The Floating Outfit 49 Read online

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  The hired gunmen came to Mahon’s place to take him away and kill him. But instead of Mahon they found a black-dressed Texas boy with a fast gun, and left him for dead, taking his horse. They had made their first big mistake.

  In the town of Escopeta they met two more Texans, one a handsome blond giant, the other a small insignificant-looking individual, the sort of man one would pass in the street without a second glance.

  The hired gunmen passed him without a second glance and in so doing made their second, and biggest, mistake. For the small man was none other than the famous Rio Hondo gun wizard, by name of Dusty Fog.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 49: THE RIO HONDO KID

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Brown Watson Publishers in 1963

  Copyright © 1963, 2020 by J. T. Edson

  This electronic edition published July 2020

  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.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Table of Contents

  Publisher's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About J.T. Edson

  The Floating Outfit Series

  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.

  One – The Man on the White Horse

  “He’s the fastest gun in Texas and the bravest of them all,

  In the street you’d walk right by him for he isn’t very tall,

  Comes trouble he’s the boldest, fights like a Comanche Dog,

  He’s from the Rio Hondo and they call him Dusty Fog.”

  Lindy Mahon rested her aching back as she heard the pleasing tenor voice singing on the other side of the rim which overlooked her home near the Gunn River in New Mexico.

  It was hot, even at this early hour of the morning, but then, it was nearly always hot in New Mexico. Looking up at the rim Lindy tried to see who was singing but failed for he was still out of sight. So with a sigh she went back to her hoeing. Lindy hated hoeing, hated it bitterly, yet she did it because the small place would not run to hiring a man to do the chores. The small farm paid only enough to keep herself, her father and mother in fair comfort. There was nothing left over to hire any help.

  The rider came into view, halting his seventeen hand, white stallion and looked down at the small, stone-built house. His eyes took in the white picket fence which surrounded the property, the truck and flower gardens and the small area where the Mahons’ pair of milk cows grazed. He glanced next at the well by the side of the house, then once more at the girl. Kneeing his horse forward he allowed it to walk down the slope.

  Once more Lindy lowered the hoe, straightening her back and looking at the approaching man with interest. There was a hint of panic in her eyes as she saw the way he sat his horse. He rode with the easy grace of a cowhand and in the Gunn River Valley country cowhands were no longer the most welcome people for a nester. The girl studied the rider closely deciding she had never seen him around the town of Escopeta or in the Valley.

  He was tall. That was obvious even as he sat the huge white horse. She put his height at around the six foot mark and there was a lean, whipcord strength about him: wild, alien, almost Indian. It showed in the easy grace of his riding but more so in the cautious way his eyes examined the surrounding country. On his head was a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black Stetson hat. His hair, from what Lindy could see of it, was also black: so black it almost looked blue. His face was handsome, dark and very young-looking, a strangely innocent face. Around his throat, tight rolled and knotted was a black silk bandanna, the ends hanging over his black shirt. All his clothing, including the gunbelt, was black: relieved only by the walnut grips of the old Colt Dragoon revolver holstered butt forward at his right side and the ivory hilt of the bowie knife sheathed at his left.

  Lindy’s attention never left the man. She tried to act as if he was not there or as if she did not care if he was there or not, but failed. The horse was a beauty, one of the finest she had ever seen: big but far from slow or clumsy, giving the impression of being as light on its feet as a mountain goat and meaner than two starving silvertip grizzlies. The saddle, as might be expected of a man who dressed in such a manner, was a good Texas rig, low horned and double girthed. A long Manila rope was coiled and strapped to the saddlehorn; the rider’s bedroll fastened to the saddle’s cantle and from under his left leg rose the butt of a Winchester rifle in a leather boot. Even at that distance the girl could see it was no ordinary Winchester, the woodwork was black, not brown, and shone in the light of the sun.

  She felt disturbed by the sight of the young-looking man who was riding towards her. There was something latent, deadly and dangerous about him despite his youthful appearance. It was not the gun, nearly every man in the West wore at least one gun, particularly when riding alone and near an Indian reservation and the White Mountain Apache reservation was less than ten miles from the Gunn River. No, she decided, it was something deeper than that, a vague instinct she could not account for.

  Yet for all of that there was nothing menacing or alarming in the young cowhand’s attitude as he brought his horse to a halt outside the fence. He removed his hat as the girl came towards him, his voice, as he greeted her, a pleasant southern drawl.

  “Howdy, ma’am. I rode a considerable piece since sunup. Take it kind if I could water my hoss.”

  Lindy looked at him. The Gunn River was just beyond the next rim, not more than half a mile away. He must be a stranger or he would know that. But the place had a well in the grounds and company would be welcome. Then she saw his eyes. They were a curious red-hazel color, hard eyes, old eyes, eyes which did not go with such an innocent and young-looking face. Lindy guessed he was a Texan. A man did not dress, ride, or talk like that unless he was a son of the Lone Star State and real proud of it. She made her decision. Cowhand he was, hard, tough fighting man he might be, but he was a traveler and as such could expect certain hospitality.

