The Floating Outfit 22 Read online

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  Part One – The White Buffalo

  Part Two – Little Throat-Cutter

  To the Kiowas a white buffalo was a sign of plenty. Only a name-warrior must kill it and even then a medicine-man had to perform the sacred rites over the hide within a prescribed time or all benefits would be lost. The fact that Luke Crammer had slaughtered a white buffalo could easily launch a full-scale war between the Kiowas and the white men of North Texas.

  Similar trouble could come too from the Sioux, for their war-chief, Grey Bear, had been kidnapped by a bunch of hardcases and branded a thief. Grey Bear could not accept such shame and do nothing.

  Only one person could possibly stave off the trouble—the Ysabel Kid, the man the Pehnane Comanches called Cuchilo … The Knife.

  For Pauline and Den Mann

  Part One – The White Buffalo

  Sitting his leggy dun gelding on top of a small hill, Luke Crammer searched the rolling North Texas range country before him for a sign of his quarry. The early morning sun, slanting its rays through the chill air of spring, ought to produce enough warmth for his purpose. Yet, at first, he could see nothing—or could he?

  Concentrating his gaze on the western horizon, he made out a low-hanging, hazy white cloud. That was what he sought, although much smaller than he hoped for. He knew it to be the condensing vapors of warm breath expelled by a herd of buffalo. Every man who went into the hide-hunting business learned to watch for that unfailing sign to betray the presence of his prey.

  Kicking his dun’s ribs, he started it moving in the direction of the cloud. Already the animals, gathered for mutual protection during the night, would be separating into smaller groups to begin the morning feed. The various bunches fanned out across the range, grazing leisurely along into the wind so far as possible and exhibiting that lack of caution which made them so easy to kill. Once the herd had been located and a group selected, a skilled hunter found little difficulty in moving close enough to shoot.

  Before he had covered half a mile, Crammer saw movement ahead of him. Drawing the dun to a halt, he estimated the size of the slow-moving bunch and concluded it would do for his purpose. Satisfied, he started the horse moving again; picking his way so as to keep out of the buffalos’ sight and swinging down-wind of them. Reining in the dun behind a bluff, he dismounted and fastened it to a sagebrush. Then he took the heavy metal-cartridge Sharps rifle, Y-shaped stick and a box of bullets from the saddle, and set off to work.

  Luck favored him, for a shallow gully ran in the required direction from the bluff. The depression offered him cover during his approach to the herd and a good escape route in case Indians appeared on the scene. Dependent on the buffalo for food, clothing, shelter and other necessities of life, the Indians took violent exception to white hunters slaughtering the herds. That applied very much to Crammer in his present location. On his arrival in Texas, he had been warned to stay east of the White River’s Moon Fork. West of it lay the Kiowas’ hunting grounds, into which the State Government promised the white man would not stray.

  The trouble was that Crammer had found no buffalo on the east side of the boundary stream. As in Kansas, where the once great Republican herd had been reduced to a few scattered groups, the buffalo population in Texas showed the effect of near-continuous slaughter. Crammer had come south in search of a land of plenty, where a man might still find vast herds of the stupid, plodding; beasts which supplied fine leather for Eastern tanners.

  So Crammer crossed the Moon Fork, chancing that the Kiowa had not yet returned from their more southerly hunting grounds. Tall, gaunt of build, he seemed to fit well into his gory trade. He wore smoke-blackened buckskins, stiff with grease and dried blood, and Sioux moccasins. A black Stetson rode his shaggy brown hair, its brim shading a sour-featured, bearded face. Around his waist swung a belt with an 1860 Army Colt, butt forward in a cavalry holster at the left side, and a curve-bladed Lamson & Goodnow skinning knife sheathed on the right.

  With the bunch located and stalked, Crammer prepared to reap his grisly harvest. No hide-hunter worked from the back of a horse. Sure, making a ‘run’ on the buffalo looked spectacular, giving the participants and any onlookers a thrill; but it could not equal ‘stand’ shooting for sheer efficiency. Chasing a herd on a horse, riding alongside a selected animal and shooting it, a man might take ten or so head before the rest scattered. However, their bodies would be spread out over a mile or more. Shooting from a stand, Crammer figured to drop at least thirty of the animals in an area of about two hundred feet square.

