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  They were all at Tombstone to try and win the matched pair of gold-inlaid Colt Cavalry Peacemakers.

  Bat Masterson was there, in dude dress and with a fancy hat.

  Tom Horn was there, looking like a bold Apache war chief.

  Burt Alvord was there, the ex-deputy who never brought in a living prisoner.

  Wyatt Earp was there, looking like a prosperous trail-end town undertaker.

  On the contest day nine men stood on the line, eight of them tall, and who could draw and shoot in half a second.

  The ninth man was small, an insignificant Texan against whom the bartender of the Bucket of Blood Saloon gave odds of ten to one.

  His name was Dusty Fog.

  THE FLOATING OUTFIT 45: GUN WIZARD

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1970

  Copyright © 1970, 2020 by J. T. Edson

  First Digital Edition: March 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. 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.

  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 – Johnny Behan’s Dilemma

  Arizona Territory. A hot, sprawling, wild and wide open town. The great mines, the Toughnut, the Contention and the others poured forth their wealth and sent their workers into town to spend wages. The cattle spreads of Cochise County, Texas John Slaughter, the Clantons, the McLaurys paid off their hard-riding crews and most of that pay went over the many saloon bars in Tombstone City. From out Galeyville way, up in the hills, came the rustlers, happy-go-lucky followers of Curly Bill Brocious and Johnny Ringo. They came to Tombstone, all these men, all with money in their pockets, money they wished to spend on fun, on gambling and occasionally on tweaking the nose of the local law.

  Johnny Behan held post of sheriff for Cochise County; a stout, affable man who would have preferred politics to handling a law badge. He was a good lawman for all of that and willing to put up with a reasonable amount of hell-raising in the interests of greater peace and quiet.

  Behan was a Democrat in a town which was mostly Republican and had been put in office by the Territorial Governor when Cochise County first was formed. This did not meet with the approval of the Republican clan, so they formed the so-called Law and Order Party. Prominent amongst these public-spirited citizens were certain men who had gained something of a name for themselves in the cattle towns of Kansas. They were the Earp Brothers, Wyatt, Morgan, James and Virgil, the latter being town marshal. They were a hard bunch and harder with the backing of men like Bat Masterson, Sherman McMasters, Doc Holliday and their like.

  The fast-growing town sat back and rubbed eager hands in anticipation of what Johnny Behan would make of this development. In this they were to be disappointed, for Behan was far too loyal to his oath of office to involve in bickering and trouble making with another officer of the law.

  So things stood when the owners of the big mines produced their inspiration, their idea to bring some fame—and not an inconsiderable sum of Eastern money—to help further develop their holdings.

  They were rich men by any standards, these mine owners, powerful men with an influence that reached to and beyond the Territorial capital. In the way of rich and powerful men they craved for the atmosphere of culture and refinement much wealth demanded.

  The Bon Ton Theater at one time or another brought the most talented and famous performers of the day to tread its boards. The drama and noble words of Shakespeare, the thundering notes of great operatic stars, the wail of some maestro’s violin at one time or another held entranced the mine owners and their workers alike in this center of culture set in the heat and dust of the Arizona hills.

  The homes of the mine owners were as good as could be found in any Eastern city. The meals they served were cooked by chefs who had worked in the kitchens of great European houses and their table service as good as could be found in the land.

  These then were the men who decided they would organize and run the Cochise County Fair.

  No ordinary county fair would do for them. For their glory it must be the greatest, the most magnificent county fair ever held anywhere in the whole United States. There would be tests for cooking and preserve making for the womenfolk, a chance for them to display their talents with needle and dress-cutting shears. For the men would be trials of speed in sinking a drill bit into the hard soil, contests with shovel and pick. There would be a prize-fight by two pugilists who were spoken of throughout the country. There would be contests for the cowhands, too, riding bad-bucking horses, roping, throwing and hog-tying cattle. There would be a chuck wagon race which would attract great attention, for every ranch prided itself in the ability of its cook to handle the traces of a racing chuck wagon team.

  Not that the mine owners cared for such things, but they knew that to the Eastern visitor the cowhand had a glamour that the mine worker never had. There was another reason for the inclusion of the cowhand sports. John Slaughter, Texas John, ranched near Tombstone and would be quick to take offense at any slight to his loyal hands. Texas John was just as rich and autocratic as any mine owner and something of a power in the county. On no account must he be slighted in any way.

  With their plans arranged, the mine owners were struck with a sudden thought. Nothing they were offering was different than could be shown at the fair of any county. Cochise County must offer something more, something which would be guaranteed to bring the rich Easterners out West, where they might be persuaded to invest in the mines.