  “Of course,” she said, indicating the well. “Come in and draw some water.”

  The young man swung down from his horse at the invitation; it was the way of the land never to dismount unless invited to do so. Opening the gate, he entered with the big white horse on his
heels like a well-trained hound-dog. The Texan looked at the girl, liking what he saw.

  Lindy was suddenly conscious of his gaze and wished she was not wearing an old, torn, gingham dress. She was a plump though shapely girl with mousy brown hair. Her face was pretty and friendly, the sort of face which was meant to have a smile on it. Her blue eyes were alight with merriment and showed an inner joy mingled with a love of the world in general. She saw how handsome this young man was and wished she was wearing her best dress and shoes instead of being barefoot and clad in a tight, torn old frock.

  Then she smiled; the young stranger did not look more than sixteen years old; too young for a mature woman of eighteen.

  “Thanks, ma’am,” he said, making for the well. “Sure is hot today.”

  “It’s always hot in New Mexico,” she pointed out.

  “So they tell me, ma’am,” he drawled, although he sounded as if he did not believe anything he was told. “It’s hotter than this, even in the middle of winter, back home to Texas.”

  Lindy smiled, thinking how like a Texas man that was. They always held that Texas was bigger, wider, hotter, colder than any other place in the world. She walked alongside him to the well, noticing the almost Indian silence as he put his feet down on the ground. She got the impression he could walk over sun-dried sticks without making a sound.

  At the well the young man let down the bucket and drew up water for his big horse. Her attention was drawn to the white again, for Lindy was Western enough to know a real fine horse when she saw one. Her eyes were glowing with admiration and she reached out to pat the sleek white neck. Instantly the young man’s hand shot out, catching her wrist and holding it. She felt a momentary panic and tried to jerk free.

  “Don’t try and touch him, ma’am,” said the Texan, his voice still friendly, but with an urgent note of warning. He released her wrist and went on, “Sorry if I scared you, but this ole Thunder hoss of mine don’t take to folks touching him ... not even me.”

  With this he reached out a hand to pat the horse’s neck. The white snapped at him, teeth clicking scant inches from his arm as he avoided the bite. The Texan laughed, slapping the muzzle, then allowing the horse to drink from the bucket. Lindy watched the byplay between man and horse, then asked:

  “Would he really bite me?”

  “Sure would, ma’am. See, ole Thunder’s part catch-dawg, part-cougar, with just enough hoss throwed in to let a man ride him sometimes.”

  The house door opened and Mrs. Mahon came out, squinting against the light as she looked at the cowhand. She felt a momentary panic at seeing the young man talking with her daughter. Then she saw he was a stranger, a drifter passing through. To a Western woman this was a heaven-sent opportunity to hear some fresh talk and news of the outside world. “Who is it, Lindy?” she called.

  “A stranger just passing through, mama,” answered Lindy. “He stopped to water his horse and get a drink for himself.” Mrs. Mahon walked towards them and the young man turned to greet her with the same politeness he had showed Lindy. He did not need to be told who she was, there was enough family likeness between the girl and her mother to make it unnecessary. The woman was looking at him. She thought at first he was just a youngster travelling from one job to another. Now she could tell he was a hard, tough man full grown and older than he first appeared. He might look sixteen, but if that was his true age they had been sixteen hard packed, dangerous years.

  “You look hungry, young man,” she said, after looking him over. “Come in and take something with us.”

  “Why thank you, ma’am. A man gets tired of his own fixings.”

  “Turn your horse to graze behind the house, if you think he won’t stray,” Mrs. Mahon said, “then come in. Leave the hoeing, girl, and take care of our guest.”

  Lindy followed the young man and watched him loosen the girths of the saddle. “Why do you have two cinches?” she asked, as he allowed the horse to walk away.

  “Makes it safer, only we call them girths in Texas,” he explained. “Texas man ropes something, he figures to hang on to it ... so he ties his rope to the horn. A single girth rig won’t stand up to that, so we use two of ’em.”

  His eyes were constantly moving, looking around him. He saw the lean-to behind the house and the old buggy and plough, then made a careful scrutiny of the country.

  Satisfied all was well, he followed the girl around the side of the building to the front. Lindy opened the door and entered first. He followed, stepping into the cool passage which ran the length of the house. On the left side were three doors, he guessed they led to the bedrooms. The doors on the right would lead into living room and kitchen. The whole place was clean and neat, with the care and attention a woman would lavish on her home. The girl led him into the first door on the right, his guess was correct, it was the living room. Telling him to sit at the table, Lindy left, making for the kitchen to help her mother.