  Although the bunch showed no hint of locating him, Crammer made his stand at a distance of two hundred yards from the nearest animal. Closer and the noise of the shots might spook them, as well as increasing the danger should they stampede in his direction. Farther away meant a greater chance of not making the correct shot for a kill.

  At his chosen distance, Crammer thrust the sharpened end of the Y-shaped stick deep into the earth. So practiced had he become that he halted the stick at just the right height to support the rifle’s barrel when he made ready to shoot. Next he opened the cartridge box. Fifty long brass bullets stood erect in five neat rows. Placing the box where his left hand dipped into it with the minimum of movement, he took the farthest bullet from it and loaded the rifle.

  Shaggy heads down, nosing the ground, fifty or so buffalo tore and snuffled at the grama grass on the gentle slope before the hunter. Studying them along the Sharps’ barrel, he selected the largest bull. That was the herd’s leader and must be shot first to deprive the others of its guidance. Carefully he moved the rifle until the tip of its foresight pointed just behind the bull’s shoulder. Experience had taught him that a lung shot produced the best results for his purpose. Hitting the head brought instant death, provided one struck exactly the correct spot, but was chancy otherwise. Shot through the heart, a bull buffalo could run over a hundred yards before going down.

  The rifle cracked. White smoke blossomed from the barrel and swirled away. Through it Crammer saw the bull give the characteristic bound as the bullet struck and knew he had made the desired lung shot. On landing, the bull stood as if dazed. Blood ran from its nostrils, splashing the ground before it. Slowly its legs buckled and it sank down to lie on its side.

  Throughout the short time it took for the bull to go down, the rest of the bunch showed no fear. Raising their heads, the buffalo stared about them with stupid curiosity for a few seconds then resumed their feeding. Almost before the noses returned to the ground, Crammer had reloaded, aimed and hit another bull.

  Time after time the rifle spat, a bull jumped and fell bleeding its life out. If an animal showed signs of extra interest, or fear, Crammer shot it instantly. Otherwise he selected the bigger beasts, those with the better coats. As the smell of blood and death increased, the remaining buffalo milled around, occasionally hooking their horns into a dying animal. Crammer worked faster, knowing they would soon run. If possible, he wanted to drop enough of them to remove the need for a second stalk and stand.

  A movement beyond the herd caught the top of Crammer’s sighting eye. Alert for danger, he looked up. At first he could hardly believe his eyes. Then an exultant grin creased his face. Over the head of the slope on which the bunch grazed came an enormous bull buffalo. In size it exceeded even the big leader Crammer had killed to start his work, its coat in excellent condition—and pure white in color.

  Crammer felt his pulse quicken. Often he had heard talk of white buffalos, but had never seen one until that moment. The sight caused him to refrain from squeezing the trigger and he began to change his point of aim. Despite the prices paid back East, a prime buffalo ‘flint’ brought the hunter at most four dollars from a Western dealer; but the hide of a pure white animal would command a far greater sum. In Dodge City, or the other ‘buffalo’ towns there could always be found Eastern sportsmen willing to bid high for such a rarity. Always a shrewd businessman, Crammer turned his rifle on the creature which offered the greatest profit.

  Almost sick with anxiety, he watched the white buffalo circle the herd. It seemed more nervous than the others, snuffling the air and pawing up the bloody grass. Cursing steadily under his breath, Crammer tried to settle his sights for a lung shot. At last he felt sure of his aim and his finger tightened smoothly on the trigger. He hardly felt the Sharps’ heavy recoil kick, while his eyes fought to pierce the cloud of powder-smoke. Through it he saw the white bull give a startled leap, echoed by the kick of his own heart. With trembling hands he opened the rifle’s breech, ejecting the empty case and fumblingly fed in a loaded bullet. Despite the increased nervousness of the other animals, he held his fire. Never had time dragged so slowly as during the thirty or so seconds before the white shape sank down on to the grass.

