guns drawn, they
prepared to ride down the slope.

  ‘Cap’n Dusty!’ called a voice.

  Turning in his saddle, Dusty looked to where a soldier broke ranks in the main body and rode towards him. About to snap a command sending the man back to position, Dusty stopped the words unsaid. One glance at the soldier’s face told Dusty that something of importance caused the breach of discipline. Like any good commander, Dusty knew every man under him. Tracey Prince had served in Company ‘C’ for over a year, in that time gaining a reputation for courage and possessing a roving eye for the ladies. Only something of exceptional importance would have brought such concern to Prince’s face.

  ‘What is it?’ Dusty asked before the sergeant major could blare out an order to Prince.

  ‘I’d like the Cap’n’s permission to go down there, right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know some folks down in the village.’

  Which most likely meant Prince knew a girl. During the time Dusty rode accompanied by a small force on a mission which saved Texas from the ravages of an Indian War, i Red took the Company on a raiding patrol and spent three days camped by the village until the horses recovered from the exertions put upon them. Belonging to the Quaker faith, the people of the village took no sides in the War and made Confederate or Union men equally welcome. Probably Prince met a girl who attracted his attention and wanted to learn of her fate.

  ‘Come with us,’ Dusty said. ‘Only remember that we’re going there as skirmishers, not to look for friends.’

  Watched by Red and the remainder of the Company, Dusty’s party advanced on the village. Born and reared on the Texas range country, they kept to their horses instead of dismounting to go in on foot. If a fight came, the Texas Light Cavalry preferred to do it Indian-fashion and from the back of a horse.

  Alert and ready for trouble, the skirmishers entered the village. Low curses came at the sights which met their eyes, hardened veterans though every one of them might be. There had been murder, looting, torture, rape and mutilation. It seemed that those who died fighting—what fighting such peaceable folks could do—had been the lucky ones.

  Passing through the village, Dusty’s party saw no living person. On reaching the opposite side to which he entered, the young captain halted his men.

  ‘It’s like the Comanche jumped them!’ breathed one man. ‘Not one left alive.’

  ‘That’s allus been Hannah’s way,’ a second went on.

  With an effort Dusty regained control of himself. Fury and revulsion had filled him at what he saw, but he knew he must hold himself in check and take no chances. They might be on the edge of the fighting area, yet that did not preclude the chance of meeting the enemy.

  ‘Take the men to the high ground there, Kiowa,’ he said. ‘Corporal Gray, put out pickets. You see if you can find any sign Kiowa.’

  ‘Yo!’ replied the two men.

  ‘Go look for your friends, Tracey,’ Dusty went on, seeing the anguish on the soldier’s face.

  Only discipline had held Prince in the line so long. Given permission, he turned his horse and galloped back to a burned-out house. Dusty followed, watching the soldier leap down and charge through what had been the building’s front door. Dismounting, Dusty followed Prince inside. A charred body lay under a fallen beam, and another at the fireplace. Dusty thrust past the soldier and forced himself to make an examination of the bodies.

  ‘A man,’ he said, indicating the shape under the beam. ‘The other was a woman—. Easy there, Tracey, I’d say it’s not the one you’re looking for.’

  ‘I—It’s not Rowena,’ Prince confirmed in a strangled voice as he looked at what had been a plump figure. ‘Oh god! She’s not in here.’

  Dusty’s attention went to the fireplace and he stepped forward to look at a part of the flooring which had been raised to expose a small cavity. Such a spot was often used as a hiding place for money and other valuables, although the one into which he peered held nothing.

  ‘Let’s go, Tracey,’ Dusty said quietly.

  ‘I’ve got to find her!’ Prince shouted, staring wildly around him. ‘Maybe there’s a cellar—’

  With that he flung himself towards some more charred wood which had formed part of the roof. Dusty saw that the soldier might easily collapse the entire building on them and stepped forward.

  ‘Easy, Tracey!’ he snapped, gently gripping the other’s arm.

  ‘Go to he—!’ Prince began, trying to free himself.

  Swinging the soldier around to face him, Dusty struck as taught him by his uncle, Ole Devil Hardin’s personal servant. Many people thought Tommy Okasi to be Chinese, although he claimed to hail from Japan. No matter where he came from, the little Oriental knew some mighty fancy fighting tricks and passed them on to Dusty.

  So when the small Texan struck Prince in the stomach, he did not use his clenched fist. Instead he kept his fingers extended and together, the thumb bent over the up-turned palm and thrust them hard into Prince’s solar-plexus. Just how effective the hira-nukite, level piercing hand, blow of karate was showed in the way Prince croaked and doubled over. Still keeping the hand in the same manner, Dusty struck again. This time he used the shuto, hand sword, driving the base of his hand around to strike the nape of Prince’s neck. Down went the soldier, collapsing like a back-broken rabbit.