  One of the owners came up with the suggestion of a rifle shoot. It would be a match that would attract the best shots in the West. Tests for skilled handling of repeating rifles more than for the long-ranged work of such weapons as the Sharps Old Reliable or the Remington Creedmore rifles. There was one prize which would bring in the best men and that would be the prize the Cochise County Fair would offer. So accordingly an order was rushed to the Winchester Repeating Firearms Company for one of the specially constructed “One Thousand” Model of 1873 rifles.

  An uneasy feeling came to the organizers of the Fair that this match might be equaled and one of their number brought out the piéce-de-résistance, the idea which they were sure would make their fair a success.

  In the East nothing was so talked about to do with the West than the speed and accuracy of the gunfighter with his Colt. The mine owners decided they would try and draw in the masters of the tied-down holster for a match. Put up such a prize as would draw the fast men to Tombstone to compete in a shooting match to prove who was the fastest and best shot of them all. The prize would be a pair of matched and gold inlaid Colt Peacemaker
s and a good sum of money also. There would be other prizes, for the Eastern firearms companies would donate freely so as to have their weapons on show before so large an audience. The shooting match would be as good a test of skill as could be arranged, long range shooting, handling guns with either or both hands, then if Colt’s factory could fix it, a test to decide who was the fastest double draw of them all.

  The news of the shooting match burst like a bomb over the West, spread by the telegraph wires and word of mouth and boosted in every newspaper throughout the wild range country. Within a month the names of fast men were coming in to be entered and if all held well the shooting match, the Fair along with it, would be a show long remembered in the West.

  Johnny Behan saw in this apparently harmless Fair a threat to his office. There was soon to be an election for the post of County Sheriff and already Wyatt Earp was boasting he would claim the post. Earp stood high in the betting among the entrants for both rifle and pistol shooting and if he won would command a veritable landslide of votes. Earp, for all his faults, was a fine shot with rifle and fast with a revolver. Also he owned that long-barreled Peacemaker presented to him by Ned Buntline and that would lend him a big advantage over the more conventional weapons used by his opponents.

  Behan was no gunfighter, he could draw and shoot in about a second, but that was only rated as fast among people who’d never, seen a real fast Western man in action. Such a man, and Earp was one, could almost halve that time and hit his man at the end of it. If Earp won the two, or even one, of the events he would be carried into office on the strength of it; then with his brother Virgil as town marshal, Tombstone would find itself under the heel of Kansas-trained lawmen.

  There did not appear to be any way Behan could stop this happening. He knew he could never gain the lightning fast reactions and coordination of mind and muscle which went to make a real fast man with a gun. His deputies were brave and good men, but under no stretch of the imagination could they be termed fast. Burt Alvord was in town and highly fancied by some in both matches, but Behan could expect nothing from him. Alvord had been a Tombstone deputy until Behan fired him. The reason for the firing was that Alvord always brought his man in dead and was suspected of only bringing in such as could not pay their way by him. If the man could pay, there was more than a strong rumor that Alvord was not beyond escorting the man to the border and ensuring his safe crossing. If Behan enlisted the aid of such a man he would do himself more harm than good.

  In desperation Behan put the problem to Texas John Slaughter, but received no sympathy or offer of aid. Slaughter believed in staying out of his neighbor’s feuds and making sure he was respected for it. So the rancher had no intention of becoming involved in the political and office seeking feuds of the town—then he overheard Wyatt Earp boasting he would win both shooting matches, become sheriff and that those trouble-causing cowhands best watch out.

  Slaughter made no reply, although he knew the challenge was directed at his head. He was not afraid; that small, tough rancher did not know where fear was kept, but he knew blood would be shed if he took Earp up on it. Instead of picking up the gauntlet, John Slaughter held his peace and headed for the telegraph office. What message he sent and to whom was never mentioned by the old timer who worked the key, even though the said old timer found the occasional ten dollar gold piece under his message pad on the unsaid understanding he let the Earp brothers know anything to their advantage or disadvantage. John Slaughter said nothing about the message either—but then he never did.

  It was a fortnight to the day before the County Fair opened. Tombstone was already booming wide open at the seams and every stagecoach brought in more people. The rooming houses and hotels were either full or booked to capacity, every house filled with paying guests.

  The Bucket of Blood Saloon was among the best in town, standing proudly on Contention Street. However, at this early hour of the morning it was empty of all but a lone bartender idly polishing glasses. He stood behind the long, shiny and polished bar which was his pride and joy, surveying the tables, the covered-over vingt-et-un, roulette and tiger-decorated faro layouts. His eyes went to the free lunch counter which was already set out for the customers. He turned and glanced at the display of bottles on the shelves which surrounded the mirror. A man could buy anything from root-beer to fine champagne in the Bucket of Blood. Turning, the bartender glanced at the stage to one side, with the pit for the three-piece orchestra before it. He nodded with approval, all in all Buckskin Frank Leslie’s Bucket of Blood saloon stood up to a standard which would not have disgraced New York or Chicago.