  Satisfied that he had settled the white bull, Crammer swung the rifle on to another animal. Even as he touched off the shot, he knew that he had missed the vital spot. Instead of striking the lungs or heart, the bullet plowed through the lower body. Letting out a loud, shrill whistle that resembled the sound made by high-pressure steam suddenly being released from a locomotive, the bull broke into a lurching gallop. Immediately the rest of the decimated bunch followed. Cursing his luck, Crammer reloaded, aimed
and fired. One of the last animals stumbled then turned a forward somersault before sliding to a halt on its side. Led by the wounded bull, the others fled to the east.

  Coming to his feet, Crammer looked around before moving forward. Up in the air, circling effortlessly on spread wings, a couple of turkey vultures waited to descend and feed. Several gray-colored, thin-coated Texas wolves sat on a rim half a mile away, eager to move in after the man left. They and the fleeing buffalo were the only living things the hunter saw as he moved towards the bloody slope.

  ‘Thirty-one, nope, thirty-two,’ he said, counting the shaggy brown mounds which had so recently been living creatures. ‘Not bad going, took with the white one.’

  Then his eyes roved greedily over the white buffalo. He did not see it with a hunter’s pride in a hard-sought trophy, or as a rare color phase of the genus bison bison bison, but in a matter of dollars and cents. Probably the thirty-two ordinary flints, as the hides were known in the trade, would bring in less money than that one white skin.

  Hearing the rumble of hooves and wheels, he turned to look at his wagon as it came towards him. After staying in the background, the two skinners had started for the stand when the shooting ended. Usually Crammer would have gone after more flints without waiting for them, but he intended to attend to the white buffalo himself.

  ‘Hey, lookit that!’ ejaculated the middle-sized, stocky Ike Thork as he halted the four powerful horses and pointed to Crammer’s prize.

  ‘Hope no Injun sees it,’ the gangling beanpole, Dick Stole, went on in his normal whining voice. ‘They allow a white buffler’s big medicine.’

  Dressed in even filthier buckskins than their employer, Stole and Thork were alike in their mean-natured, poor-spirited cast of features. Skinning buffalo did not call for intelligence, skill or delicate feelings, or neither of them would have been qualified to handle it.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ Crammer ordered. Unlike many buffalo hunters, he took a hand with the skinning after shooting the day’s quota. That way speeded up the process and cut down his overheads by reducing the number of men he needed to hire.

  ‘Ain’t you going after no more today?’ Stole inquired, darting nervous glances around.

  ‘Not until that white hide’s in the wagon at least,’ Crammer replied.

  Repetition had taught the two skinners how to do their work with the minimum of delay. i In the crackling cold of winter they had to work fast, before the bodies cooled out, stiffened and locked the hide rigidly to the flesh. While the process took longer in spring’s greater warmth, the men did not wish to extend their stay on the west bank of the Moon Fork. While Thork unhitched the team, Stole produced a sledgehammer and stout iron spikes from inside the wagon. Leaving them to make their preparations, Crammer walked over to the white buffalo.

  Sliding out his skinning knife, he tested the sharpness of its curved six-inch blade on the ball of his thumb. Satisfied with the edge, he went to work in a more skilled manner than that normally employed to strip a flint from a buffalo’s carcass. Usually the hide would be torn off the spiked-down body without worrying about the head, but Crammer knew such a fine skull and horns would enhance the value as a trophy. While removing the head took extra effort, he knew it would be well worthwhile.

  By noon the last hide had been removed, rolled up and loaded into the wagon. So engrossed in their work were the trio that they failed to notice a rider appear briefly above a distant rim. However, he saw them and withdrew to observe further without letting his presence be known. Although almost three-quarters of a mile away, the Kiowa warrior could see what the white men were doing. At first he felt little anger, being an elderly man of thoughtful nature. If the white hunters followed their usual way, they would take only the hides and a few choice cuts of meat. The rest would be left behind, a bountiful supply of food without the burdensome necessity of hunting it.