  The young Texan sat in a straight-back chair at the table, looking around the room. There were a couple of paintings on the wall and gay curtains at the windows. The room was like the rest of the house, clean and homely, the furniture not new but good quality. Over the fireplace, on pegs, hung an old single shot, Springfield rifle, one of the earliest models, chambered for metallic cartridges. By it was an old Union Army pistol belt; the holster’s flap was cut off and a revolver butt showing. The young man studied the holster, seeing that a fast draw would be almost impossible with such a rig. The gun was unusual, a type he had rarely seen and not in recent years; a Pettingill Navy revolver, hammerless, percussion fired and long out of date. Unless the man of the house was carrying better weapons with him they would be in bad trouble if ever attacked. Anyone living near an Apache reservation needed better weapons than an old, single shot rifle and a percussion-fired revolver of such light caliber. His own revolver was percussion fired, but it was a Colt Dragoon, .44 in caliber and effective. Besides that, he owned a Winchester repeating rifle.

  Lindy and her mother came into the room, the girl carrying a loaded tray. She set it down on the table and passed the Texan a plate of bacon and eggs and a steaming cup of coffee. Handing the second cup to her mother she took the third herself and sat down. There was no talking, the Texan ate with the healthy appetite of a young man who had not bothered to cook himself a meal since noon the previous day. He finished the meal, then took up the coffee-cup and smiled at the two women.

  “Thanks for the meal, ma’am. My cooking’s not what it used to be—fact being, it never was.”

  Mrs. Mahon laughed, then seeing the bulge of a tobacco sack in the Texan’s vest pocket gave him permission to smoke. He took out the tobacco, spread a paper and rolled a cigarette, then carried on with the conversation.

  “Nice place you’ve got here, ma’am.”

  “It is. But you look like a big ranch man, yourself.”

  “Man’d say you were right, ma’am,” agreed the Texan, pride in his voice. “The biggest of them all. I ride for the OD Connected, in the Rio Hondo country of Texas. The name’s Loncey Dalton Ysabel.”

  It was a name which meant nothing to Lindy or her mother, but in Texas or among the cowhands in New Mexico, it would have meant plenty.

  Loncey Dalton Ysabel, the Ysabel Kid, was well enough known. He rode for the OD Connected ranch, a member of the elite of the ranch, Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. More, he was the particular friend and sidekick of the segundo of the ranch, the' Rio Hondo gun wizard, Dusty Fog. The Ysabel Kid, son of a wild Irish-Kentuckian father and a French Creole-Comanche mother. From his father he inherited a love of fighting and the rifle skill of a legendary backwoodsman of old. From his mother came a skill with horses; the inborn skill of the finest tribe of horse-Indians, and the love of cold steel as a fighting weapon, a love which led him to carry that James Black bowie knife wherever he went. He was fair with his old Second Model Dragoon, fair when it meant to be able to draw and shoot in a second—and hit his man at the end of that time. To these tal
ents was added an ability to read sign and follow tracks where a buck Apache might falter; also a fluent knowledge of Spanish and six Indian tongues. Wherever cowhands met and talked, the Ysabel Kid was known as a fighting man, a real good friend and a real bad enemy.

  But neither of the women knew this. They noticed how he spoke with pride about his ranch, but this was not unusual. Most cowhands were proud of their brand. To the women the Ysabel Kid was still the same young, friendly, yet somehow dangerous, cowhand they brought in for a meal.

  Disappointment tinged Lindy’s voice as she looked at the Kid. “You’re a big ranch man, then?”

  “Like I said, the biggest of them all,” the Kid replied amiably. “You sound like you don’t cotton to big ranch men. Now me, I don’t care. Big or small it don’t make no never mind to me.”

  “It does in Gunn River County,” Mrs. Mahon replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. “Or, it does to the big ranch men.”

  There was nothing but polite interest in the Kid’s voice as he drawled, “You sound like you’re having troubles, ma’am.”

  The answer came fast, too fast. “We’ve no trouble.”

  “No, ma’am?” the Kid answered, his voice showing nothing that he felt.

  “All right, we are having trouble with the big ranchers.”

  “Not with the Lazy S, mama,” Lindy corrected. “Mary Simmonds and her father are trying to find out who’s making all the trouble.”

  Mrs. Mahon nodded, then a sudden suspicion came to her and she looked at the Kid. “Are you going to work around here?”

  “No, ma’am. I helped take a herd to ole Texas John Slaughter’s place over to Arizona, now I’m heading home again. I couldn’t agree with my two pards which’d be the best way for us to go, so we split up for a spell. Mark and Dusty went along to see some of Mark’s kin and I cut through Azul Rio county. We’re meeting up again in Escopeta today, unless they’re late, which same they allus are.”