  The bartender was sure of that, he’d been imported from the East to take charge of the bar, instead of the leathery, stove-up old cowhand who usually fulfilled this honored post. He was a man well skilled in his trade and had served drinks in good quality bars in New York and Chicago’s Streeterville section. He could mix any of the better known drink combinations, serve them with style. He could chat amiably yet respectfully with the richest and touchiest customer, handle a rowdy drunk with either tact or muscle, depending on the drunk’s financial standing; he could slip undetected a Mickey Finn into the drink of a dangerous customer—but he did not know cowhands.

  The batwing doors opened and three men entered, three young Texas cowhands. The bartender’s eyes went to them and saw nothing but the bare essentials. The low-crowned, wide-brimmed, J. B. Stetson hats, the clothes, the high-heeled, expensive, made-to-measure boots, the way they wore their guns, all told a story to a man who knew the West. To the bartender they were just three cowhands fresh in from the range.

  Two of the men would have caught the eye in any company for all that. One of them, mused the bartender, would be about as fine a looking man as he’d ever seen. Full three inches more than six foot this man, even without the aid of his Kelly spurred boots or the costly white Stetson with the silver concha decorated band. He towered over his friends, his golden-blond hair combed neatly, his face almost classically handsome. His shoulders were broad in a great muscular spread which strained the tailored tan shirt, as did the powerful biceps of his arms. His cowhand style brown Levis hung outside his boots with the cuffs turned back, his legs were long, straight, powerful and stood over the ground as if they owned it. Around his waist, hanging just right, was a brown leather gunbelt and in the holsters which were tied to his legs, ivory grips flaring so that his hands could reach them, were a brace of Colt Cavalry model Peacemakers. Fine looking guns, but plain, well cared-for fighting man’s weapons.

  The second of the eye-catching pair was not quite as tall, or as broad as the handsome blond giant. He was lean, lithe and gave the impression of having whipcord strength. All in black was this boy dressed, from hat to boots. Even the leather of his gunbelt was black and the only relief to the blackness came in the ivory hilt of the bowie knife at his left side and the worn walnut grips of the old Colt Second Model Dragoon revolver which was butt forward at his right. His hair was so black it almost shone blue in the light as he thrust back his Stetson. His face was young looking, innocent appearing and almost babyishly handsome. It was the face of a delicately reared youth in his teens—until a man looked at the eyes. They were cold eyes, old eyes, red hazel in color. They were not the eyes to go with such a face.

  The third man of the trio was smaller and the bartender hardly gave him a second glance. He was small, insignificant in appearance, not more than five foot six in height. His hair was a dusty blond color, his hat thrust back from it. His face was tanned, handsome though not eye-catching. His gray eyes looked straight at a man without flinching. His mouth looked as if it would smile easily yet without any weakness and the face itself showed some strength. His figure was powerful, despite his lack of inches, his clothes were good quality, but he did not set them off as did his taller friends. His hat and boots had cost good money, as had that buscadero gunbelt with the matched white-handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers which were butt forward in the holsters.

 
Crossing the room, the three men halted at the bar before the bartender. “We’ll take a beer each, friend,” drawled the blond giant. “And call up a drink for yourself.”

  The bartender noticed the voice and accent. It was a deep, cultured Southern drawl, not the tone of a working cowhand.

  “Would you gents be in for the County Fair?” asked the bartender as he served out the drinks with deft hands.

  “We surely are, Colonel,” answered the dark youngster. The bartender was impressed by the pleasing tenor quality of the voice, but those eyes were disconcerting. There was something wild, alien, Indian almost, about them, which went with the free-striding way the young man crossed the room. It was almost as if he glided and gave the impression he could pass over heat-dried sticks without making a sound.

  “Where’d a man enter for the events, happen he wanted to?” inquired the small man, glancing at the two big blackboards behind the bar. Each blackboard carried a list of names with the betting odds opposite each one.

  “Right here’s as good a place as any, although you can enter in any of the saloons. What’ll it be for you, roping?”

  “Not for us,” replied the dark boy with a grin. “I never took to ropes since Uncle Obidiah died dancing.”

  “What’d ropes have to do with that?” demanded the bartender, playing his part by falling for the coming joke.

  “He was dancing at the end of one.”

  The bartender joined in the laugh, then went on, “How about hoss busting?”

  “That’s all right for a man with a strong back, hard bones and a weak head,” answered the big blond. “Which same I’ve only got the weak head.”

  “Well, I’ll hazard a guess you’re not interested in drill driving, hammer swinging or digging. I don’t reckon pie making or dress sewing’s much in your line either. Don’t leave much else except the eating contest—or the shooting.”