  So the warrior felt inclined to look tolerantly on the breach of the no-hunting promise—until he saw the two skinners carry something to the rear of the wagon. For a moment the Kiowa stared, hoping he did not see right. Then he knew that the white men were loading the head of a medicine buffalo into their wagon. If he needed further proof, Thork inadvertently supplied it.

  ‘This here’s some flint, Luke,’ the skinner said, unrolling the white hide. ‘I bet it’ll fetch near on twenty-five dollars in Dodge.’

  ‘All of that,’ Crammer agreed. The other two worked on shares, so he saw no reason why they should know the true value of the hide. ‘Let’s get back across the Moon Fork, make camp and tend to the haul.’

  Filled with a growing anger and concern, the Indian watched the white men’s departure. Following them, he watched the crossing of the boundary stream. Then he turned his pony and rode to the south-west as fast as it would go.

  Flattened on his belly atop a rock, Finds Horses of the Kiowa peered cautiously over its edge and along the dried-out bed of what had once been a fair-sized stream. To his way of thinking, the near future promised well for a young buck riding on his first man’s mission.

  Being a young brave, he cared little for the gloomy predictions of those old men who claimed doom and disaster must result through the white hunter killing the medicine buffalo. To Finds Horses, the incident meant an excuse for fighting the paleface; the opportunity to count coup, take scalps, gather loot and gain the other benefits of the war trail. From all appearances, the Great Spirit looked with some favor on him and intended he should have a successful first raid.

  Allowed to roam ahead of a scouting party sent to find the hide-hunters, Finds Horses and two younger companions saw a horseman in the distance. A white ride-plenty ii from his clothing and coming in their general direction. Despite being under orders to merely observe and report such things to Chief Lone Eagle, the trio decided to strike the first blow in revenge for the killing of the medicine buffalo.

  As senior and best armed warrior present—in that he carried a breech loading, percussion-fired Sharps carbine against Antelope’s lance or Sleeping Cougar’s bow and arrows—Finds Horses took command. Even as they watched, the ride-plenty swung his horse down into the dry water-course and travelled along its bottom. A foolish action in Finds Horses’ considered opinion. The gully offered cover for an ambush on both its sides. Assessing the situation swiftly, Finds Horses ordered his companions to take cover on the left-hand slope while he found a suitable place at the right. Leaving their horses concealed in a draw, the trio set out to make war.

  With the other two gone to select their positions, Finds Horses moved to his. Intending to be the first to count coup on the ride-plenty, he advanced along the top of the right-hand slope. At last he saw what he wanted. A large, flat-topped rock jutted into the gully, its outer edge high enough to hide him from a rider following the river’s bed. Slipping cautiously from cover to cover, Finds Horses attained his chosen place without being seen by his victim or the rest of his party. Settling comfortably on the rock he watched, waited and marveled at the approaching rider’s lack of caution.

  The more Finds Horses looked, the greater grew his belief that the Great Spirit regarded him with favor. Few braves were given the chance to gather so much attractive loot at one time, especially on their first war trail. That huge, magnificent white stallion ridden by the unsuspecting victim would be a worthy trophy, even if he offered nothing more. Dressed in all black clothing, from his low crowned, wide brimmed Stetson hat, through bandana, shirt, Levis pants, to his boots, the ride-plenty carried weapons to gladden a warrior’s heart. Butt forward in a holster on the right side of his wide black leather belt hung a walnut-handled Dragoon Colt; much prized by the Indians for its rugged dependability and hard-hitting six-shot power. Sheathed at the left of the belt was a wonderful white-hilted knife, a weapon of dimensions that dwarfed the eight-and-a-half-inch Landers blade at Finds Horses’ side. Nor did the Great Spirit’s bounty end there. Unless the young brave missed his guess, the ride-plenty’s saddleboot carried not just any rifle, but a Winchester. Only two men in Finds Horses’ village, name-warriors of the first water both of them, owned such marvelous rifles which fired many times without reloading. To become the third brave-heart so armed—and by war trophy, not through trading—would be a great honor.