  ‘Sorry, Tracey,’ Dusty said and bent down to take hold of the other under the armpits.

  By the time Dusty had drawn the unconscious soldier out of the house, he found Red bringing the rest of the Company towards the building. Not all of them though. Red might be a hot-headed young cuss with a penchant for becoming involved in fights, but he acted cool enough in his duties. Before following his cousin, Red left four men to watch their rear.

  ‘What happened to Tracey?’ Red asked, joining Dusty.

  ‘He was looking for a gal he knew. Tell the men to leave the horses outside the village, Red. Off-saddle, feed and water. Then we’ll need a burial detail.’

  ‘Yo!’ Red replied. ‘I’ll send somebody to tend to him.’

  ‘Be best. Tell Billy Jack to join me.’

  Accompanied by his tall, gangling, mournful-looking, but very efficient sergeant major, Dusty made another round of the town. The small Texan forced himself to examine bodies and looked into buildings, but he saw nobody who might have so attracted Prince’s attention.

  ‘Maybe Hannah’s bunch took her off alive with ’em,’ the sergeant major said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Dusty replied. ‘I hope she’s dead.’

  ‘Lively and right pretty lil gal, by all accounts,’ Billy Jack continued.

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘Hear tell she acted a mite too free for a Quaker person’s daughter. Might be that she just got all excited at seeing some new young faces around.’

  Dusty looked at the sergeant major and read nothing in the miserable features. Yet Billy Jack never wasted words on idle gossip and must have some reason for making the statement. An interruption came before Dusty could ask questions.

  Two riders galloped over the rim, by the pickets left by Red and down in the direction of the village. Recognizing them as scouts left to watch the rear, Dusty put aside his interest in the missing girl and walked over to where the men swung from their lathered horses.

  ‘There’s a bunch of Yankees on our trail, Cap’n Dusty,’ announced one of the pair, a grizzled corporal with surprisingly young eyes.

  ‘How many, Vern?’

  ‘Only ten—but they look to have one of our officers a prisoner.’

  ‘Ten!’ Billy Jack grunted. ‘We’ve nothing to worry about there.’

  ‘Not if that’s all there is,’ Dusty agreed.

  ‘Which same I can’t see any Yankee commander being fool enough to send just ten men after us,’ Billy Jack admitted dismally. ‘And I’d be plumb mortified if one sold us that low.’

  ‘We’d best take a look,’ Dusty stated. ‘Guidon, my horse!’

  Already the Company’s guidon
carrier had anticipated the command. It was his duty, in addition to carrying the Company’s identifying pennant, to hold and tend to the commanding officer’s mount. Fortunately he had not placed the horse’s feed bag on and swiftly saddled the black ready for use. An able second-in-command, Red stood by Dusty’s side ready for orders.

  ‘Form the men up ready,’ Dusty said while waiting for his horse. ‘If we have to, we’ll fall back and hold the village.’

  ‘Yo!’ Red replied.

  Accompanied by Billy Jack, Dusty rode up the slope but halted below the rim. A signal brought one of the pickets to them and Dusty handed over his black’s reins. Taking the field glasses from his saddle pouch, Dusty went on foot until he could look cautiously over the rim and present the approaching enemy with as little chance as possible of locating him. He noted with approval that his men each selected a concealed position and doubted if the enemy knew they had been discovered.

  Focusing his field glasses, Dusty first studied the distant body of men and then scoured the surrounding area. He saw no sign of supporting troops following at a distance behind the first party and brought his attention to them once more. By that time they had come close enough for him to study details and what he saw puzzled him. While his scouts proved correct as to the number of the enemy, and the presence of a Confederate soldier, they erred in one detail. ‘That’s Cousin Buck with the Yankees,’ Dusty told Billy Jack, having recognized Captain Buck Blaze, Red’s elder brother.

  ‘A prisoner?’ the sergeant major growled.

  ‘If he is, they trust him plenty. He’s still wearing his guns.’

  A captured officer might, on giving his parole, be permitted to retain his arms, but not when being escorted through hostile territory. Watching the men, a cold, almost clairvoyant feeling crept over Dusty. All too well he knew how badly the War went elsewhere for the Confederacy. Fighting ability and cold courage could not match the superior facilities of the Union and the U.S. Navy’s blockade of the South starved Dixie of the necessary materials which might otherwise have been imported from Europe. Maybe